Page 23 of The Sole Suspect

“What the—Jake?” The lanky kid sporting dark hair and a silver stud through his nostril straightened from the wall, phone dropping to his side. His eyes darted between Jake, Penny and me. “Who are they?”

“They’re good friends of mine.” Jake twisted the hem of his sweater, voice cracking. “From the Historical District.”

The shorter kid with blond hair sized us up, arms crossed. “You sure they ain’t cops?”

“Do we look like cops?” Penny adjusted the strap of his vintage purse.

“Not exactly,” the blond replied.

“We just want to talk.” I said. “We have a few questions for you. It’s important.”

“Well, if Jake vouches for you…” The dark haired kid’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. “Yeah, okay.”

“I’m Leo. This is Penny.” I kept my voice casual, unthreatening. “Jake showed us your artwork.”

The blond snorted, kicking at an empty energy drink can. “That what the deputy called it? ‘Artwork’?”

“I’m Malcolm. That’s Tommy.” The boy with black hair said, gesturing toward his fair-haired companion. “You the owner of the warehouse or something?”

“No. We’re just interested in who hired you.” My words made both teens snap to attention.

“Look.” Malcolm scanned the empty lot. “We don’t want any trouble. The deputy said we’d get off with a warning if we stayed clean.”

“We’re not here about that.” I pulled out my phone, finding the photo of the vandalized campaign posters. “This look familiar?”

The teens exchanged glances. Malcolm straightened as he shoved both hands in the pocket of his hoodie, trying to appear tough despite the anxiety rolling off him in waves.

“That was different,” he muttered. “Just a job.”

“For Blake Harrington?” Penny asked softly.

Malcolm’s eyes widened. “How did you?—”

“Just a hunch,” I replied.

“He said it was just political mudslinging.” Tommy kicked the empty can again.

“Yeah,” Malcolm nodded. “Said it would show people how the old guard was holding Millcrest back. Whatever that means…”

“You still have his messages?” Penny asked.

Malcolm pulled out his phone again. “Yeah. He wasn’t exactly subtle about it.” He scrolled through texts. “See? Exact locations, what to write, when to do it. Even sent pictures of the spots he wanted hit.”

I studied the messages. The phone displayed just a number—no contact name saved in the thread. I squinted at the phone screen, noting the basic instructions paired with snapshots of campaign flyers—both Blake Harrington’s and Adelaide Fairfax’s.

“What about the bakery?” I leaned closer to see the phone screen better, catching a whiff of stale cigarette smoke from Malcolm’s hoodie. The odor irritated my nose.

“Oh, that came from a different number.” Malcolm’s thumb flicked across the screen, bringing up another conversation thread. “Used a burner for that job too.”

I studied both sets of messages. Neither contact had Blake’s name saved. “How do you know the campaign stuff came from Blake?”

“Met him in person at The Hideaway,” Tommy chimed in. “He wasn’t exactly careful about it—wore sunglasses inside like some movie villain. I recognized him from his campaign photos.

“He paid cash upfront,” Malcolm added. “Way more than the usual rate. Said he needed it done fast, before the debate next week.”

“Can you forward these to me?” My hands shook slightly as I recited my number.

“Just...” Malcolm shifted uncomfortably. “Don’t tell the deputy, okay? Our parents would freak if we got actual charges.”