Page 41 of Stabby Little

"He's the last person who was in the bathroom with Xavier. He must've done something."

I get quiet. Moments like these are when it's best to shut down. Michael hasn't listened to a shred of my evidence and nothing I say can convince him otherwise. When dealing with his angry side, I've learned to back off.

Michael senses I'm quiet. "What's wrong now?"

I exhale a breath. "You're framing an Ivy League student for two vicious murders. Eventually, you'll want to interrogate him or make him pay. He didn't touch your hitmen and I refuse to punish an innocent boy."

That's it.

I can practically see the sparks of rage that explode behind Michael's eyes.

"Is this about that boy who went missing?" He picks up his glass of burgundy liquor. "Ollie or whatever the fuck his name is?"

I narrow my eyes. "Ollie has nothing to do with this. I'm talking about Kobe Bailey."

The fact that Michael pretends not to know Ollie's name pisses me off. He's comforted me when I've been upset over Ollie's disappearance more times than I can count.

Michael leaps across his desk and slams me against the wall. He grabs my neck and chokes me hard.

"I told you to stop fucking thinking about that boy, didn't I?"

"Yes, sir."

“Do your fucking job." He tightens his grip on my neck. "Don't mentionOllieagain."

Michael points to a picture of my son on his wall. It's a portrait I had taken when the Diavolos invited us over for Christmas four years ago.

"Remember how I saved your son's life when he started dealing drugs?"

"Yes."

"I didn't fucking stop him from dealing." Michael rams my skull into the wall. "I put him on my payroll. How do you think he saved up money to pay for college? Not on your fucking salary, that's for sure."

My jaw drops. "Miles's not selling drugs."

"Your son is currently two hundred thousand dollars in debt." Michael releases his grip on my neck. "He has a shitload of my product. If you don't start doing your fucking job, I'll call the note."

13

OLLIE

Wind blowsrain against the cab windows as the driver pulls up to the suburban home. Familiar shrubs and petunias greet me from the well-maintained garden. A linden tree overflowing with flowers casts leaves on the yard, thrusting a handful into the birdbath under the window. A muddy stream trickles into the street, stopping beneath the cab where I wait in the back seat.

Seven years have passed since I've been here.

Seven fucking years.

Nothing has changed.

The deep forest green paint that adorns the siding is the exact same. The eggshell-white shutters that sway in the gusts are the same ones that swayed during storms when I slept over with Miles. Even the doormat with the silly message warning visitors to beware of the nonexistent puppy is still there. It's worn after years of use, but the fibers holding it together are intact.

I looked up Grant Barrett's address last night. I thought his house would be difficult to find, even though I don't know why. I restrained myself from reading any tidbits about his life. A social media post popped up by his wife, Linda, but I exited the screen before reading it.

After speaking with my roommates, I called a little-known taxi service. Callum offered me his Uber account, but I didn't want to link his payment information to this journey. CheapRidez was the only company that guaranteed a complete cash transaction, as the other companies implemented electronic payments this past year.

"How much is it?"

The cabbie gestures to the meter. "Thirty-five dollars."

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