Savior (The Kingwood Duet #2)

“Stop, Shelly.”

“No.” She only walks about five more feet before she does though.

With her back still facing me, I say, “We have history. You and Sara Jane have history. We’re friends.”

Spinning on her heel just as she reaches the pavement, she asks, “Do we, Alexander?”

“King,” I correct her. Even in her grief, my habit comes back.

“I realize we don’t have anything beyond what you want us to have, which isn’t much, King.”

“What did you want that you didn’t have? I gave you guys money, jobs, a place to stay. I paid for Chad’s school because his parents couldn’t.”

“How about something real, a real friendship where your money isn’t involved, where you don’t buy people and toss them away when they aren’t useful to you anymore?”

“I don’t use people. I give them what they want to get what I want. If everyone wins, where’s the loss?”

“Chad’s life.”

“I’m sorry. I haven’t said it enough—”

Coming closer to her, she stands her ground. “Or at all.”

Lowering my voice, I say, “I’m sorry, Shelly. Chad and Cruise are the closest I’ve had to brothers. It may not seem like I care, but I loved him.”

“Then show it.”

“I am. I want you to come work for me.”

I barely get the words out of my mouth before I’m slapped across the face. With my eyes closed, I count to three to calm down. The sting still registers seconds after she hit me. When I open my eyes, she asks, “Did Chad or I mean nothing to you? How can you stand there and try to buy me back into your life?”

“I’m not buying you. I’m trying my best to make things right.”

“You can’t.” Her tears fall and the sight of her pain guts me.

“If not for me, for Sara Jane.”

She peers off into the distance where Sara Jane stands with Cruise and Jason. My sigh gives me away and she says, “You’re gonna lose her.”

My Achilles heel is too obvious. “Why would you say that?”

“Because she’s all you care about and someone will make sure to take away your favorite toy.”

“She’s not a toy.”

“You made her a target when you waged a war. Nothing good can come from your actions.”

“You think you see me so clearly—”

“I don’t. Chad did. Now I understood what he meant about you. You think you have to find certain answers to feel whole. You’re so focused on finding your mother’s murderer you’ve lost focus on everything else, including Sara Jane. What you fail to realize is you’re whole now.”

Chad. Chad and his wisdom.

“Once Sara Jane’s gone, then the dark will expose the holes her loss left behind. You’ll feel like I do now—destroyed. Unfixable. Broken.”

Why am I even entertaining this conversation? She’s a friend, I remind myself. Even if she hates me right now, I don’t hate her. Grief is powerful, and if she needs to take out her pain on me, I’d rather that than taking it out on Sara Jane. “Take care of yourself.”

I turn to go, but she says, “I found an email Chad was going to send you.” When my eyes hit hers again, she drops her guard, and I finally see her. Her fire amidst her grief. “He would want you to have the information.” She reaches into her purse and pulls out a slip of paper. “Here. It’s his password. You’ll find the email in the draft folder.”

Looking down at the paper, I reply. “Thank you for this.”

“Don’t thank me. He’s the one who would have wanted you to have it.” She lowers her sunglasses and says, “And between us, I’m not sure if I can be the same friend Sara Jane had, and I’m probably not a friend she wants these days. Tell her I need time.”

It’s going to break Sara Jane’s heart, but I reply, “I will.”

I watch the girl with fiery hair leave with her head held high. I’ve given her some of the power she needs back and the respect she wanted. In honor of Chad’s life, his friendship, and brotherhood, I don’t mind conceding to her today.





24





Alexander



When I walk back to Sara Jane and Cruise, my muscles stiffen as my eyes narrow in on the unwelcome company just beyond my car. I keep walking past Sara Jane, but say, “Let me handle this.” I knew I couldn’t hold them off forever, but I didn’t expect to have to deal with the cops at Chad’s funeral.

Brown stands with his arms crossed over his chest and an arrogant fucking grin on his fucking face. Langley is Langley. I don’t get him. He seems to want to actually help. Are there honorable cops left? I’m not letting my guard down around him just yet.

I keep distance between them and us, spreading my stance when I stop. “I assume this is not a coincidence?”

“Unfortunately not,” Langley replies. “Sorry to bother you.” I notice his eyes on Sara Jane.

Judging by his tone and expression—the look of concern in his eyes, I believe him. I still won’t trust him. Not yet. “Why are you here?” I ask, wanting their attention off her.

“That was quite a slap you took back there.” Brown has to have his say. The fat fucker always does, looking to continue this war with me, pushing my buttons to make me break. I won’t. I called his number a long fucking time ago.

“Just get on with it. I want to take my wife home. If you can’t tell, we’re in mourning.”

“Thought we’d follow-up with you. Got a problem with that? Got something to hide?”

The best way to beat him at this game is to remain calm. “My lawyer will.” A sly grin slips into place just from looking at him. He’s stocky. With a black leather belt that should be paid overtime dividing him like a sausage overflowing its casing. He harbors more than a Napoleon complex. It’s an attitude that gives cops a bad name, and makes criminals seek revenge.

“We’ve left him a few messages, but he’s refusing to return them,” Brown says. “So we decided to stop jumping through hoops and come find you ourselves.”

“That’s a shame because we have no comment.”

He grunts, his nose crinkling through the constant sunburn he fashions across his weather-beaten face. I can call it—an alcoholic or he owns a boat. Either way his personality still sucks. “Okay, fine, pretty boy—”

“A guy was killed over on the West End.” Langley stops the standoff between Brown and me from building by moving closer and saying, “Sleepy subdivision with low crime.”

Brown pipes in, “Shot right in the head while sleeping next to his lovely stay-at-home wife and one-year-old son.”

My stomach tightens—the memory of the baby and Johnson’s wife is like a bullet to my heart. It makes me think maybe I’m not as far-gone as I once thought. I ask, “And?”

“And, would you happen to know anything about that?”

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