Page 72 of The Evening Wolves

“No,” Braxton said slowly. “Honestly, I didn’t even think about him. We got another call, a girl who died from carbon monoxide poisoning, and after that—hey, what’s going on? I’m getting a seriously weird vibe about this.”

“I’m not sure yet,” John said. “You’ve been a big help, Braxton. Thank you.”

“Yeah? It doesn’t feel like I helped. I feel like I screwed something up.”

John shook his head. “You did your job. And you helped us. Listen, we might have additional questions. Could we get your number just in case?”

With a miserable nod, Braxton said, “You’re going to talk to the chief about this, aren’t you?”

“It might come to that. We won’t tell him that you talked to us—”

Braxton shook his head. His hand was tight around the tumbler, and he shifted his weight. “He’s gone.”

“What?”

“The chief. He said he was taking some personal time. A vacation.” He stared at them, like maybe they weren’t getting it. “Chief Cassidy left Auburn this morning.”

15

They drove back to Wahredua, and when they got home, the house was dark. Up and down the block, other houses were bright with holiday lights, windows aglow. Cars lined the streets. Across from them, silhouettes moved inside Mr. Tomlinson’s house. It was the holiday season, after all, and everyone else in the world was living their normal lives, gathering and celebrating.

Emery waited until the garage door had rattled down. John still had his hands wrapped around the steering wheel. The only light came from the bulb in the garage door opener, and the glow it shed was dim and yellow, but the skin across John’s knuckles looked tight.

“It’s not the end of the road,” Emery said.

John shook his head and barked a tiny laugh. “He’s not coming back, Ree.”

“We don’t know that.”

“We don’t?”

Emery didn’t have an answer for that.

When John released the steering wheel, it creaked, and the sound felt loud in the stillness. He rubbed his face.

“Tomorrow,” Emery tried, “we’ll—”

“This alleged witness, Vermilya, who is somehow tied to all these other pieces of shit, he’s clinging to life in a hospital bed behind a police protection detail.” John ticked off a finger. “That woman, Ingra, she and her cooks are dead.” He ticked off another. “Eric Brey is dead, and I was standing right fucking there, Ree, and I ran away!” The last words were a shout. Then John’s shoulders slumped, and he took off the Cardinals cap and ran his fingers through his hair. “And now our only other lead is gone. I’m starting to understand why Gideon Moss blew his brains out rather than deal with these people.”

“John—”

But John got out of the car and slammed the door.

Emery followed him inside. The smell of cinnamon and pastry dough met them, the house warm and quiet and dark. The only light came from the microwave above the stove, and it turned John into ink strokes as he moved across the kitchen, leaned over the sink, and stared out the window. The dark brushwork of his shoulders, his back, his hip. And then the gold leaf of his hair.

“Cassidy can’t just disappear,” Emery said. “He’s not smart enough. He’ll use a credit card, or he’ll show up on a traffic camera, or he’ll try to get on a flight. We’ll find him.”

John shook his head. The light foiled over his hair, caught the shell of his ear, gave a suggestion of his jaw.

“And when we do—”

“Ree, he’s dead. How do you not understand that? You’re right: Cassidy isn’t smart. And somebody—this guy from Brey’s house, somebody else, I don’t know—somebody is cleaning house, and Cassidy is a loose end. He was useful. Now he’s not. And he’s dead. That’s it, that’s the end.”

“It’s not the end. We’ve still got Vermilya—”

John’s shoulders moved in a way Emery found strange until he realized, with a shock, it was silent laughter. John put his hands over his face again, but they came down almost immediately to curl around the stainless-steel apron of the sink. “Can we please not?”

“He’s a valuable lead. Besides, there are other things we haven’t tried, other avenues—”

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