Gypsy King (Tin Gypsy, #1)(45)

How had she died? What exactly was the tragedy? Dash had said it was a story for another day, and given the look on his face, it wasn’t a happy tale.

So I’d gone looking this morning. Maybe I’d save him from having to relive her death if I could read about it instead. Except all I’d found during that time was her obituary, which I’d already seen, and a picture of Draven and his two young boys at the funeral.

Draven’s grief consumed the photo, his hands resting on the shoulders of his sons. Draven looked nothing like the confident man I’d watched be arrested. His frame bore the weight of a thousand boulders, his face ashen. The photo was black and white but I swore his eyes were red from crying.

Dash and Nick had looked so alike as kids. I wasn’t sure how old Dash was, maybe middle school, but he looked lost. Nick was the opposite. While his little brother and father wore their grief outwardly, his face gave away nothing. Nick wasn’t only lost, he was angry. And now it made sense why he hadn’t joined the club.

Nick’s punishment for Draven was turning his back on his father’s lifestyle, but how had his relationship been with Dash? I pushed that thought away, drawing a firm line there. Dash’s family dynamics were none of my business. That was too personal. Too intimate. That was his problem, not mine.

Was I curious? Absolutely. But if I let myself cross over, if I cared too much, the person who’d suffer most would be me.

I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care.

I can’t care.

My task was to obtain information to write the best story possible. I’d fail if I allowed myself to get wrapped up in feelings.

This wasn’t about Dash. This was about facts. This was about Amina and finding her killer.

Dash was so certain of his father’s innocence. Me? I wasn’t sure. Not yet. But Dash’s conviction was hard to ignore. He’d planted doubts in my mind that popped up constantly.

How would Dash react if Draven was, in truth, the murderer? My stomach knotted at the idea of Dash’s heart breaking.

Damn it.

I cared.

Logging out of our archive system, I jotted down a few more notes in my notepad. As I’d been searching for information on Chrissy Slater, I’d come across most of the articles I’d read before on the Tin Gypsies.

It was interesting reading them again, this time knowing more about their history. The stories were all superficial, which hadn’t come as a shock. Unless one of the club members betrayed their secrecy, no one from the outside would ever know the truth.

But I knew.

Even shallow news articles fell into place with what Dash had told me last night. Maybe he really had told me the truth.

Maybe it was a test to see if I’d betray him. I wouldn’t. He’d get to keep his secrets. I’d take them all to the grave because I’d given him my word.

Unless.

Unless he deceived me. Then I would do exactly as promised. I’d tell the world every sordid detail and he could rot.

Last night when I’d arrived home, I’d spent hours writing up everything he’d told me. All of the information was safe on my computer and backed up to an encrypted cloud file.

If anything happened to me, Dad would get access to that cloud drive per my will.

My brain was overloaded with information and I dropped my head into my hands, massaging my temples. I couldn’t stop thinking about everything Dash had told me.

Was it strange that I believed him? That I believed every word?

Why? Because we’d had sex? I should have been able to maintain my distance. But the arrogant bastard had snuck his way under my skin. I couldn’t write him off completely, even after the stunt he’d pulled at the high school.

I groaned. God, I was pathetic.

“What’s wrong?”

I sat up straight, spinning around at Dad’s voice as he came through the pressroom door and took a seat at his desk. “Nothing.”

“Hmm. I thought you might be upset because you have to go to court in an hour.”

“You heard?” I winced. I hadn’t planned on telling my parents about my arrest, but I should have known they’d find out. This was Clifton Forge, not Seattle. “How?”

“You’re not the only one who talks to Marcus Wagner on a regular basis.” Dad shook his head, the same slow shake he’d given me growing up whenever I’d disappointed him. That disappointment was ten times worse than any spanking I’d ever received from Mom’s wooden spoon. “What were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t,” I admitted. “It was stupid.”

“Yes, it was.”

“Does Mom know?”

He shot me a look that said what do you think? My parents didn’t believe in keeping things from one another, especially when it came to their only daughter.

“Damn it.”

“Be ready for an ass chewing.” While Dad was the one to give me the disappointed look—it was his specialty—he’d always left the lectures to Mom because those were hers. “What’s happening on the murder investigation? What can I expect for the paper on Sunday?”

“Right now, it won’t be much. The police haven’t released anything new.”

“And what have you found?”

“Nothing solid. Yet.” As soon as I had a story to tell, Dad would be the first to know. “I’d better get to the courthouse. I don’t want to be late.”