“Well that’s a shitty way to live.
She shrugs. “If you want something you have to get it yourself. I don’t need help from anyone.”
I shake my head, disbelieving. “The most dangerous lies are the ones you tell yourself, babe.”
She lifts a brow. “Right back atcha, Sly.”
I huff out a breath. “Well, Michaela, you may not like it, but to save your precious bar, you’re gonna have to learn to accept help or you’re going to lose it all. Just how stubborn are you gonna be?”
“Look who’s calling the kettle black.”
I shake my head, and stab a hand through my hair. I turn and stalk down the stairs and back to my bike before I say something I’ll regret, before I let the images of her dancing on that damn stage flash before my eyes, and I do something stupid like carry her to the bedroom and try to fuck some sense into her.
Thirty
Michaela—
After Sly leaves, I break down in tears.
I’m about to lose everything. Tonight was a total disaster. How could I be such a fool? I’m sure everyone in town but me must know the Kings of Carnage MC owns that stupid strip club.
And then seeing Arthur Stanfield in there shocked me worse than seeing Sly and his brothers. The way he was with that woman, I was so wrong about him.
He must have come straight from his country club by the way he was dressed, wearing that green golf shirt with the gold crest on the chest …
It flashes before my eyes, and I remember the two letters scrolled in elegant script—KC, Kilpatrick Club, his damn golf country club.
KC.
Sly’s words come back to me, rumbling through my head. “Those are rich man’s gloves, babe, not biker gloves.”
Oh, my God. Did Arthur truly kill my father? Da would never sell the place to be torn down, of that I’m certain. Was Da the final hold out? Was that reason enough for Arthur to commit murder? Is the man capable of going that far?
I realize there’s only one thing for me to do. I’ve got to solve my father’s murder. I have to! Somehow.
I’m so wound up from everything that happened tonight. I decide to change and go down to the office.
I know if I can prove who did it, I can get the life insurance and save the bar as well as relieve my guilt and maybe even forgive myself for thinking the worst of my da.
I search through the safe and papers in the desk, not exactly sure what I’m looking for, but something that ties my father and Stanfield. Eventually, I come across a contract. The name FRG Developments jumps out at me. I scan it. It’s a purchase offer for the bar. It’s torn in half and I can imagine my da’s anger when he did that.
I dig around the office some more, and in the very back of the desk drawer, I find a cell phone. I frown, because it’s not my father’s cell phone. It looks like some type of disposable one. I turn it over, studying it, wondering why he’d have such a thing.
There are four numbers written on the back with a sharpie. I frown, wondering if it’s the code. It’s dead and I have to locate a charger and wait. Finally, the screen lights up and I try the code. It works and I’m in. It immediately takes me to a text screen and displays a text that’s half written but hasn’t been sent yet.
Stanfield’s got proof of the illegal liquor I got from you guys. Says he’s going to the state with it if I don’t sell. Look, I know I’m behind on payments but … My prized coin collection is in the safe. It’s yours if you can help me with this asshole. Oh, shit. He’s here. Call me when y—
It stops there. I stare down at the screen, shaken. I want to search the rest of the phone but I don’t want to lose this half written text.
I take a screen shot photo, then return to the menu. There are two outgoing calls from that last night of his life. Made to two different numbers; neither one picked up. Neither one I recognize. I wonder if they are burner phones to guys in the MC. Sly perhaps?
I sit for a long time in the stillness of the office, wondering what to do. If I go to the police, I’m not sure they would take any of this seriously. After all, they did a slipshod investigation the first time around. Why would they be eager to reopen a case that’s already been classified a suicide? I’m not even sure this would be enough evidence for them.
I need something more. But what and how am I going to get it?
If I could prove that Arthur Stanfield killed my father, I’d get that insurance money.
I rehash the things my father was trying to tell someone in that unsent text. What was that about a coin collection in the safe? I don’t remember seeing it there in all the times I’ve been in it. I frown and squat in front of it and roll through the combination.
I pull the door open and search around. There are bags for deposit, rolled coins, and stacks of ones for the till. Some tax papers, certifications and licenses, but I find no precious coin collection. I start biting my lip. Da said it was in the safe.
If Arthur walked in while my da was texting the MC, perhaps the safe behind him was open. Perhaps he’d even pulled it out and looked at it before starting the text.
If Arthur saw it, perhaps he talked Da somehow into going in the car with him, then shot him, then walked back in and took the coin collection.
If he did, he may still have it.
If I was to find it in his possession, that would surely be evidence enough. And the text would give motive, perhaps that would be enough to reopen the investigation.
I have to get inside his house and search the place. But how? I’m sure he’d have an alarm. My body tenses as an idea comes to me. I bet there’s one time he’ll be out of the house and with the doors unlocked. The night we had dinner, I remember him saying he puts in an hour every afternoon working on his tennis serve at the court he had built on the grounds of his home. Maybe I could get inside when he’s out there.
Thirty-One
Bethany—
I pull down the tree-lined road, following Michaela’s directions. It’s beautiful with lots of long drives to expensive homes on the golf course.
“I think you’re insane for doing this, and you’re probably going to get yourself arrested.” I glare over at her, wondering why I agreed to this idiocy.
“I’ll be fine.”
“Let me come with you.”
“No! If this goes bad, there’s no sense in you getting in trouble too.”
“If this goes bad, you won’t have any help.”
“Stop here,” she orders. “His driveway should be just over that hill somewhere.” When I park, she hops out.
“Michaela, please,” I plead, hitting the button to roll down the passenger side window.
She leans in. “I’ll be fine.”
“If you’re not back in thirty minutes, I’m calling the cops,” I threaten.
She nods and jogs off, like she’s just out for a run.
I tap the steering wheel with my finger. I’m jumpy as hell as I check my mirrors. There’s no one in sight. Cars don’t park out on the street in neighborhoods like this and I wonder if I look suspicious.
Goddamn you, Michaela!