Page 87 of Shrapnel

The young dancer was handsome, his eyes crinkled with laughter. In the photo, he had braided some bright feathers in his hair. Knowing Jackson as he did, he could barely see any resemblance between the two. They didn’t look like brothers, even half-brothers. Evan was all soft edges and delicate beauty, like a snowflake.

He handed the photo back to Elijah and looked back over the room. The whole place felt wrong. Weird. This was not a usable space. The doer could not make his killing chemicals here. He couldn’t hold his victims here. So why? Why stash all the photos and the evidence?

“Let’s ask the detectives Noah employs to track all incoming and outgoing flights from South America and Russia. Could be someone got the money there.”

“But why not convert it to U.S. dollars? That money is useless here.

Elijah looked down at the photos in his hands. He was gripping them so tightly the photos were wrinkling. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything about this guy. Everything we do is useless. They’re all dead ends, flashes of light at the end of the tunnel that turn out to be mirages.”

He wasn’t wrong but agreeing with him probably wouldn’t help. Jamie sighed, grabbing Elijah by the shoulder and steering him out. Pointedly, he did not look at the pile of beer bottles as they passed by.

17

You Could Kill Me and You Should

There was a prettyhigh chance that Owen was going to get tased. He swallowed nervously as he rolled his window down. His car had manual windows and he had to pump the handle around in frantic circles to get it low enough for the White Sand Mesa guard to peer into it.

“Name?”

“Uh, Harvey said I should be good? Noah invited me—”

“Name?”

“Owen Zimmerman.”

The guard cocked his head, listening to an unseen earpiece. Owen was surprised to see the little flesh-colored piece of plastic. It was old. An outdated piece prone to interference. He didn’t know why White Sand Mesa would use such antiquated equipment.

While he mused, the guard was listening to the tinny voice in his ear. In the rearview mirror, Owen could see a guard with a mirror on a stick looking under his car. Absurdly, he found himself wondering when was the last time he cleaned his car. Could they see that on their little bomb-finding mirror?

He was waved through, and he followed the driveway until he saw Elijah’s car. Parking beside it, he rubbed his sweaty palms on his jeans.

Owen had never been to White Sand Mesa before. In his dealings with the Weavers, he had not had the occasion to visit. He knew it was ostentatious, and he’d heard the rumors that the walls were made of gold.

Like the mythical city of Troy.

The walls were disappointingly bare of precious metal. It was a stupidly large house, but there was nothing about it that warranted the rumors he had heard. No doubt they were the product of the gang. A way to talk themselves up. Like peacocks puffing up their tails.

Once again, Owen found himself couriering documents that could have been emails. It was generally not his style, but Elijah had told him (in a very direct way) that Jamie would be here. Since Jamie was ignoring his calls, texts, and attempts at ESP, this was his only chance to talk to him.

He just didn’t know what to say.

Like an idiot, he thought inspiration would hit him somewhere along the drive. But as his car engine cooled, he was still without an idea. He knew he needed to apologize, that went without saying. Owen was unsure about a lot of things, but what he was sure of was that he was not afraid of Jamie. Not like that.

These last few nights of self-flagellation had made some things crystal clear—Jamie was complicated. He was a stone-cold assassin with a traumatic past Owen couldn’t begin to comprehend. But he was also a giant dork. One who spent his nights writing fanfiction and head-banging to concerts. He stole phone chargers and kept Snapchat streaks. His cooking was passable, and hecared.He cared so much that Owen didn’t know how he had missed it.

Jamie cared so hard he knew Owen’s favorite foods. He knew that he didn’t drink water. He remembered his passing comments about how frustrated he was about a piece of furniture. Not just remembered, but he did something about it. Talk was cheap, Jamie knew that. He didn’t talk. He just did.

Owenwasafraid of Jamie in one way—he was afraid he wouldn’t forgive him. That he would never see that soft crooked grin or hear him say his name. The soft way his tongue moved over the syllables as if each one was more important than the last.

He was also afraid of the strange knot in his chest. The one that tightened every time he thought about Jamie’s expressive eyes and strong hands. Like a finger trap, the more he pulled at it the tighter it got. He could vividly remember the first time he saw one. His third-grade class had gone to the local aquarium and after making the circuit the kids had been unleashed into the gift shop. There, by the other cheap keychains and trinkets, he found the alluring item. Owen cried when he realized how stuck his fingers were, convinced he would never be free of the trap.

With a huff of patient laughter, his teacher told him to relax. “The only way to get free is to stop fighting.”

Looking out the windshield, he wondered if that was what he was doing with Jamie. He was hopelessly ensnaring himself with every defiant tug when all he needed to do was relax.

Opening the car door, he stepped out into the late afternoon sun and sidestepped a weird-looking fountain. Harvey met him at the door and exchanged some pleasantries, but Owen was too nervous to actively participate. His heart felt like it was racing a million miles a minute. This was not the time for his anxiety to rear its ugly head.

He heard the hushed murmuring of voices before he got to the door. Not quite fully closed, he could see shadows moving across the opening. Harvey left him then, saying something about…yeah, Owen had no idea. He had tuned the poor man out the second he stepped inside.