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“I know the feeling,” Mason tells me, and I give him a sidelong glance. His stare only hardens. “I know what it’s like to be in a lose-lose situation where the stakes are high.” He looks forward, staring at the opposite brick wall in the thin alley. “Too high,” he mutters under his breath.
“So, what do you do?” I say and get his attention again. “How do you win?” I ask him with all sincerity as if he has an answer that will put an end to this hell.
He shakes his head as he looks down at the ground and replies, “Sometimes there’s not a way to win, only a way to survive.”
I have to tear my eyes away from him, knowing he’s right and when I do, I spot something. My arm reaches out and I smack him in the chest.
“Visual.” The single word is barely spoken from me, and Mason doesn’t hesitate to take out his phone and call the tail. “He’s here,” he speaks into the phone as both of us watch the perp, chatting with some guy in an open doorway on Twentieth and Broadway. Even from his profile, I know it’s him.
Every muscle in my body coils, ready to fight. It’s been weeks of holding back and not being able to do anything. And just across the street is the last piece to this puzzle of fucking misery.
Dark black hair slicked back and tanned skin with a tattoo scrolling up his neck. It’s definitely him. We got this prick.
The second he’s walking down the stone steps, we’re moving out of the alley and following from across the street. I keep my eyes on him, walking through the thick crowd with my jaw clenched.
“Johnny, we got him.” Mason talks into his cell phone as we walk. I try not to make it obvious that we’re following thefucker. At the same time, I’m holding back every desire to chase the dealer down and beat the shit out of him to get every bit of information from him.
Mason says we should bribe him. It’s not exactly my style, though.
“Heading down Twenty-second,” I hear Mason say and instinctively I glance up to look at the street sign before turning left to follow him.
My blood’s pumping hard and with every step it gets harder and harder not to pick up speed.
Right as we get to the end of the block and the crosswalk sign turns to a red hand, the fucker walks out, ignoring the oncoming cars and nearly getting hit, but he keeps going, yelling out, “Hey, watch it!” at the drivers as if it’s their fault. I move to do the same. We can’t risk losing him, but Mason puts his arm out in front of my chest to stop me.
“He’s got him,” he tells me, his eyes glued to the dealer’s back as he vanishes into the thick crowd. “Johnny’s on him.”
My shoulders rise and fall with my heavy breaths. I’m calm on the outside, but inside I’m pacing. The nerves eat away at me. “I need to do something,” I tell him, ignoring how the woman to my right turns back to look at me as if I’ve lost it. Maybe I have.
“Then go home,” Mason says and turns halfway around to walk right back up the way we came.
His leather jacket bunches in my fist as I pull him back to me. “I can’t sit around and do nothing,” I say, pleading with him to understand.
“The best thing for you to do is go home to your pregnant wife and stay right the fuck there,” Mason tells me. That’s it? That’s all I can do when this is the prick that laced that coke? When he’s the one who sold the tainted version and he’s the only one who can tell us who he sold it to.
I swallow thickly, feeling guilt settle in my stomach. “She needs you to be there,” Mason asserts, with caution thick in every word. I wonder if he’s just saying that to make me listen to his order, or if he really means it.
“You told her you were done with this shit. Be done with it. You saw him, you know we got the guy. It’s just a matter of time now.”
CHAPTER 29
Kat
Evan is … not himself in the least. His shoulders are hunched, and he keeps checking his phone like he’s waiting for something.
Ever since we left dinner last night, he’s been closed off. I wish I’d never brought up Samantha. It was a mistake.
Evan checks his phone again as an explosion on the television booms through the living room. He doesn’t flinch or react. He’s numb.
I scroll through the list I’ve added to the baby registry. Maddie sent me a check-off chart and it’s so, so long. All the clothes in miniature and every odd and end, from pacifier holders to little mittens, should be enjoyable to add, but there’s a nagging feeling that claws at my chest.
I peek up at him again, scooting closer into the cushion and pulling the throw tighter around me. “Why do you keep checking your phone?”
“It’s nothing,” he answers.
I’m slow and deliberate as I arrange myself into a cross-legged position across from my husband on the sofa.
The expression on his face is one I’ve seen before, the “what is she doing?” look.