Page 65 of The Evening Wolves

Shaw elbowed North.

It seemed to cost North to say, “This guy’s good.”

“Plus he beat North up,” Shaw said.

“He didn’t beat me up, you badgerfucker. It was a draw.”

“It didn’t look like a draw. It looked like he was about to kill you, and you were trying to run away, only you couldn’t run away, and possibly it was because of those boots. Only then I saved you because I shot him.”

“You didn’t shoot him. You shot at him. And you missed, by the way.”

“He’s already made mistakes,” Emery said again. “He’ll make one again.”

“I think we made a mistake,” Tean said. He looked up from his food, brow furrowed. “I think we were wrong.”

Emery opened his mouth, and then chagrin filled his face. “God damn it.”

“Wrong about what?” Auggie asked.

“About what’s happening,” Tean said. “About what these people want, or what they’re doing, or however you want to say it.”

John-Henry picked up his burger and put it down again. His hands felt greasy, and he fought the urge to wipe them on his jeans. “What do you mean?”

“He means,” Emery said, “that what we saw at the meth lab doesn’t line up with what happened tonight. It made sense at the time to believe that Vermilya had some sort of connection to the criminal organization working out of the Cottonmouth Club, which explained why he put himself forward as a witness to testify against you, John. And it made sense to believe that he was either a liability or that he had done something stupid, and in the process, the shooting had begun.”

“But it doesn’t explain why someone would kill this guy Brey,” Jem said.

The burger turned, greasy and heavy, in John-Henry’s stomach. “It wasn’t just about framing me or about getting rid of Vermilya. Somebody’s cleaning house.”

“Why?” Shaw asked.

Emery shook his head. “That’s an excellent question.”

“So, who is it? This little rug rat who likes to dress in black?” North frowned. “I don’t know. He’s definitely the muscle behind this operation, but who’s running things?”

“Cassidy?” Theo asked.

Emery blew out an amused breath. “Cassidy would be flattered, but no, he’s not smart enough to pull off something like this—certainly not to this degree of sophistication. Although he must be involved at some level, even if he’s simply being paid to turn a blind eye.”

“What about this guy Vermilya?” Jem asked. “Somebody tried to kill him, and I bet they’ll try to finish the job. Don’t you think he’d be ready to talk?”

“He’s still in the hospital in Columbia, as far as I know,” Emery said, “and good luck getting past the police who are guarding him.”

“I bet the IRS could get past them,” Jem said. “They’re probably dying to talk to him about that totally bogus anti-trafficking organization.”

“It’s fake?” John-Henry said.

Tean nodded. “There’s no nonprofit—well, no business entity at all—registered under that name. And when Jem tracked down some of the donors, they ranged from confused to pissed. Some of them had legitimately donated money and then never heard anything else. Others just wanted to talk about identity theft.”

“I knew there was something weird about this guy,” Auggie said. “I spent all day trying to dig up something on Jace Vermilya. He’s a very pretty cardboard cutout, but he’s not a real person.”

“What does that mean?” Tean asked. “He’s got a stolen identity?”

“I’d say pretty much definitely. His socials are carefully curated. His web presence too. At first glance, it looks like there’s a lot—the kind of stuff you’d see if you were digging into a real person’s life. It probably holds up pretty well, even to moderate scrutiny. But it’s too controlled, too…limited, I guess you could say. His history only goes back a few years. Where was he before that?”

“We’ve run into something like that before,” North said with a glance at Shaw. “I think Lil’ Bits is right.”

“Still don’t love that nickname.”

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