Dirty Love (Dirty Girl Duet #2)(46)

Cav is a murderer.

The words hammer with unrelenting pressure into my temples as I struggle to keep breathing.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

“Donnigan carried out the hit, and when Casso’s bastard kid Cavanaugh found out, he took out Donnigan and they pinned it on me ’cause I pissed Casso off by slapping around one of the girls at his club. I’ve been rotting in here for three f*cking years, keeping my mouth shut so I didn’t get shanked and end up bleeding out in the showers. But now that word on the block is that Casso’s going down, I’m done keeping quiet. I want out, and I know Casso paid off the cops who took me in and planted the piece they used to kill Donnigan in my shit. So tell that to your f*ckin’ Innocence Project and get me the hell out of here.”

My vision blurs when I look down at the notepad before me. I can’t read a single thing I’ve written. Tears, I realize. They’re gathering in my eyes but haven’t fallen. I blink them back. I will not cry in front of this man.

When the guard strides over to the table, interrupting Cardelli’s monologue, I’m limp with relief. I don’t want to hear any more.

“Time’s up.”

“I ain’t done.”

“Too f*cking bad.”

I could protest. This is an attorney-client meeting, but I barely have it together enough to stand, let alone put together a coherent argument for the guard. Not when all I want is to get as far away from this place as fast as humanly possible to tear apart Cardelli’s story in my head.

It can’t be true. Can it?

Following the guard, I return to the waiting area on shaky legs. Everything I thought I knew has been shredded into tiny, unrecognizable pieces.

It can’t be true, my head argues again. Right?

But Cardelli’s devastating accusations dog my steps, threatening to steal the future I was starting to believe I could have.

Cav killed someone. In cold blood. Execution style. In an alley.





Dom’s question follows me all the way home, but Greer isn’t there. Part of me wishes she was so I could tell her everything right now. Get it over with. Come clean. No more secrets.

A bigger part of me is grateful for the empty apartment because I need time to figure out how.

I stare at the floor where she sat with that file.

Of all the f*cking cases in the world, how did she end up with that one?

I could have asked Dom to take care of the problem, but the words wouldn’t come.

I’m not going to lose her.

I just hope to hell I’m right.





I tell the cabbie to take me to Banner’s. I can’t go home. I need to tell someone what I just learned so they can tell me what the hell I’m supposed to do. I’m lost. Utterly and completely.

Can my judgment really be that bad?

I pay my outrageous cab fare and wave weakly to Banner’s doorman.

“Ms. Karas. How are you?”

“Fine, thanks.” The rote greeting comes out automatically, and I hope he can’t tell that I’m anything but fine. He nods to me, and I head to the elevator.

My mind is going in a million directions when the door opens onto her floor and I stumble out. Banner’s welcome mat reads GO THE FUCK AWAY, but I don’t take it personally. It doesn’t apply to me. Never has.

I knock on the door, although pound might be more accurate. There’s no answer. No footsteps. Nothing.

It’s Saturday. She’s gotta be here. I need her to be here.

I pull out my phone and make the call. “Come on . . . come on . . .”

From inside the apartment, I hear the unmistakable sounds of the Golden Girls theme song that Banner picked as my ringtone.

Thank God she’s home.

“What’s goin’ on, G?” Banner’s voice sounds huskier than normal.

“Sorry. Did I wake you?”

“Umm. Yeah. No biggie. What’s going on?”

“I’m outside your door.”

“Oh. Shit. Okay. Hold on.” And then she hangs up.

The dead bolts slide back moments later and Banner opens the door partway. She’s dressed in a man’s white T-shirt and nothing else.

“Oh. Shit.” I echo her words. “Am I interrupting?”

Banner shakes her head but doesn’t open the door further. “No. Of course not. You’re never an interruption. What’s up?”

The deep rumble of a voice coming from behind her means that if my best friend were wearing pants, they’d be liar, liar, pants on fire.

The voice grows louder and the drawl strikes me as familiar. Banner’s face pales in color, but she’s pretending he’s not inside.

That can’t be Logan Brantley. It’s not possible.

Except it is him.

Banner closes the door a fraction of an inch, but it’s too late. She adopts a casual mien, leaning against the doorjamb like there’s not a shirtless giant of a man standing in her living room, just within my range of vision.

“What’s happening? You’re awfully dressed up for an unemployed Saturday morning. When did you get back? Did they give a cause of death? What’s happening?” Banner’s questions come at me rapid-fire, but that’s not the unusual part. It’s the bouncing of her leg.