Page 75 of Only the Devil
Sugar granules scatter across the table’s surface.
It’s a result Uncle Alvin’s lawyer had predicted—and one reason I investigated. It’s not Phillip Sterling’s fault that there’s no case. I nod and take a drag on my straw, the mint hitting my tongue with an almost medicinal sharpness.
“That’s one law firm. It doesn’t mean no one will take it up. Noah’s still following leads.” She sweeps the sugar into a tiny pile with her fingertip. “I’ve been here in DC, asking around.”
This isn’t news to me. Jake told me about Noah and also about Brie.
“Did you find anything here?”
“Nothing definitive. The people who think little of Phillip Sterling also think little of crypto.”
The espresso machine behind the counter hisses to life, drowning out the soft jazz playing overhead. I wait for the noise to subside before responding.
“Not everybody thinks crypto’s legit.” I lean forward, lowering my voice. “Being the preferred method of payment by criminals and money launderers doesn’t help either.” And yes, I have joined a company that makes money off crypto but it’s not like I’m responsible for crypto existing.
Sitting here with Brie, discussing what’s beginning to appear to be a pointless effort, I can’t help but question what the hell I’m doing. ARGUS has detractors, as any AI does, but Rhodes is a good guy. Better the devil you know than the one you don’t, right? I’m getting to know Phillip, but I don’t know him yet.
“The investigation into Jocelyn’s death has concluded. I get the sense that if there was someone who might benefit from an insurance claim, the fire department might continue the investigation, but without an insurance claim, the chances of actual fraud are diminished. I drank a beer with one of the firefighters on the scene and he shared that the county is strapped for resources.”
And then there’s Jocelyn. Why has it been so easy to forget her? Is it because I didn’t know her? Is it because I have no evidence, and coming forward implicates myself in a potential crime? There’s definitely been a crime. Of some sort. I don’t have to speculate.
“We know there’s been foul play,” I say under my breath.
There’s no one sitting close enough to hear us, but I’m a horrible person to not be more concerned about Jocelyn than I am. The woman died. Of course, it might not have been murder. It’s conceivable Sterling found her body and panicked about the potential fallout, and his only crime is removing her from the scene of death.
“Have you talked to any of the police officers? Quinn said not much has been filed.”
“That’s true, but not unusual. The online record tends to be slim, especially in rural areas. The police officer that responded to the scene has been reassigned to another district, and I’m not entirely certain anyone else from the police department was assigned to the case.”
“Is that normal?”
“When budgets are lean. I imagine if the fire department suspected arson, then they would’ve assigned someone.”
The casual way she discusses resource constraints—like Jocelyn’s death is just another case file—makes my stomach twist. Maybe because that’s how I’m treating it.
“Have you checked to see if anyone has…” I let my words trail because what I’m about to say sounds like pure conspiracy.
“If there have been any donations or attempts to influence?”
There it is. I’m officially thinking like someone who believes money can buy silence about a woman’s death. When did I become this person?
“None we’ve tracked.” Brie’s matter-of-fact tone suggests she’s asked this question in dozens of other cases.
“This must be such a boring case for you.” The words come out more bitter than I intended. “Just another dead woman and another rich guy who might have covered it up.”
She sets down her drink and really looks at me for the first time since sitting down. “No, it’s not boring. And I can see this is eating at you.” Her voice drops the cheerful friend act. “UC work does this—makes you question who you are when you’re pretending to be someone else.”
I’m not really pretending to be anyone else, am I?
Right then, a young man with paint-stained fingers and tired eyes approaches our table. “BLT and the Green Goddess wrap?” His voice cracks slightly—college age, probably working three jobs to pay tuition.
Brie points to herself for the wrap, and he sets down our plates with the careful precision of someone who’s dropped food before. I catch his eye and mouth “thank you,” earning a quick smile before he retreats to the kitchen.
The interruption breaks whatever spell Brie was weaving. I unwrap my sandwich, suddenly self-conscious, hyper-aware of the loudness of the paper.
“It can be emotionally challenging,” Brie says, sounding like a therapist as I carefully check the contents of my sandwich, unsure if he pegged our table correctly and this is the BLT.
“You know, your instincts were right when you started this.”
