Page 9 of Shadow Secrets
She’d reminded him of a younger sister, and while she’d been a handful, he’d enjoyed his time with her.
He’d saved her life, and someone had taken it anyway.
He locked down his emotions. Not now. Not yet. There was a living woman in front of him who needed him to function, and grief was a luxury he could afford later, in the dark, alone. He’d had plenty of practice with that.
“How long ago was it?”
“I don’t know. I ran straight here. A half hour?” She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. “I don’t have my phone. I left it on the counter at the shop.”
“You said he saw you.”
“We leave the neon sign on after hours. I was standing right there at the window, and the sign lit me up. He looked right at me.” Her hands dropped from her face, and she stared at him with those brown eyes that hid nothing. “He took a step toward the parlor. That’s when I ran.”
One step toward the parlor. Toward her. The shooter had identified a witness and made the decision to pursue. The only reason Sutton Crenshaw was alive was that she’d run before he reached the door.
“What was Ginger doing at the parlor? Did she come to see you because of the anniversary?”
Her jaw was clenched so tight he could see a muscle jump in her cheek. “She showed me a photo of a tattoo on someone’s arm. She said she saw it on someone in Washington—someone important. She recognized the design from—” A breath. “She said she thought Penn was part of an organization, a network. That he wasn’t mentally unhinged.”
Sebastian took that in, processed it. “Did you recognize the tattoo?”
“It was Penn’s work.” The words came out flat, certain. “I know his linework. It was his.”
A tattoo designed by Penn Crenshaw had been on someone in a position of power. Ginger had been investigating, believing Penn hadn’t come after her because of mental illness. Which suggested Penn’s assassination attempt had been a professional hit. Sebastian tried to wrap his mind around Penn being a hitman. Couldn’t.
Now, Ginger had been murdered within hours of arriving in Blackridge, if what Sutton was saying was true. The picture assembling itself was ugly and much bigger than one dead woman on a sidewalk.
Sutton’s breathing had gone ragged. She was staring at her boots, and her hands were clenched in her lap, knuckles white. “Maybe she wasn’t dead. I…I should have checked. I should have gone back.”
The words came out small, almost childlike, and they cracked something inside him.
“Maybe I should have—I could have gone out there. Tried to scare him off. Maybe if I’d screamed or—or called out?—”
Sebastian never touched a principal he was guarding. Never touched a client. It was all he could do not to reach out and squeeze her shoulder to offer reassurance. “No.”
“She was right there. She was right outside my door, and I just stood there?—”
“Sutton.” He crouched in front of the chair so they were eye to eye. Close enough to see the tears she was fighting, the way her lower lip trembled before she caught it between her teeth. “The man who killed her checked the body. That’s a confirmation kill. She was gone before he stepped out of the car. And if you had gone out there—if you had opened that door or screamed or done anything to draw his attention before you had a clear exit—you’d be on that sidewalk next to her.”
A sob broke loose from her mouth. Just one—sharp and involuntary, like something she’d tried to hold behind a door that couldn’t take the pressure anymore. She pressed her fist against her mouth, but her shoulders shook with the effort not to cry.
“There was nothing you could have done,” he said, quieter now. “Nothing that wouldn’t have gotten you killed, too.”
She didn’t nod. She didn’t agree. But the rigid, white-knuckle tension eased a fraction, like a wire that had been wound to its breaking point loosening by a single turn.
He stood. Whoever killed Ginger had seen Sutton’s face and would be looking for her. Every minute they stayed at the farmhouse was a minute wasted. He grabbed his phone and called the Blackridge Police Department.
The call to local PD took ninety seconds. He identified himself, reported shots fired at the intersection of Calder and Eighth near the Iron Rose Tattoo, described the victim as a young woman with red hair, and told them there was a witness who was in protective custody. The dispatcher asked questions. Sebastian gave her what he had and nothing more. They’d find Ginger. They’d secure the scene. That was their lane.
Then he called Garrett. He picked up on the second ring. No greeting. Just Garrett’s voice, steady and ready, the way it always was. “Told you to take some time off.”
“I have a situation.” Sebastian kept his voice low, his back to Sutton, though he could feel her watching him from the chair. “A witness to a professional hit is sitting in my kitchen. Three shots, suppressed weapon, confirmation kill. Target was Ginger Galbraith.”
A beat of silence. Garrett knew the name. Hell, everyone knew the name. It was the ghost that followed Sebastian through every room he entered.
“Have you notified Blackridge PD?”
“Yes. The witness is with me, but she’s compromised—the shooter made visual contact. I need the compound.”
