“Right. I heard. What happened?”
I give him a quick recap, and just explaining it all is cutting, but necessary. I’ll have to repeat everything at the station, probably ten times over. His response when I’ve spit it all out is, “Holy hell. You didn’t kill that boy. You know that, right? He killed that boy.”
The twist of my gut says differently. So do the facts. The Poet didn’t kill that boy, I think. I did. I pulled the trigger. “I’m about to shower and head to the station to give my official statement.”
“I’m coming back.”
“No. You will not. You stay your big ass there and you find what we need to catch him. I have never wanted to catch him more than I do now.”
“Sam—”
“I mean it, Lang. Stay. Work the case. Focus.”
Silence fills the line. “What’s your plan to cover your ass?”
“I have the security feed Wade installed. It’ll show the grown man at my door. It’s clear I was set up. I’ll be fine.”
“Right. Right. I know you will. You’re tough as hell. Call me after the interviews.”
“Yeah. I’ll call.” I hang up without another word. I just need a minute alone.
I set my phone on the counter next to my gun and strip, tossing everything I’m wearing into the trash. The hot shower that follows is a blessed relief and somehow, I force the night’s events from my mind. I can’t risk breaking down now, not until everything that has to be done is done, and I’m alone.
I’ve just stepped out of the shower and wrapped myself in a robe when Wade appears in the doorway, looking weary and, as is rarely the case for him, a bit haphazardly put together in jeans and a less-than-pressed T-shirt. “I came the minute I heard.”
“What happened to your case?” I challenge, unreasonably angry. “Don’t you have a killer to catch?”
“My case—”
“Do not come here and let a killer go. I can’t be responsible for that right now, Wade.” I turn toward the closet at the rear of the bathroom and he catches my arm, turning me to face him.
“I got him. And we’ll get The Poet.”
“More like he got me.”
“We will get him.”
I swallow hard, a flash of that boy in my mind I shove aside, clinging to sanity while I still can. “I killed a little boy, Wade.”
“Don’t do that,” he chides. “Don’t do that to yourself. The Poet—”
“Don’t say he killed him. Lang said that, too, but making excuses for me is not okay. He didn’t pull the damn trigger. I did. I pulled the trigger.” My voice is raised, a dark bubble of something I can’t name in my chest. I swallow again, a deep, hard swallow. “I need to get dressed. My liaison is waiting for me.”
I start to turn away and he says, “About that.”
I’m right back in front of him. “What do you mean about that?”
“I think you should name me as your liaison.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because your interview is supposed to happen tomorrow, and they want it to happen tonight.”
My gut twists with the implications in that statement that I don’t even fully understand. “I’m not very up to speed on this kind of thing,” I admit. “I don’t exactly shoot a lot of people.”
“I am, which is another reason to name me your liaison. And yet another. I just talked to Martinez, he said ‘the captain said’ to me four times in five minutes. The mayor is trying to shelter himself from Newman, perhaps at the expense of you and the case, with the captain as his yes-man.”
“Okay,” I say, thankful for his help. “But you’re FBI. Can you even be my liaison?”
“Say yes. I’ll make it happen.”
I’m no fool. He’s right on all points. “Then yes. You’re my liaison.”
“Good. I’ll ensure you have an attorney. You need one. And then I’ll start by downloading the security feed we need to take with us while you get dressed.”
I nod and watch him walk out of the bathroom, both relieved and concerned about his involvement. The Poet is obviously watching me and when he does, Wade keeps making sure he sees him. I’m not sure that’s smart, but right now, I need to focus on getting through this interview.
Eager to do that, I hurry into the closet and throw on jeans and a T-shirt along with sneakers. I towel dry my hair and don’t bother with makeup. A boy died tonight. All I care about right now is washing the blood away, and the shower didn’t do the job. I’m not sure anything will.
I’m just reaching for the bag of clothes from the trash to throw out when my phone buzzes with a text from Chuck that reads: Tried to call you over and over. Worried about you. There’s also a link to a news article titled: “The Poet Terrorizes the City.”
It’s official. The Poet gets what he wants. The entire city is waiting for his judgment.
Chapter 73
I slide my phone into my pocket and pick up my gun, walking into the living room to find Wade sitting on the couch, with the computer he installed with the security system in front of him. I suck in a breath meant to calm the sudden apprehension overwhelming me, but it does nothing to calm the drum now pounding inside my chest. My gaze goes to the front door. It was open. The Poet could have deleted that footage.
Desperate to find out if he did and yet terrified at the same time, I hurry forward and sit down next to Wade, setting my gun beside me where it comforts me just by existing.
“Show me,” I order.
He gives me a sideways look, but he doesn’t speak or offer commentary on what he’s seen on the film. Wade’s been doing this job long enough to know we each cope in our own ways. I need to see the film to cope. He understands. Without a word, he rewinds and pushes play. The Poet is standing at my door, all six feet plus of him. I don’t know if I should feel relief or self-hatred. I should have known that boy wasn’t The Poet. Whatever the case, the film is the proof that will set me free and show the investigators how I was tricked, but it won’t bring that little boy back to life.
“What did you think you were going to find?” Wade asks when I finally breathe again.
“My door was open when I got here,” I say.
“You were afraid he deleted the footage,” he assumes.
“Yes, but that was a foolish fear. Of course, he wouldn’t delete the footage.”