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None of this makes sense. Greg Everett was a loving father who couldn’t be more relieved to have his only child, his little girl, found safe and sound inside that warehouse. He said so right there in court; I’ve reviewed the transcripts so often I’ve practically memorized every word. He and his wife thanked the whole of Las Vegas for their love and support—according to him, anyway. His wife never spoke a word during those press conferences.
Come to think of it, Clara hasn’t mentioned her mother once. “What about Mrs. Everett?”
“Those who were there do remember seeing Clara’s mother sit by her side after they found her. But they also remember she was a very quiet woman. Didn’t say much to anyone, except to get water or ask for the bathroom.”
“And now?”
“Dead. A few years after the trial. Suicide.”
Something very close to empathy washes over me.Tooclose. I rub a hand over my jaw as I try to process all this information—and as I try to ignore the nagging feeling that we’ve only scratched the surface.
This was all supposed to be easy.
It’s been anything but that.
Pavel sighs and runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “Look, I’m nowhere near being a prime example of father material. God help the poor bastard who comes from me. But I gotta say… ifmykid was lying in some hospital bed? Cold, flu, broken arm, beat all to shit, I don’t care—I’d be there. No matter how old they are.” He tilts his head to one side and gives me a knowing smirk.“And you can’t tell me you wouldn’t set up camp in that little girl’s room, either.”
I should punch him right in that smug smile, just to make me feel better. But damn it all, he’s right. I’m the exact opposite of Father of the Year—hell, I’m not even in “Fun Uncle” range—but the moment I imagine Willow wearing a black eye and cradling a broken arm, I feel myself simultaneously wanting to run to her side and go to war.
So what the fuck is wrong with Everett?
“Get eyes on Greg Everett. Twenty-four-seven, every fucking day until we figure this shit out or he falls through a window himself.” I stand and stretch the tension out of my shoulders. Pavel stands with me, already tapping the orders in a group text to the Bratva’s rank-and-file. “I want to know when he so much as sneezes in our direction. Send a plant into LVPD and make sure his relationship with Martin is strictly professional. I’m not going to lose everything just because we read lips wrong.”
Pavel nods. “Done.”
Oh, how I fucking wish it was.
35
DEMYEN
I’m only halfway down the hall from the gym when Bambi turns a corner and almost runs into me. She jumps, then quickly straightens and gives me a respectful nod.
“Does no one sleep in this place?” I growl.
“I heard you were up,” she replies, smoothing a hand over her tunic. “Reports came in from the schools and I thought you’d want to know right away.”
The fact that reports onlyjustcame in tells me that, as usual, Bambi went above and beyond to get what I need. When she hunts down records, she hunts down people as much as paperwork, until even the janitor has given a witness testimony.
Pavel does, too, but his methods are a bit… messier. More windows get broken. Usually by someone’s face.
I sigh and nod. “You thought correctly. But before you tell me—do I need a drink for this?”
Bambi’s expression darkens. “We’ll both need a drink.”
That’s how we end up in the now-empty party courtyard, perched on stools at the abandoned bar with an open bottle of liquor for each of us and only the crescent moon lighting the glasses enough to see how much we pour.
I’m tempted to chug straight from the bottle. It’s a smuggled import from Russia, one of my father’s personal favorites. Strong as fuck. With any luck, I’ll be facedown at the edge of the pool and blissfully incoherent to the shitty mess around me in about three solid chugs.
Unfortunately, that stupid thing called “responsibility” whispers in the back of my brain to pace myself while Bambi turns on her tablet and dives into her report.
“I had a few of my colleagues interview retired teachers, school nurses, whoever we could track down within the city limits.” She scrolls through her notes app and I catch glimpses of photos and personnel files that I’m pretty sure she is not legally supposed to have possession of. “It took some squeezing, but I was able to get files unsealed long enough for a quick peek.”
“And?”
Bambi purses her lips. It’s too dark to see her clearly, but I can see enough between the moonlight and her tablet to know she’s deeply troubled.
“Can you promise me something?” she suddenly asks.
