Page 19

19

JAMIE

W hen I wake around four in the afternoon the day after the rave, my first thoughts are of Cranberry Sauce in her delicious disguise. Satin nightgowns are the only thing I should ever let her wear.

Grabbing my phone, I review the blurry snaps I took of her. Fake sable hair spills down her incredible body. She would look good with dark hair. Or any color, I reckon.

My fingers enlarge the picture so I can admire the way her nipples tent the fabric. That body. She’s too fucking gorgeous.

Licking my lips, I draw in a slow breath. I want her in my bed right now.

Then, I remind myself she’s already distracted me way too much.

Setting my phone on the nightstand, I ignore my sexual urges. After a moment of rubbing my eyes, I tell myself, Work first, then you can have the girl.

Rolling onto my side, I open the nightstand’s drawer and retrieve the envelope from Ireland.

Sitting up, I brace myself. At times, I can maintain the detachment I need when facing the facts surrounding Jude’s case. Others, the details hit me as though I’m still a broken-hearted lad who couldn’t save his brother.

Tugging the papers from the envelope, I drop them on my lap.

Here we go.

I flip through handwritten pages first, skimming some of the interviews they did at local inns. No Americans fitting the description we’d given were identified. The detective on the case had planned to expand the radius of their inquiries. But, just as the cop told me on the phone, when the detective followed up with our father, Dad wouldn’t let us participate in additional interviews. And the local prosecutor said let it go.

For fuck’s sake.

With a few days to contemplate my dad’s role in shutting down the investigation, my anger has evolved. It’s not sloppy now, like snow trodden into dirty slush. It’s more like the invisible black ice that forms in the bitter cold of night. The old man did what he thought was best, and so did the other men involved. They were wrong, but a lot of things are clear in hindsight.

As I flip, Jude’s drawing of the man’s ring falls out. I’ve seen several pictures like it in his journal, but this one has the most detail. He’s captured the guy’s right hand and the ring on its fourth finger. It was burned into Jude’s mind while the man was behind him, looming over him, holding down Jude’s arms whenever he tried to pull away.

The signet ring tilts to the right, showing part of the top and left side. The uppermost portion has a scripted R. On the left side, there’s a school crest with a vine above an open book. Est. 1898

By the time I began researching the school crests of hundreds of American universities, Jude was gone so I couldn’t ask him whether he was sure about the date.

When I found the Granthorpe crest on its class rings, it was a perfect match down to the date it had been founded. Feeling pretty certain I’d found the correct university, I tried to learn the man’s identity through digital sleuthing. Unfortunately, photo rosters weren’t available to outsiders and the system was too difficult to hack. Ironic that I’d had a much easier time getting into police databases.

Thwarted online, I followed the lead to the United States.

Pretending to be interested in enrolling, I took a tour of the campus and slipped off during lunch to visit the library’s collection of yearbooks. I went through class rosters from the years I believed the man may have been enrolled. A hasty and fruitless search.

As soon as I became a GU student, I went back to the library. This time I spent days pouring over the yearbooks, which stretched back for decades. Unfortunately, some of the collection had walked off over the years.

Whether the guy was in an edition that someone had stolen or whether he just looked too different as a young man, I couldn’t identify him. After a frustrating few weeks of trying to get the missing editions and failing, I had to concede that I’d taken the yearbook investigation as far as I could.

As I stare at the picture my brother drew, another way to investigate occurs to me. When schools designate a company to produce their class rings, students place their orders. And while digital mockups for a twenty-year-old edition of the yearbook aren’t maintained, spreadsheets of purchase orders might be.

A place like Granthorpe is all about tradition. They would use a reputable company and stick with them if they did quality work. How many ring companies could there have been over the years? Two? Three?

If I could get the records for all the rings ordered by male students in the twenty-year window I’m interested in, maybe I could narrow down the list by identifying the men who ordered signet rings with the letter R on top. There can’t have been that many. From looking at the past few years of class ring designs, I know signet rings are the least popular choice. Usually, there’s a gemstone with the university’s name surrounding it or the school crest sitting atop the ring, and the sides have other logos or symbols.

My phone buzzes with an incoming text message. I pick it up.

Sawyer: U awake?

I respond that I am, and she sends another text in quick succession.

Sawyer: Am I coming over there? Ash can drop me.

The girl is more anxious to face me than she should be. I’m pissed she and Ash crashed the rave after I said they shouldn’t. With Ash, there’s no recourse. But Sawyer’s mine, and we’ve already established I’m allowed to punish her.

My cock twitches at the thought, and I clench my jaw. I’m becoming way too invested in this temporary arrangement. Then, I think about the way she looked in that satin slip and accept I need to keep going until I’ve had my fill. It’s the only way I’ll be able to get my head clear again.

I glance at my bedroom door. War’s heavy footfalls can be heard beyond it. I climb from my bed and open the door.

“War?”

He appears in the hall in shorts and covered in sweat. Apparently, he’s been working out. “What?”

“You talk to Killian or the bosses?”

“Both.”

“And?”

“Mission accomplished.”

I pop the knuckles of my right hand. “Any blowback from the bosses about the rough bounce of a GU student?”

War shakes his head.

“Did you tell C that Ash and her roommate were in the thick of the trouble?”

“I mentioned it. I also asked the question.” His jaw clenches. “Can we ban little Patrick from this house and any public op we’re running?”

I wait.

“He asked why we would need to ban her. Told him I assume there are things she shouldn’t see. And also that if we’ve gotta keep her out of trouble, I need to plan accordingly cuz she’s a live fucking grenade on the regular.” A muscle in War’s jaw twitches. “C, Trick, and Anvil wouldn’t let one of their wives wander through the middle of a fucking op. Anvil’s house is practically on fucking lockdown twenty-four-seven.”

Not from everyone , I think. Ash is the designated babysitter of Anvil’s little girls. But my saying Ash has an “all access” pass into even Anvil’s house will just annoy War more.

I lean back against the wall. “So, what was the word from C?”

War scowls. “He reiterated he doesn’t want us sharing operational details with anyone, not even other Crue members. What’s between the three of us—you, me, and Killian—stays between us and the bosses. But when it comes to the house and campus parties, Ash can go where she wants. Fucking bullshit.” His tone is the snap of a whip. “She’s reckless, and they let it roll. My question is why? Maybe C or Anvil is fucking her.”

My brow cocks.

“Right?” His black glare is a knife trying to slice me open so the truth pours out.

“If I knew that I wouldn’t confirm it. And I strongly advise you not to ask questions whose answers could get you killed.”

“Me killed? Fuck no. Why would it?” War growls.

“One of Trick’s best friends fucking Ashling could blow up the Crue leadership and hence, the Crue itself. If C or Anvil were involved with Trick’s baby sister, they would not let that secret surface without a fight.”

The black expression on War’s face causes my eyes to narrow. Challenging this set of bosses—relatives or not—is straight-up insane. And yet he seems ready to double down.

I lean forward. “Why do you care, mate?”

“I don’t,” he barks. “Except when she’s making trouble on a job site.” An oven timer dings, causing him to turn and stalk away.

Shaking my head, I frown. War’s interest in Ash is not going to end well. He likes control, and she’s a human stick of dynamite.

The image of War slamming through people last night when Allendale put his hands on Ash rises in my mind like smoke. I was close enough to handle it, but that didn’t stop War from charging forward and snatching Ash up, effectively taking her off the board. I’ve rarely seen him move that fast. And he didn’t just get her out of harm’s way. The minute he had a hold of her, he didn’t want to put her down. To someone who knows him, that was very clear.

Ash is no help. He clearly did something to piss her off because that girl pokes the bear every fucking chance she gets. Even while calling for a truce, she was testing him. Asking that asshole Crosby to walk her to her car… She knew that wouldn’t fly. But she didn’t glance my way or even Bergmann’s when she said it. Her eyes were on War.

Shaking my head again, I scowl. They could’ve been a good match if their chemistry wasn’t so volatile. A McCann and a Patrick together would’ve united the families, which C and Trick probably would’ve welcomed. But when War gives a girl an order, he expects to be obeyed. And Ash clearly doesn’t want to take orders from him.

Given that, it seems like the best thing I can do is keep them apart. Which means I’m not going to greenlight Ash coming by to drop off Sawyer. If she did, Ash would come in to say hello to me, thereby crossing paths with War again.

Raising my phone, I type a text to Sawyer.

Jamie: I’ll come to get you. 1 hour.