Page 30 of Griffin (Stone Brothers #5)

TWENTY-EIGHT

SHAY

T ate was out at the truck, and I had a few minutes to grab and bag evidence.

I'd gone into full amateur detective mode.

If Tate killed Roxi, then I wanted to be the person to bring the bastard down.

He'd made my life hell for the past few years, and it would give me no small amount of pleasure to be the one to send him off to prison for the rest of his life.

I'd be free, and I'd also feel a nice bit of satisfaction knowing the rest of his days would be as miserable as mine had been.

He'd finally learn what it was like to be a prisoner, and I couldn't have wished it on a more deserving person.

I'd been checking my phone every few minutes to keep on top of any updates on the case.

No one else had been arrested yet. I was sure after they'd jumped so quickly on Toby, the police were stepping back and taking their time to make sure they didn't make another mistake.

It was one of those cases where every arrest, every piece of evidence, every turn in a certain direction would be blasted across the internet, and it wouldn't look good for them to grab the wrong person twice.

Tate came inside. "I'm borrowing your car.

Need to get a part," he said. I heard him grab my keys off the hook and walk out.

I waited for him to drive off and then I put part two of my sleuth plan into place.

I pulled on a pair of knit gloves, so I wouldn't mess up any fingerprints or, worse, add mine to the mix.

I was already having exciting visions of police swarmed around his truck collecting forensic evidence.

The chill had burned off, and a nice fall day had popped out from the earlier clouds.

Tate's tools were strewn along the driveway, and the hood was still up.

I hurried across and hoisted myself up into the driver's side.

I scrunched up my nose at the smell. It was a Tate smell, his mix of aftershave and his occasional cigar and the foul odor that just naturally occurred around the man.

He kept his truck cab fairly neat. There were two candy bar wrappers sitting on the passenger seat, and a water thermos was jammed down next to the driver's seat.

I wasn't sure what I was looking for. I hoped something alarming and wonderfully criminal would jump out at me.

I twisted around and climbed into his sleeping quarters.

His blanket had been rolled up, and it sat on top of his pillow.

A silver gum wrapper glittered in the sunlight coming through the back window of the truck.

I picked it up and smelled it. Cinnamon.

It was Tate's favorite kind of gum. I set it back down where I found it.

The truck wobbled and the driver's door flew open. I nearly fell off the seat. "What the fuck are you doing?" Tate barked.

"Nothing. I just haven't sat up here in a long time. Remember when you used to take me on rides?" I worked hard and added in a little chuckle, but it came out like a frog's croak.

"Get out," he said in a deadly quiet tone.

My entire body started shaking. I pulled the gloves off and shoved them into my pocket, hoping he wouldn't notice. Climbing down from the seat took all my concentration. I missed the step twice and nearly fell. And Tate wouldn't do anything to stop that fall.

My feet reached the ground. My eyes darted around to see if there was an escape route, but Tate was right in front of me. He would have grabbed my arm if I dashed in either direction. I continued with the playing it cool act and forced a smile.

"I was going to make some cookies. Peanut butter?"

"Let's go to the house." His tone was cold and harsh.

He knew that I knew. At first my heart had been racing, pounding away in my chest, but now a weird, almost eerie calm, had overtaken me.

It was that good old survival mode kicking into gear.

Losing my head now wouldn't help anything, and unlike poor Roxi, I knew the killer.

In fact, I knew him well. I knew what triggered him.

I knew what placated him. I knew Tate Kennedy better than I ever wanted to.

Even now, with him acting oddly, I knew how to play it with him.

It was the way I kept myself from being harmed.

"I could make chocolate chip if you prefer. Just have to go to the store."

"I don't want any fucking cookies!" he yelled.

I looked at him. "All right. If there's anything you need, just let me know.

I'm making a list." I was countering every one of his terse, cold responses with an airy, everything-is-just-fine, retort.

It was a method I used often to knock him off stride.

It was hard to keep snapping at someone when they just smiled in response.

Although my smile probably looked as fake as it felt.

I headed to the kitchen. I planned to make my escape with the excuse that I was going to the store.

My hands had stopped trembling, but it was still hard to focus.

I pulled out a pad of paper from the kitchen drawer and then stared at it, unsure of what to write down.

It was my pretend grocery list, but I couldn't come up with one item to add.

And then I smelled it—his vile aftershave, and I felt him behind me.

It was like an icy cold cloud hovering over me.

"Where's the bandana?" he asked with a menacing calm.

I closed my eyes and wondered just how much damage the pen in my hand could do. I turned around and was still wearing that fake smile. "What on earth are you talking about?" I added in what I considered to be a believable, airy laugh. "Since when do you wear bandanas?"

Tate's hand shot out, and he had hold of me before I could wipe that fake smile off. "Where the fuck is it? It was in the bag."

Trying to keep my cool with his beer-tainted breath splattering the air around me and with his hand digging farther into my flesh wasn't easy, but I knew too well that he fed off fear, off my fear.

"I didn't go through the clothes that carefully.

If there was a bandana, then it's somewhere in the wash. "

"Bullshit!" He dragged me by the arm. I stumbled along to keep up with his pace and avoid having him free my arm from the shoulder socket.

I could feel bruises forming under his fingers as they cut off circulation in my arm.

He shoved me into the laundry area. It was just a small service porch near the back door of the house, and the appliances took up most of the space.

His wet clothes had been dragged from the washer, and they were scattered all over the floor.

"Find it then." He pushed me, and I fell forward to my knees, landing on the wet clothes.

"What color is it?" I asked. My resolve to stay calm was fading fast.

"You know what color it is. You're not leaving this room until you hand it over."

My survival instincts were breaking down, and I was becoming that scared prey he loved to push around.

I temporarily lost my wits and stupidly glanced up toward the box of detergent.

I pulled my gaze away quickly but not fast enough.

Tate pushed me aside, and I fell against the wall.

He yanked down the box of laundry detergent.

Harsh smelling white crystals flew everywhere, including in my face and hair.

I spun around to try and quickly brush the soap from my face before it got into my eyes.

I peered up cautiously. Tate was clutching the yellow bandana, and the look on his face caused the breath to leave me. He reached down and jerked me to my feet. I shoved him before he could get a grip on me.

"Fucking murderer!" I screamed and ran for the door.

Tate grabbed the back of my shirt before I could escape. The collar choked me as he jerked me back and shoved me onto the couch. I backed up on the cushions as he stood over me. He pulled the bandana from both ends and twisted it to make it into a rope.

If this was it, if I was going out, then I was getting in some blows of my own.

"What's the matter, you giant piece of shit? Did she say no? Did Roxi laugh in your face when you came on to her? You didn't actually think she'd be interested in a lowlife like you?"

His jaw twitched.

"That's it, isn't it? You came on to her. You left here and thought you'd ride out to Zion and find her and let her know you were in love with her and she laughed. She probably told you to get the fuck away, and that hurt your big, overblown ego."

The expression on Tate's face made him look like a stranger, a dangerous stranger. He snapped the bandana taut between his hands and leaned down. I kicked my leg out. My newly restarted dance workouts were making me limber and strong again. My foot landed hard on his balls.

Tate doubled over in pain. "You bitch," he grunted.

I climbed over the back of the couch and raced for the door.

Rage filled, he lunged at me and snatched my shirt again.

He pulled me back off my feet, and I landed hard against him.

His hands circled my throat just as someone knocked loudly on the door.

"Shay?" I recognized Griffin's deep voice instantly.

"Fin!" I managed to get out before Tate dragged me away from the door.

"Shay?" The knocks grew louder and then a loud crash sent the front door off its hinges.

The doorjamb splintered into several big pieces.

Griffin didn't hesitate. He torpedoed straight toward us.

Tate tossed me aside like a piece of clothing.

I caught myself just inches from my head hitting the corner of the coffee table.

The whole terrifying moment reminded me of Annie's story.

It didn't always take a fist or strong pair of hands to cause someone's death.

I got up from my knees and spun around. Griffin's fist shot through the air and landed in the middle of Tate's stunned face.

Tate's nose flattened and blood sprayed everywhere as he stumbled back and landed against the wall.

He used that same wall to push off from.

Tate's face was smeared with blood, and his eyes nearly bulged from his face as he lunged at Griffin.

Griffin nailed him again with a punch to the stomach.

It was a blow that took Tate to his knees.

I couldn't believe how satisfying it was to see Tate suffer pain.

"Fin?" a nervous voice asked from the permanently open doorway.

A police officer with a clean-shaven, round face and crisp uniform was holding a piece of paper.

"I told you to wait, Stone." He looked over at Tate.

My brute of a husband was covered in his own blood and looked pale from the blow to his stomach and from the blow to his ego.

"Jesus, you did a number on him. I take it that's?—"

"That is Tate Kennedy," I spoke up. "My husband, and he killed Roxi Carhill." I pointed at the yellow bandana on the arm of the couch.

The officer straightened his posture, adjusted his gun belt and cleared his throat. "Tate Kennedy, I've got a warrant. There's a team waiting outside to search the premises." More people showed up at the door.

"Fin, why don't you take Mrs. Kennedy outside while we do the search?

And we'll talk later about—" He motioned with his head toward Tate.

Tate sat back, defeated and looking far less threatening than I was used to.

It was like having my biggest, baddest childhood boogeyman reduced to dust. He was over.

We were over. The whole fucking nightmare was over, and it ended in a far more spectacular fashion than I could have ever imagined.