Page 79 of The Fixer

“Uh, you might want to try to wait on that.”

Those fumbling hands stopped fumbling, one leaving my butt to reach behind his back. Jet yanked me closer to him as he pointed his gun toward the kitchen.

Toward Mateo, who stood there looking like he hadn’t slept a wink, either.

“Get out of my house,” Jet hissed, gun unwavering as he pointed it at his friend. But Mateo didn’t move. He stood at the kitchen counter, hair sticking up everywhere, his thick glasses discarded beside his open laptop.

The man scrunched his nose, pursing his lips as he glanced up at the ceiling. “Nah, I don’t think I will.”

“What the fuck do you want, Medina?” Jet asked, lowering me to the floor. He adjusted my blouse and skirt with one hand, the gun in his other still pointed at his friend. Then he pushed me behind him, shielding me with his body from Mateo’s view.

But it didn’t matter, not really. Mateo’d returned his gaze to his computer and was typing away.

“While you’ve been doing… whatever, Shaw and I have been looking into Charlie’s books. We’ve found some discrepancies last week and have been digging through them between our other jobs.”

“You mean, dog-sitting?” Jet asked dryly, lowering his gun.

“Oh! He’s got jokes.” Mateo tossed a glance at me. “Man thinks he’s funny.”

Jet grabbed me by the hand, pulling me toward the breakfast bar, helping me onto one of the chairs.

“You know, you let Shaw hear you say that and—”

“What? Toby going to come after me? That dog wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

Mateo shrugged. “Not unless you fuck with Tess.”

Jet pulled me into him, rage still roiling through him but tempered with a smile. His arm wrapped around my waist and he secured his hand at my hip. He gestured to Mateo’s computer. “What do you got?”

“Charlie had a good amount of money wrapped up in investments. No surprise there, considering what he did. The service fees the bank was charging didn’t seem outrageous, probably reduced because of the amount of money he had there. But then,” Mateo said, flipping his computer around so we could see whatever he’d had pulled up on his screen, “the day before he died, there was a withdrawal of thirty grand, and that service charge jumped. Still an insignificant amount, but paired with the withdrawal, it got us thinking.”

Mateo spun his computer back around, then nudged the bridge of his nose with his knuckle as if pushing his glasses back up. “Shaw hacked into the bank’s system last night and did a little digging into the service fees. Turns out, the increase was due to a safe deposit box rental. And... I’m still thinking here.”

He picked up his glasses and slid them on, though not before rubbing his eyes. He looked up at us and gave a slow blink. “Eliza’s apartment was trashed. Charlie’s safe was cracked. What if whatever they were looking for was actually locked up at the bank?”

“They’d have to have a key to get in. Possibly even have their name on the—”

I gripped at Jet’s shirt as I spun to face him, eyes going wide. His jaw clenched, and before he could say anything, I let go. “Where’s your tux?”

Jet tipped his head to the side, and light from the lamps overhead glinted off those silver moons. “Hanging in my closet. Why?”

Without answering, I slid down from the chair and raced to his room. The cream-colored envelope Paulo D’Angelo had given me at the gala was in Jet’s jacket pocket, where he’d stuck it once Paulo had gone away. I pulled it out, then rushed back to the kitchen.

“What’s wrong?” Jet asked as I approached. My hands were shaking so much I couldn’t get them to work. “What’s this?” He took the envelope from me, sliding a finger under the flap and ripping it open.

“It’s the letter Paulo gave me at the gala,” I reminded him as he pulled out the paper inside and something dropped to the ground. Metal clanged against the wooden floor, and I stooped to pick it up.

“Wait a minute,” Mateo said, rounding the counter and coming to my side. “Paulo? As in Paulo D’Angelo?”

“He and my parents were friends.”

The man’s eyes zipped back and forth in the space in front of him, like he was reading something in his head. He turned to Jet. “She’s…” He pointed at me, then at his friend. “And you’re…”

“And this,” Jet said, taking the piece of metal from my hand, “is the key.”

I took the letter from Jet’s fingers, scanning the words quickly before reading them once again.

Dear Eliza,