Lacy rolls her eyes with dramatic flair. “Why are you always so rude, Jayden?”
“I think you look nice tonight,” Shannon says to me. “Your eye isn’t even gross-looking.”
Before I can respond to any of them, Miles pulls on his dark gray blazer and motions to the front door. “Ready?” he says to me.
I nod and grab my own jacket off the kitchen table, lamenting the fact I don’t have my shoulder holster or handgun. We head to the front door, and the kids follow us out. The rain and wind greet us with open arms, forcing Lacy, Shannon, and Jayden to rush across the yard to Ms. Timo’s without a second’s delay. Miles and I jog over to the car.
“Can you drive?” he asks.
I take the driver’s seat and slam the door once I’m situated. Miles tosses me the keys as he takes his seat. We’re both half-soaked from the brief moment it took us to reach the vehicle. I don’t care, but it ruins any sophistication I once had.
It isn’t late, but the clouds and chill make it feel like the midnight hour. I drive through the suburban streets and deeper into Joliet, taking the back roads to avoid the hesitant motorists who can’t handle the weather. The Blue Shield Gala is in Noimore, a fair distance away, but I’m certain I’ll make it there in time.
With the radio silent, I allow my thoughts to wander, directionless. For whatever reason, I think of my useless garden. Well, not the garden, but the tenacious radish. I’m half tempted to call Ms. Timo and ask her to look after the thing.
But then I remember I’m thinking about a radish and how fucking stupid it is to be worried about it. I’m at a weird point in my life. I don’t like it.
I don’t want to think of my failings.
I glance over at Miles. He’s buried in the glow of his phone and reading like a madman.
“Talk to me,” I demand.
Miles tears himself away from his device and stares at me for a long moment. “Uh, well, Worldwide Decurion was founded in the 1950s. They do criminal analysis work for over fifty different countries.”
Ah. That’s what he’s been reading. That’s what he’s been reading for the past week, actually. He can’t stop himself from looking into this, even after I told him I’ve lost my drive. Ever since I spoke with Shelby.
“Their headquarters for this region wasn’t in operation for the last twenty years,” Miles continues, regardless of my lack of participation. “They only recently opened it back up, and it seems they’re focused on major metropolitan areas with high crime rates, like Chicago and Noimore.”
“Hm.”
Miles laughs, and in a voice that betrays his barely restrained enthusiasm, says, “Which makes sense, if you think about it. If their goal is to sell low-level criminals off to body purchasers, these kinds of cities have an abundance of them. And there aren’t many criminal advocacy groups, meaning most people aren’t concerned with their disappearance—a lot of people even celebrate it—and fellow criminals are less likely to turn to the police for help, given their history.”
“You sound excited about this.”
“I think they have to be the middleman we’re looking for. I’m certain of it.”
“Speculation isn’t evidence.”
“Yeah, but given what they do, they most likely give reports to their men on the streets. Ya know, files about the victims they’re supposed to pick up. I know Shelby told you he wanted physical proof of the people doing the drop-offs, but I think the real evidence is in the paperwork, so to speak. Maybe all we need to find is a guy willing to talk and show us everything.”
“We’re not doing any of that,” I state.
Miles rubs at his neck. “Why not?”
“I told you. It’s not worth the risk. We’re just two guys. That’s not enough.”
“Shelby thought one guy could get enough evidence to attract the attention of the authorities. I think he had the right idea. We don’t have to personally kill everyone in a criminal syndicate.”
“I’m not a PI, and you’re not a PI,” I snap, gripping the steering wheel hard enough to strain my knuckles. “You’re in a police academy. Focus on that.”
“Pierce?” he asks, his tone one of confusion. “What’s wrong?”
What does he mean, what’s wrong? It’s obvious we can’t handle this—not while staying inside the law and doing everything else we need to do in life. Shelby gave up everything, basically, and he’s being hunted by the cops, fearing death around every corner. Miles doesn’t need that kind of life. And it’s my fault he’s even getting near it.
“We shouldn’t be dealing with this,” I say.
“But people are in danger and—”
“I don’t care,” I interject. “All right? Fucking drop it. I’m not in the mood.”
The silence grows sour. Miles remains quiet, however, and returns to his phone.
Perhaps this is for the best. I don’t want to discuss this, and I don’t have anything substantial to replace it with. What am I even going to do in the future? Shelby was the only one who took me on as a PI. Maybe I’ll just have to wait until we move out of this wretched area.
“Hey,” Miles says, drawing my attention back to him. “I’ve been meaning to ask you to lighten up on Jayden.”
“Why?”
“You’re harsh on him. Does he really need that?”
“He held a gun to my head,” I intone, “and threw a couple cheap shots to my face when I was tied down. I’d say we aren’t yet even.”
“That was a while ago,” Miles replies with a single nervous laugh.
“It’s been less than a year.”
“Well, he was also high, and not himself. He wouldn’t do that now.”
“Tell me, does being high work as a defense in the courts?” I ask, my unrestrained sarcasm thick on every syllable. In my best mock-Jayden performance, I continue, “I’m sorry, Your Honor. I didn’t know what I was doing because I was high as fuck. Don’t be mad at me, be mad at wasted-me!”
“Your aggression isn’t
