“If you don’t tell me where she went right this fucking moment, I am going to tear this fucking office apart.” I meant every word.
Wood held up his hands. “This is the only way that she can be safe, Lincoln. The only way. Think. Think. You know she’s right. The less we know, the better. She has to start over.”
I sank down, my knees giving way as I collapsed back into one of Wood’s chairs. “I can’t just let her go.”
“You have to.”
“I won’t.”
“She told me to tell you something.”
I looked up, hoping it was some sort of a breadcrumb trail that would lead me to her. “What?”
“She said she’ll always be your angel.”
Chapter Thirteen
I let the blow land, felt the sting of pain that shot along my jaw. I struck out hard with my right, answering with power launched from my back.
He wobbled, stunned. Through my one good eye, I saw the opening I needed. One swift uppercut with my left, and my bloodied opponent lay sprawled on the ground. Glass jaw. He curled over onto his side in the fetal position as the crowd around us roared, some with glee, some with the unhappiness of money bet and lost.
I wasn’t in this for the money. I was in it for the pain, giving and receiving.
Evan was gone. I hadn’t been able to trace her. Wood had talked me down again and again from trying to find her. He told me I had more important things—like breaking the crime racket—and that I had to let it lie. To let her go. I couldn’t. But she was too smart. Gone. Her apartment held no clues. The documents we’d recovered from the storage unit gave no insight into her, other than the notepads and notepads of detailed information.
I spent my days wading through information, speaking with private detectives and informants. I set my sights on DiSalvo, but I had plenty of other fish to fry along the way.
Wood had assigned Jonesy to work with me, the cases becoming too myriad for me to handle on my own. He didn’t pry, didn’t bring up Evan. Wood had told him the score. We worked together far better than I would have predicted. He was even more detail-conscious than I was, teasing out bits of information to get the whole picture. Our cases were rolling right along, building to indictments and then ending with guilty pleas or trials. Only a few months in, we had taken down a handful of lower-level criminals, given them plea deals to get information on the higher-ups.
Evan’s notes led the way. I became so familiar with her writing style, wispy print, that I felt like I could serve as an expert witness on her handwriting should the need ever arise. I hadn’t realized she’d been a doodler. She didn’t seem the artistic sort.
I would pore over her information, the copious details of her clients’ misdeeds covering line after line. Dark, dirty, treacherous renderings. But off to the side, maybe when she’d had a brief reprieve from the tales of wrongdoing, would be a dove, a clock tower, or a tree.
The tree was her favorite. On one page, it would be done in black ink, stark and barren. On another, in red, as if made of blood. Then in blue, then the black again. It was never green. The branches never sprouted leaves, never grew into the sun. I copied several of her drawings, cutting them out and lining them up along the wall of my tiny office. I glanced at them from time to time as I continued digging deeper and deeper into the gloom of her past dealings.
The same darkness drove me to this fighting pit, made me spend my blood on the unforgiving floor. It linked me back to her, somehow. Or maybe it was my long-hidden violence that ruled me. I looked to my knuckles, bloodied and bruised. The double life was taking a toll. Three months of it, the fights, the bruises, the blood.
Some men came up behind me, knocking me from my thoughts. They wanted to congratulate me on making them richer, wanting to know when my next fight was.
“Back the fuck up.”
“Whoa, Rebel Rager, don’t get mad. We just wanted to say we’ve got your back.” The guy was dressed in typical Wall Street clothes. Not an ounce of dirt on the outside. But I was certain if I had a look at his books, he’d be filthy. I spat a wad of blood on the floor at his feet.
He backed up. I stalked off past him, past the fight that had just begun, past the cheering crowd.
I was done. I showered in the grungy locker room. I picked up my winnings on the way out.
“See you here tomorrow night?” The fight boss opened his cash box.
“No.”
“Couple days?” He licked his thumb before counting through the money bill by bill.
“No.”
He handed me the cash. “Worked it all out, did you? Had enough pain?”
Not yet.
I left. It was only a few blocks to an even sketchier part of the city. This town was like no other. One street would be brimming with young families and hipster restaurants. Two streets over, prostitutes and secret fighting rings.