Keep Her Safe(75)

“Well, she had better learn patience because if this is true, and Mantis killed Abe to protect himself from being busted for corruption . . . what do you think he’ll do to avoid getting nailed with murder?”

A chill runs down my spine. “Gracie doesn’t have anything on him.”

“Let’s make sure he doesn’t think otherwise, because word gets around, fast. So go, show Grace around the city, take her shopping, hang out by your pool . . . do whatever a twenty-five-year-old guy needs to do to keep a pretty girl occupied on things that pretty girls should be occupied with.”

I want to tell him that Gracie’s not the type to throw on a bikini and lie out in the sun to get away from her troubles. But I simply nod.

He frowns. “What were you two coming here for, anyway? You knew I had court this morning.”

In my rush to tell Silas everything, I realize that I forgot to mention Maxwell’s connection. But something tells me that Silas will forbid me from stepping within a hundred feet of his ADA. And if I can’t talk to Maxwell, then I’m stuck wondering, and thinking the worst about yet another person in my life. I’d rather plead forgiveness than ask permission as far as Maxwell goes. “I wanted to check the database for arrest records for Betsy, if you don’t mind,” I say instead. “It’d be good for both Dina and Gracie if we could find her. And it’ll keep Gracie occupied.”

“Go on ahead.” He glances at the clock on the wall. “Listen, I have to run to court to fight a case I actually do have evidence for.” He ushers me out of his office, pulling the door shut behind him.

“We’ll talk soon.”

“Yes, sir.”

I watch him hobble away, messenger bag hanging from one hand, an apple in the other.

His shoulders slumped as if by a great weight.





CHAPTER 33


Grace

“So, where y’all from?” Maxwell asks with his thick Texas croon. Awful stereotype or not, I can’t help but picture him going home to trade in his poorly fitting suit for a pair of dusty cowboy boots and a wide-brimmed hat.

“Originally from here, but I moved to Arizona.”

“You known Marshall a while then?” He pours himself a cup from the fresh pot of coffee, his shaggy black hair falling across his forehead messily.

It’s taking everything in me not to blurt out who I am and demand answers about why my father scribbled this guy’s name on a newspaper clipping fourteen years ago. “You could say that.”

“When’d you two start dating?”

“We’re not dating.” I take my time, sipping at my can of Coke as my eyes roam the small staff lounge. It’s nothing fancy—a common area along the west side of the building, overlooking the parking lot, with small café-style tables and chairs scattered throughout and a cherry-red kitchenette along another wall.

A tall, lanky guy strolls in then, mug in hand, to distract Maxwell. “Did I hear something percolating?”

“In your five years here, have you ever made a pot of coffee?” Maxwell shakes his head, but he’s smiling when he turns to me. “Darlin’, why don’t you just grab a seat anywhere.”

I bite my tongue about the “darlin’?” and find an empty chair that puts my back to them and occupy myself with my phone. No calls from the rehab center to tell me that my mom escaped yet. That’s a good sign.

“You done with those depositions yet?” Maxwell asks.

“When am I supposed to do those?” the other guy whines. “I’ve been reviewing surveillance video feed for Rolans since yesterday. My eyes are starting to bleed.”

“Best of three says who you work for today.”

I glance over my shoulder in time to see them with their hands out in front of them, making hand signs for rock-paper-scissors. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mumble under my breath. This Maxwell guy isn’t exactly the mastermind criminal I was envisioning.

“Tell Rolans he’s shit outta luck! I’ll check in on you soon.” Maxwell wanders over to me, chuckling as he sits his bulky body down across from me. “Gracie, right?”

“Grace.”

“So, tell me . . .” He lowers his voice and it’s like that boisterous bubble around him has been popped by a needle. “How’s Noah doin’, really?”

“His mother shot herself, so . . .” I’d say Noah is holding up miraculously well, but I don’t have a comparison point.

“Right.” His brow furrows deeply. “Did you know Jackie?”

“A long time ago.”

He dumps two packs of sugar into his coffee and I watch him stir, much like any typical man—rushed, the metal spoon clanging noisily against the porcelain sides.

“Were y’all neighbors?”

“No. My dad and Jackie were partners a long time ago.”

“So your daddy’s a cop! Is he workin’ out of Arizona?”

A segue, if I ever did hear one. “He died fourteen years ago. He was shot by a drug dealer, here in Austin.” I take a sip of my Coke, watching Maxwell’s large gray-blue eyes as they skate over my face. I sense a glimmer of recognition there.

“What’d you say his name was?”

Noah can’t get mad at me for answering a simple question. “Abraham Wilkes.”