Page 9 of Don't Say a Word

Phoenix PD Sergeant Rick Devlin was Jack’s closest friend since they met in the police academy fifteen years ago. He was also my ex-boyfriend.

“Don’t know King.”

“She’s not a bad detective.”

“That doesn’t sound like a compliment.”

“She does the job.”

“Nothing more, nothing less,” I translated.

He nodded. Jack was a good guy, and he wouldn’t talk shit about his former colleagues. I always had to pull dirt out of him.He’d been one of those detectives who went above and beyond, put in more hours than most, and always followed through—even on a case like Elijah Martinez’s that was probably a simple accidental overdose, but could be something else.

“So what Rafe said makes sense,” I said. “They closed the case because if it looks like a duck, it’s a duck.”

But Elijah had to have gotten the drugs from somewhere. If I took everything Alina said at face value—that Elijah was a good kid who wouldn’t voluntarily use drugs—someone may have forced him to take them.

Or Alina was wrong about her son. Maybe he was experimenting. Maybe he succumbed to peer pressure. Maybe he hid his addiction well.

“You jumped at this,” Jack said.

“It’s Uncle Rafe. I’d do anything for him.”

“So would I, but...” His voice trailed off.

“But what?”

“Margo,” Jack said after a moment.

“Jack,” I said.

I wasn’t going to talk about the past. I typed Elijah’s name into a paid service that aggregated all news articles and public records. Another nice thing about joining Angelhart Investigations was that I no longer had to pay for all the subscription services on my own, which added up to a hefty sum.

There was little written about Elijah’s death. No court cases, but I didn’t expect to see anything there because he was a juvenile.

I scanned his obituary. He would have turned eighteen in February. Honors student. Only child. Survived by his mother, three uncles, and eight cousins.

“Margo,” Jack said quietly but firmly, “Elijah isn’t Bobby.”

My stomach twisted and my eyes burned, but I’d long ago cried out my anger about Bobby’s death.

“I’m helping Alina Martinez find out what happened to her son. I’m going to find the truth, good or bad. This has nothing to do with what happened to Bobby.”

I had known Bobby since the first day of kindergarten, when our teacher sat everyone in alphabetical order—him, Anderson, then me, Angelhart. We went to different high schools, but stayed close. Bobby was one of those give-the-shirt-off-your-back kind of guys. The guy who’d drive his drunk friends home before their parents found out they went to a party. Who walked girls to their car after football games in sketchy parts of Phoenix. Who’d spend an hour helping with a math problem, even if he had to read the entire Chapter first.

We’d never dated. Bobby was like a brother. He had been one of my best friends.

Bobby asked me to his senior prom. It wasn’t a date, he assured me. His girlfriend had dumped him two weeks earlier, and he didn’t want to go alone. I had a hunch he wanted to make her jealous, but agreed to go anyway. I liked his friends; most of them were fun.

At an afterparty, someone spiked his drink. I didn’t realize it right away. He started acting weird, off-balance, and slurring like he was drunk. I became angry, mostly because that meant I’d have to call Jack or my dad for a ride. I’d only had two beers—enough to rule out driving. My mom was a prosecutor; I knew the law and risks by heart.

I confronted Bobby. Called him an asshole. Told him I’d take care of everything. Then his eyes rolled back and he collapsed.

I called 911, but he was dead before the ambulance arrived. Later, we learned someone had slipped ketamine into his drink. He died from asphyxia. The cops investigated. Interviewed everyone. More than a hundred people had come and gone from that party.

No one confessed.

I think his ex-girlfriend drugged him. She probably didn’t mean to kill him. But intent doesn’t matter when someone ends up dead.