So, Tate might be taking his job description a little too seriously.
Because if Kelsey was safe with anyone on the entire planet, it was Knox. The bad boy Marshall genes simply didn’t run through Knox the Sainted.
Even his infamous debacle with Chelsea had been mostly about his good heart. That, and yes, pure teenage boy who’d been seduced by a girl who couldn’t be trusted. But Knox blamed himself, completely.
And it clearly didn’t take much to stir up the guilt of that disaster.
Tate stood at the kitchen sink, downing a glass of cold water, trying to screw up the courage to head upstairs and let Knox take a swing at him if he wanted.
Because maybe Tate deserved that. The beer had gone to his head, perhaps a little, because in his right mind…
Frankly, he’d been fighting to keep a hold of his right mind all night. It didn’t help that Glo had picked a sexy little white V-necked top that accentuated her curves, paired it with her faded jeans, her hair in crazy, fun tousles all over her head, the kind of mess he sort of wanted to dig his fingers into.
And then there was the way she looked at him, her arms hooked around his neck when they danced. Like if he wanted to lean down and kiss her, she wouldn’t call him any names.
Or, if she did, he might actually like them.
It was all he could do to keep his brain latched around the fact that she was his boss.
Sorta. Because Carter had done the actual hiring.
Still. Off-limits.
Off. Limits.
And maybe it burned him a little—no, a lot, a full-out inferno—that Knox could kiss Kelsey, or more, or whatever happened out in the parking lot to leave Kelsey so undone, without losing his livelihood.
It went straight to his brain. Jealously, frustration, not a little unrequited desire, and it all boiled out of Tate, all over Knox.
He could hardly believe he’d nearly decked his brother because Tate had turned into a lovesick sot. Not love…but yeah, Glo had his number, and he needed to keep his distance if he hoped to not screw up the good gig he had going with the Belles.
He definitely owed Knox an apology.
Tate finished his drink. Took a breath.
Headed upstairs.
Knox’s room was at the top of the stairs, right next to the one Tate had shared with Wyatt and Ford, and two doors down from the girls’ room.
He knocked. Braced his hand on the frame. “Knox, open up.”
Silence, then the sound of the closet closing and finally, steps to the door.
Tate straightened as Knox opened it.
His big brother considered Tate a long moment, his eyes dark and still simmering.
“Can we talk?” Tate asked quietly.
Knox stood in silence before he stepped aside.
Tate entered the room. Knox hadn’t changed out of his black button-down shirt and jeans, apparently not quite ready to go to bed. Now, he folded his hands over his chest, which Tate considered a good thing because that meant he wasn’t going to punch him. At least not right away.
Tate went to the window, glanced back at Knox. “There’s something that you don’t know.”
He didn’t know why he started with that. It wasn’t his story to tell, but he found himself cutting his voice low, suddenly wanting to keep Knox from getting hurt and maybe from even hurting, inadvertently, Kelsey.
In truth, he’d started to care about both women as more than clients.
Kelsey, a sort of sister.
As for Glo…
Tate blew out a breath and curled a hand behind his neck. “Okay, bro, here’s the deal. There’s things about Kelsey that—”
“I know about the attack. She told me everything.”
A gust of relief blew out of Tate, his chest uncoiling. “Oh man. I was really worried I was totally going to have to betray her here. I just…so you get that there was probably a reason she freaked out tonight when you…” He frowned. “What did you do?”
And Knox gave him such a look he felt like a jerk for asking. Because Knox wasn’t him. Had never been.
“I kissed her. What did you think, that I grabbed her and threw her up against a wall and had my way with her?”
And the very fact that those words came out of Knox rattled Tate.
Worse, Knox blew out a breath and turned away as if, huh?, maybe he’d been thinking that exact thing. “I surprised her, I guess. I should have asked—”
“Yeah. Maybe. I mean, she’s probably pretty sensitive to any sort of physical contact, even if it’s wanted—”
Knox turned back to him, frowning. “What do you mean?”
Tate lifted a shoulder. “It’s not hard to figure out that a girl who’s been raped needs to know she’s safe. And in control, if you know what I mean.”
Knox just stared at him, his face whitening.
Oh. No… Tate’s gut bottomed out. “Knox—”
But his brother had leaned over, was grabbing his knees.
Tate walked over and picked up the trash can, set it in front of him. “I felt the same way when I found out.”
Knox breathed out hard, a couple times, then stood up and ran his hands through his hair.
“Sorry. I thought… Shoot. I shouldn’t have told you.”
Knox glanced at him, then pressed the back of his hand to his mouth as if he might still lose it. Shook his head. “Maybe not, but…yeah, that makes sense. Please tell me she wasn’t—”
“Fourteen. Mmmhmm.”
Knox turned and walked to the window, bracing his hands on either side of the frame, and Tate wasn’t sure his brother wasn’t going to do something crazy like put his fist into a wall. Or through the pane.
“They caught the guys.”
It was a statement, Tate thought, but he wasn’t sure, so, “Yeah. But that’s the thing. The gang leader—Vince Russell—is out on parole.”
Knox rounded on him. “What?”
“Yeah. That’s why we’re here. Why Kelsey’s so freaked out. Because we all know the bombing wasn’t related but…”
“But the randomness reminds her of the attack.” Knox shook his head, then met Tate’s gaze. “And you’re sure that this guy had nothing to do with the explosion?”
Tate frowned. “I’ve been trying to track him down in New York City through some contacts, but, I doubt it—”
And that’s when Knox walked over to his closet and opened the doors.
Tate stilled, enthralled for a second by the masterpiece of his brother’s research. A map of the San Antonio complex, pictures, news articles, lineups, schedules, itineraries, and Post-it Notes all tacked to the place where his clothes should hang.
Tate took a step closer. “What is this?”
Knox stepped up to the grid. Pointed at two sketches. “Do either of these guys look familiar?”
Tate made a face. “Uh, dude, that’s like a second-grader sketch.”
Knox gave him a look. “Okay, remember the guys at the bar the night Kelsey showed up?”
“In the beer tent?”
“Yeah. Maybe you didn’t get a good look, but one had a tattoo of flames encircling his neck. The other has gauged ears and a port-wine stain and these two guys—” He pressed two fingers against the pictures, as if for emphasis. “They were sighted with the so-called bomber, this guy out of Lubbock.”
“Arnie Gibbs, rodeo clown?”
“Yeah. Doesn’t that feel weird to you? I mean, the clowns I worked with were straight-up, honest guys. Sure, they liked the adrenaline, but they were about saving lives. That’s why I did it those few times.”
Tate lifted a shoulder. “I dunno.” He took a step closer to the grid. “How do you know these guys were with him?”
“An investigator from San Antonio asked me if I’d ever see Arnie before—showed me a picture, and these two guys were standing beside him.”
Tate considered Knox. His brother wasn’t the conspiracy theory type, but this felt a little reaching. Still, “What does this have to do with Kelsey?”
“Are either of these guys Vince Russell?”
Tate took another look. “No. I don’t think so, but…I don’t know. All I have are old news clippings. I need a real picture.”
“Okay,” Knox said. “Do you really think Russell poses a current threat to Kelsey?”
Tate lifted a shoulder.
“What can I do to help?”
Tate blinked. “Really?”
“I’m not going to have Kelsey spending her life looking over her shoulder.” His face tightened. “And frankly, I’d like to have a few words with this guy.”
“Knox—”
He held up a hand. “Calm down. Maybe he falls down the stairs or something.”
Tate drew in a breath, tightened his jaw. “You let me do the talking, bro. This is my wheelhouse.” Then he turned toward the door. “We leave for New York first thing in the morning.”
“No,” Knox said, reaching into the closet for his duffel. “We leave in fifteen minutes. Right after I call in a few favors.”
Seriously? But Tate nodded. Stopped with his hand on the door. “I’m sorry I jumped on you tonight, bro. I just thought—”
“There’s nothing going on between you and Kelsey, right?”
Tate turned, and Knox couldn’t hide the question—no, the past—haunting his expression.
Oh. Right. Chelsea. “No, bro. She’s just a client.”
Knox raised an eyebrow. “Like Glo?”
Tate sighed. “No. Glo is… Glo is trouble.”
Knox smiled. “I know the feeling.”
Tate grinned back. “Fifteen.” Then he walked out the door.
She’d slept the entire night through.
In fact, she’d slept so hard, lines etched her face, the morning sun high enough to find her eyes, burn them open.
Glo was scrolling through her phone on the other bed. “You’re not going to believe this, but we had fans last night at the Bulldog. At least three people posted on Instagram. And one of those pictures is you and Knox.” She held the phone up to Kelsey.
They were on the dance floor, her arms up around Knox’s shoulders, and the look on her face… She heated all the way through.
“Yeah, I’ll bet that was right before he kissed you. Because no guy in his right mind would be able to walk away from that come-hither look.”
“What— Glo!” Kelsey grabbed a pillow and shot it at Glo, who ducked. The pillow hit the wall, fell in a heap.
“I’m just saying that maybe there’s a reason you’re not downstairs in the recliner, all knotted up like a pretzel this morning. Sweet dreams?”
Kelsey smiled, slid down into her second pillow. “I’m a coward. I shouldn’t have run upstairs last night after we got home and hid in our room. Apparently, that’s what I do when I’m embarrassed.”
“We had some serious debriefing to do,” Glo said, closing her app. “Girl talk.”
“But poor Knox. After Tate nearly took him apart in the parking lot—”
“He did go off the rails a little.”
“Talk about a look, Glo. The man is a little crazy about you.”
Glo shook her head. “Nope. Nothing happening there.”
Kelsey made a face but didn’t circle back around for another shot. Some wounds took years to heal.
She should know.
And so should Knox. “I nearly caused a brawl between brothers. And I’m not sure why. Tate was so—protective.”
Glo drew in a breath. “He is a bodyguard.”
“He was practically convinced that Knox had done something to… I don’t know. Wound me or scare me or…” Wait—
“Glo. Does Tate know…” Kelsey’s eyes widened. “You told him I’d been raped, didn’t you?”
Glo made a face. “I just wanted him to understand that… I don’t know, okay? It seemed like the right thing at the time, but I know I shouldn’t have—”
“Stop. Just… Do you think—” She sat up. “Oh no. Do you think he told Knox?”
Glo too had sat up, put her feet on the ground. “I don’t know. I…judging by the look on Knox’s face, I don’t think so. He looked pretty horrified that he might have done anything to hurt you. And my guess is that Knox is pretty…careful.”
Safe.
Yes. Even last night when he’d kissed her. Overwhelming, decisive, consuming, intoxicating, especially when he broke away, breathing hard, those eyes in hers.
But with such a gentleness that it turned her deliciously, wonderfully weak.
As if she didn’t have to try so hard to keep herself glued together.
In fact, she’d lost herself when he kissed her, the past simply dropping away.
And for a moment, she was simply a woman in a man’s arms, kissing him back.
Until…shoot, it simply wasn’t fair that her past could rise up and scream at her. Taunt her. Tell her that not only was she not safe, but…not worthy. Except, in Knox’s arms, she could believe she was.
Glo was right. She had nothing to be ashamed about.
Knox deserved to know why she’d freaked out on him.
And that she’d never do it again if he felt like, ever… Oh boy.
Because the memory of the warmth that had suffused her entire body as she kissed him, felt his strong arms move around her to cradle her, his big hand touching her face so gently…
Yeah, no wonder she’d slept well.
Except now she remembered how heartbroken he’d looked last night when he thought he’d hurt her, and it propelled her to her feet to grab a pair of yoga pants and a sweatshirt.
She pulled her hair into a ponytail, grabbed her toiletry bag, and headed to the bathroom to freshen up.
At least enough to face him, because the man got up early. Way early.
He was probably in the barn attending to his new baby bull.
She finished brushing her teeth and headed downstairs.
The kitchen was quiet, but a basket of freshly baked muffins sat on the counter with a note—Help yourself to a morning glory.
She grabbed a napkin and a muffin and headed outside, sliding on a pair of Birkenstocks by the door before she trekked through the yard toward the barn.
The door was open, as she suspected, and she stopped to pet a baby goat, its tongue wrapping around her hand, probably in search of crumbs.
Gordo had been let out into the pen, his stall open to the other side. Knox had herded the other bulls out to their own pastures a couple days earlier.
She headed toward the pen, expecting to see Knox sitting on a stool, bottle-feeding his bull—yet unnamed—and stopped, surprised to see Gerri with the bull nuzzled up to her, gulping down the bottle.
“Good morning,” Gerri said. She wore a work shirt and jeans, her hair tied back in a bandanna.
“Good morning.” Kelsey came up to the rail and put her foot on it. “He’s getting big.”
“These guys are born big,” Gerri said. “Only a week and this little guy already has a temper. Knox will probably release them to pasture when he gets back.”
Gets back? “Where is he?”
“I don’t know. He left with Tate last night somewhere. That’s Tate—he’s always taking off. I’m not sure why he needs Knox. They’ll probably be back later today.”
Oh. She watched Gerri for a while, then headed back to the house and found Glo seated on a high-top chair. “Hey,” Glo said between muffin bites.
“Did you know Tate and Knox left last night?”
Glo frowned. “Really?”
“Yeah, and they didn’t even tell Gerri where they went.”
Glo said nothing, but she picked up her phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Texting Tate.”
Kelsey slid onto a stool. “What if I frightened the man away?”
Glo lowered the phone. “Seriously?”
“Okay, see, there’s a pattern of crazy going on here, one that Knox can hardly ignore. The first night I met him, I practically plowed down innocent bystanders on my way out of the beer tent, as if some phantom was chasing me—”
“Um—”
Kelsey held up her hand. “Then, after the man saved my life, I couldn’t even show up to thank him personally. Instead, I floor it to Oklahoma, where I practically have a meltdown onstage.”
“That might not have been the best reaction—”
“Thanks for that.”
Glo shrugged.
“And let’s not forget last night, when the man kisses me with such…such…let’s just say it wasn’t his fault I freaked out. In fact, I’m not even sure why I freaked out.”
“I know why,” Glo said, putting down her phone. “It’s because you’re afraid that if Knox truly knows you, truly sees you and all…” She twirled her hand in front of Kelsey. “All the layers of Kelsey Jones—then he’ll…run.”
Kelsey just stared at her, and her voice dropped. “Is it that bad?”
“Is what—”
“My layers. My crazy layers.”
Glo turned, took her hands. “No crazier than the rest of us. Sure, you have some darker baggage, maybe, but I’m guessing that everyone thinks their baggage is dark. So, no.”
She sighed. “I’m tired of the baggage.”
Glo nodded. Her phone vibrated, and she picked it up. Read the text.
“Is it from Tate?”
She nodded. “He says, ‘I’m doing my job. Don’t round up the posse just yet, Woody.’” She looked at Kelsey. “Why is he calling me Woody?”
“As in Buzz Lightyear and Woody,” Gerri said, walking up to them. “Tate’s favorite show when he was a kid. Although I think he wanted to be Buzz.”
“I’ll remember that,” Glo said as she pocketed her phone.
Gerri set down a couple pairs of gloves on the counter. “You two girls up for taming some wicked thistles in the garden?”
Glo reached over and grabbed the gloves. “Yeah, but you’ll have to show us what the thistles look like.”
“They look like two grown men who sneak off into the night.” Gerri winked, kidding, but the comparison stuck around as the day drew out with no sign of Knox. Or Tate.
Not even a text.
And that night, his absence turned downright prickly as Kelsey headed downstairs, turned on the television, and watched a hockey game. It brought back old memories of her father watching the Minnesota Wild.
The next day she brought her guitar out to the porch and started to work out some lyrics that had gotten tangled in her brain.
What if I let myself love you
What if I called this home.
What if my heart said forever
And never let my love roam…
No, that sounded silly. But she kept scrawling until she put down something that made more sense.
A ballad, really, about the unexpected turns of life. And love, perhaps, waiting at the end of the road.
“Still no word from Tate?” Kelsey asked that night as Glo was typing an email.
Glo shook her head.
Which really, was why the next morning, when Carter called, when he suggested the gig up in Mercy Falls, a mere two hours from the ranch, when he dropped the name Benjamin King and told them about the invitation to sing at King’s rising star venue, the Gray Pony, and when he said that King wanted to meet with them about recording for his label, she didn’t hesitate.
In fact, she didn’t even ask Glo.
“We’ll be there.”
“You going to be okay?”
Tate stood outside the bathroom stall of the Twenty-Fourth Precinct. He was probably leaning against the sink, arms folded, but Knox had heard his brother stifling his own nausea when Detective Rayburn finally showed them the file.
Thank you, Katherine Noble, whose NYC connections had opened the doors Knox needed to track down Vince Russell, including a meet-and-greet with not only the prosecuting attorney for the case, but the detective who’d tracked down the three gang members who had jumped Clinton and Rebecca Jones and their fourteen-year-old daughter at 11:00 p.m. near 105th Street in Central Park twelve years ago.
They’d also attacked a handful of other people, but their terror spree culminated on the three tourists from Minnesota.
Knox had lost his pitiful lunch of a street hot dog when he’d opened the file. The girl in the photo had been beaten so badly Knox didn’t recognize her. The first-on-the-scene officer had written that she looked tortured. Thankfully, the photo was taken after the officer had covered her naked body with his jacket.
Knox had winced, shutting his eyes to the image, unable to bear the bruises, the blood, the horror of seeing the trauma.
But oh, it ignited not only a fury at her attackers, but an admiration of the courageous girl who had climbed out of a twelve-day coma, spent seven weeks in the hospital, and had to learn how to walk, talk, and read again, thanks to her head trauma.
Oh, Kelsey, you left so much out.
But what could she say, really, to capture the horror of being fourteen and jumped by three men—two who were only a couple years older than she was. And the perpetrator, Russell, had just turned eighteen. Knox had burned the kid’s image into his brain.
Dark hair, a swastika tatted between his eyebrows, a scar across his chin. Yeah, he’d recognize this guy on the street, or in a bar…or replaying over and over in his nightmares.
No wonder Kelsey dodged demons. Even if she couldn’t remember the assault—which according to the court documents, she had no recollection of the entire evening, just impressions, sounds and smells—one look at this guy turned the event brutally real.
Russell, I’m going to find you.
He came out of the stall and walked over to the sink. Tate moved away, no judgment on his face. Knox ran the water, washed his face, rinsed his mouth, and grabbed and wet a couple paper towels, holding them against his tired eyes.
He could use a little divine intervention trying to find one dirtbag in a city of 8.6 million people. Two days of searching had netted them exactly nil. They’d contacted Russell’s parole officer, visited his current address, a halfway house in the Bronx, talked with the resident manager, and even driven through the neighborhood on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, where his former gang hung out.
They’d finally returned to the Twenty-Fourth Precinct to talk to Detective Rayburn, a balding, thickly built man with steely, tired eyes. He’d taken them into a room with an interactive map detailing all of New York and the gang activity. Spent the last hour giving them the dark rundown of the life of a parolee.
“They can’t get a job, can’t find housing, and have been out of the population for so long they don’t know how to integrate back into society. They’re like children, in many ways, and of course the first thing that happens when the old life comes knocking is to kick back in with their gang.”
Rayburn had leaned against the wall, his arms folded. “If this guy is anywhere, he’s back with the Morris Park gang, an Aryan group right in the heart of a primarily Jewish neighborhood.” He shook his head.
“And what about his threats against Kelsey?” Tate asked.
That’s when Knox had made the mistake of opening the file again, searching for the man’s statement and threats. Happened again on Kelsey’s picture and had to leave the room.
Now, he threw the towels into the trash, glanced at a grim-faced Tate, and headed back into the hallway.
Detective Rayburn held a cup of coffee. “Believe me, the entire thing makes me sick too. In all my years working homicide, this was one that got to me. It made no sense—wasn’t racially targeted, the Joneses had nothing of value on them. It was just a bunch of kids bent on terrorizing people. Russell may or may not have been the ringleader, but he was the only adult in the group. And, he was the rapist—we found his DNA—”
“That’s all I can take,” Knox said, lifting his hand. “We just need to make sure Russell wasn’t in Texas three weeks ago during the San Antonio bombing. Or trying to hunt down Kelsey now.”
Rayburn considered them a moment, then gestured toward a nearby interrogation room. Knox followed him in, behind Tate, and Rayburn closed the door.
Took a breath. “Okay, so if you guys can give me your word you won’t take justice into your own hands…” He turned, raised an eyebrow.
Tate had folded his arms.
Knox met his eyes but affirmed nothing.
“Yeah, I get that. I just don’t want to show up somewhere and find you two lying in a puddle of your own blood. These guys aren’t to be messed with.”
“We just want to talk,” Tate said in a dark tone that Knox didn’t recognize. He held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
Yeah, the only scout in the family had been Knox, and he wasn’t making any promises.
But Rayburn nodded. “He has a brother. AJ. He owns a barbershop on Cruger Avenue in the Bronx. Vince used to hang there sometimes. But I didn’t tell you that.”
Tate nodded, and Knox held out his hand. “If you hear anything…”
Rayburn nodded. Held on a bit longer. “Tell Kelsey…okay, maybe don’t tell her anything. But I’m glad she has people. She sat in that hospital for two weeks before anyone came for her—I think it was her brother. Navy guy, if I remember correctly. But she…was alone.”
“Not anymore,” Knox said and released him.
They took an Uber through Manhattan, into the Bronx, onto Boston Road, and finally slowed in the residential district of Cruger Avenue. They passed two-story brick houses, some with awnings, clean and groomed, not what Knox might consider gang territory, although his understanding of gang life and criminals was limited to Blue Bloods and a few episodes of Law & Order.
Knox suspected he might be just as unassuming as the Joneses had been walking through Central Park, buoyant after a theater performance.
They crossed an intersection framed by storefront shops—a carpet place, a deli, a Chinese takeout, a nail salon. More brick houses, many with flower pots hanging from clean front porches, a green fence that cordoned off a vacant lot, Keep Out signs posted, and finally they came to the barbershop, a tiny hole-in-the-wall with a faded red awning imprinted with the words AJ’s Barbershop. Next to it, a small deli featured lotto tickets and a yellow sign that read simply We Sell Beer.
Tate headed straight for the barbershop, something changed in his demeanor. But he stopped right outside the door, his grip on the handle. “I do the talking. Whatever you do, don’t…just don’t be you.”
Huh?
But Tate didn’t wait.
The place smelled of hair tonic and shampoo. An older man in a green apron sat in a chair. Another man with short blond hair, late thirties bent over him with clippers.
He looked up at Tate and Knox. Lifted his chin. “Sit down on the bench. There’s a wait.”
Tate didn’t move. “AJ Russell?”
The man stopped the clipper motor. He held a comb in the other hand. Said nothing for a moment, then a quiet, “Why?”
Knox made to move, but Tate stepped up to AJ. “We need to talk to you about your brother.” No question, just a statement, a sort of easy tone, but a seriousness in it that stilled Knox.
Especially when Tate took the clippers from AJ’s hand. Set them on the counter, apologized to his customer, and pushed AJ into the back room.
AJ turned, a glance over his shoulder.
“We’re just talking, pal. No worries,” Tate said, his voice friendly.
But the tiny hairs raised on Knox’s neck when Tate closed the office door behind them.
“Sit,” Tate said and kicked out the rolling chair from a metal desk.
AJ tightened his jaw, and for the first time, Knox saw the resemblance to his brother, Vince. Square-jawed, the man bore a tattoo on the side of his neck, half covered by his smock, a German two-headed eagle.
He sat. Glared up at Tate, who didn’t change his expression. Tate lowered his voice and leaned over AJ.
AJ moved so fast, Knox hadn’t a clue how he’d picked it up, but in a second, he’d taken a swipe at Tate with an open shaving blade.
Little brother Tate had honed reflexes like Knox had never seen. He stepped back, the knife skimming past his gut, grabbed AJ’s wrist, jerked him forward, and slammed his fist into the man’s face with a cross-hand punch that had AJ’s head snapping back.
Then Tate slammed his wrist against the chair, dislodged the blade, and dumped AJ on the ground with such quick force that Knox had to scramble out of the way.
Tate held the guy down in an arm submission hold, one knee in his spine, his mouth close to AJ’s. “We’re going to forgive that, on account of you don’t know who we are.”
Who we are?
Knox just stared at Tate. Apparently, his brother had learned a few tricks in Vegas.
He wasn’t sure if he should help him or get out of his way.
Tate didn’t look like he needed any help.
“We’re friends of Kelsey Jones. That name should be familiar to you because your brother raped her and murdered her parents. Nod if you recollect this.”
AJ’s cheek was smashed on his grimy floor, but he nodded.
“Your brother is out of jail and gone missing, and my guess is that you know where he is.”
“No, I don’t! I don’t know where Vince is!”
Tate considered him a moment. “He hasn’t come by here once in the last three weeks? I find that hard to believe.”
He must have exerted pressure on AJ because the man wheezed. Swallowed. “Fine, yes. Once. Right after he got out. Said he…” He closed his eyes.
“What? Said what?”
“He said he had unfinished business!”
Tate let out a word that seemed appropriate for the moment, then looked up at Knox.
Knox wrapped his hands around the back of his neck, squeezed. It was better than hitting something. Or someone.
“Does he have a cell phone?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Anybody who he trusts, that he’d go to for help?”
AJ hesitated.
“I’m not sure who you’re protecting, or why, but if your brother hurts my friend, I’m coming after you. And my brother won’t be here to keep me from breaking your fingers.” As if for emphasis, he grabbed one of AJ’s fingers.
“Don’t stop on my account,” Knox said quietly.
Tate didn’t look at him.
The man grunted, a sweat breaking across his forehead. “Listen—no. I don’t know. His cellmate got out a month before he did. They were pretty tight—”
“Who was his cellmate?”
“This guy. His name was…Harris, I think. Bradley Harris.”
“What was he in for?”
AJ took a breath. “I think he tried to blow up something.”
Tate let him go. Got to his feet. Looked down at AJ. “If your brother comes back here, I want you to call me.” He yanked AJ’s phone from his pocket. No screen lock. He dialed in his number, sent himself a text. Dropped the phone on the man’s back. “We’ll be in touch.”
Then he turned, kicked the man out of the way, and walked out.
Knox scrambled after him, not sure what had just happened.
The man in the chair had vanished, his green apron sitting in a puddle on the floor.
Tate pushed outside. Stood there and blew out a breath.
Knox came out beside him. Said nothing for a long while. Finally, “So I guess that’s what you mean by just talking.”
“Mmmhmm,” Tate said.
“What did you do while you were in Vegas? Because I know you didn’t learn that in the military.”
Tate glanced at him, shook his head, his lips tight. “Nothing I want to talk about.”
Fine. “So now what?”
“Now, we go back to Rayburn and see if he can help us dig up Harris.”
And do more talking, Knox supposed.
He followed his brother down the street as Tate pulled up his Uber app.
Three hours later, as the sun began to drop through the towering Manhattan buildings, they were looking at the recent morgue photo of one Bradley Harris.
“How was he killed?” Knox said as he leaned over the computer.
Rayburn sat on the table in an interrogation room. “We’re still investigating. We found him beaten to death in an alley near the halfway house where he was rooming.”
“The same halfway house that Russell listed as his address. Where he hasn’t shown up at for three weeks.”
Rayburn nodded.
Knox got up, and now he wanted to utter the word that Tate let slip earlier.
“Listen. I’ll call—who was it you mentioned?”
“Torres. He’s with the San Antonio FBI.”
“Yeah. I’ll send him Russell’s picture. See if it matches anyone at the arena. In the meantime, I think this is a dead end.”
Knox whirled around, just stared at Rayburn, who lifted his shoulder.
“Seriously? Kelsey is living with what this man did to her. Every. Single. Day. It’s in her head, in her life. And now he’s loose and we haven’t a clue where he might be?” He swept up Russell’s file, grabbed his mug shot, laid it on the table, and snapped a shot with his phone. “I’m not leaving New York City until this guy is found.”
He left the rest of his intentions to himself. Because he wanted to do a lot more than talk.
Tate followed him out into the night, the air pungent with the day’s trash, cigarette smoke, the raucous sound of traffic. Across the street, a pizza joint beckoned, his stomach nearly as angry as he was.
Tate had said nothing so far, and now he glanced at the pizza joint, shrugged, and went in.
They ordered, then sat down at a table with their slices.
Tate pulled out his cell phone. Put it on the table.
“Hoping AJ will call?”
“I’m not holding my breath.” Tate folded his pizza like a sandwich. “But Glo keeps texting me. Nonstop for three days. I told her that we were fine, but she’s…”
“In love with you.”
Tate looked at him, frowned. “Hardly. She is…she’s my boss.”
“Whatever.” And it was the first smile he’d gotten from Tate in three days.
As if Glo might be able to sense their conversation, a text rattled his phone. He picked it up, swiped. “What—?”
Knox leaned over. “What’s going on?”
“They’re setting up to play at some gig tonight.”
“What—and you let them go?
“Take a breath—no! They went without my permission, but it’s local.”
“Where?”
“Montana—in Mercy Falls. Apparently, Benjamin King set it up. It’s impromptu, and King has his own security, I’m sure. Glo says it’s low-key, just a couple songs at a local bar and grill.”
“Should we be worried?”
“Probably not, but I’m not thrilled. The sooner we track down Russell, the better.” Tate turned his phone around and showed Knox a picture of Kelsey and Glo decked out in jeans, boots, and T-shirts that said Pony Up. The next one had Kelsey at the mic, her smile curving around her words.
All Knox wanted to do was go home. To be in the audience, for her to wink at him as she sang. To sneak backstage and maybe give her a good luck kiss. Or a hug. Or even just a high five, but yeah.
By one look at Tate’s expression as he took back the phone, he wanted to suggest the same thing.
“We have to find him,” Knox said.
Tate nodded. Sighed.
They finished the pizza, then took a subway to their hotel right off Times Square. Knox stood at the window, watching as theatergoers emptied into the square. Tate was channel surfing the late-late shows.
They should go home. Because what if Russell wasn’t here, but somehow had found them in Montana, and was right now sitting outside, in the parking lot, waiting to, as he put it, finish what he’d started.
Knox pressed a hand to his gut. That pizza wasn’t sitting right.
Especially when Tate’s phone buzzed again, this time on the nightstand next to his bed. He picked it up, and his gut knotted when Tate’s eyes widened, his mouth opening.
“What—?”
Tate looked up. “We’re going home. Right now.” His face turned grim and hard as he stood up and stalked over to his suitcase. “Their tour bus was bombed.”