The note didn’t say I couldn’t share the photos with anyone else—not that it would have mattered if it did—so here I am, sitting on the couch in Tom’s office waiting for him to get in.

I’ve waited a lot longer than I should have to bring this evidence in. I thought I’d be able to drag something out of Drago without giving myself away, but I’ve barely seen Drago since he stayed over last Friday. He left, going out of town, again, and since we haven’t exactly discussed what we are to each other, I didn’t ask or push—no matter how much I itched to do so. And even that fact bugs me. I’m not a needy person. I consider myself independent, definitely strong, both mentally and physically, so the fact that the thought crossed my mind tells me I’m way too into him, too quick. Liking someone a lot is one thing, wanting to see them all the time and know where they are? That’s borderline psychotic, like my brother. I wonder if I should tell Alana about his tracking habits? Hell, the bitch probably knows. She should have told me!

I flip my wrist, looking at the time on my smartwatch—eight-twenty am.

I would probably still be trying to figure out who left the photos if Tom hadn’t requested a meeting this morning. Tomorrow marks the five-week mark since Chasity Carlisle walked into the station and I know Tom is going to expect something, but I doubt he has one inkling of what I’m about to throw in his lap.

I just wish I knew the identity of the person that not only left me those pictures but also knows what case I’m working and where I live. I’m not sure how I feel about the latter. It couldn’t have been Drago or his brother—so who was it?

I even went as far as talking Ms. Lincoln into getting the building manager to let me see surveillance tapes. Problem was there wasn’t any footage for the period of time my neighbor said he came by. That alone is suspicious, and without getting a technical team involved, I have no way of knowing for sure if anyone hacked into the building’s security footage, deleting anything, or if someone might have knocked the recording offline. Either way, there is no video from any camera on the property during that time frame.

Either it’s a coincidence or someone doesn’t want me to know their identity. That doesn’t stop me from believing, without a doubt, Drago is innocent. The photos present a pretty clear picture. That thick envelope—most likely containing cash—originated from Brandon and Drago never took it from him.

There isn’t a judge in the state that would bring charges against Drago with these surfacing, I think, gripping the photos in my hand.

“Andrews.” Tom’s voice booms as he enters his office, kicking the door closed behind him. “You’re here early.”

“Had an errand to run this morning and finished up sooner than I thought I would, so figured I’d c’mon by.”

“Houston isn’t due to arrive until nine.” He sits behind his desk.

Fucking figures, which is why I’m purposely here now rather than later. I don’t trust Lance. Never have and never will.

That errand I said I had might’ve been a little white lie.

“That’s okay.” I shrug like it isn’t a big deal. “He knows I’ve got this.” I have to bite my cheek to stop myself from laughing at that.

“Well, then”—his eyebrows pull together—“give me the update on Acerbi.” He leans back in his chair.

“Sir, I don’t believe Drago”—Tom’s eyebrow lifts, making me aware of my fuck-up by using his first name, so I scramble, trying to make it fit naturally—“Acerbi is participating in illegal activities like the girl suggested he was.”

“Detective,” he says, in that authoritative tone he’s known for when someone hasn’t given him what he’s expecting, “I don’t give a damn what you believe. I directed you to get the evidence that would back up that photo you obtained.”

“About that”—I start as I pull the opened envelope out of my purse—“I have evidence that backs up the opposite.”

I stand, stepping up to Tom’s desk, pulling out the photos and lay them in front of him.

“What’s this?” he says so slowly that I’m expecting a growl to follow.

“Look at them.” His eyes flick up to mine, showing me his dislike for ordering him. “Sir, you’ll understand why I know Mr. Acerbi wasn’t accepting drugs or money or well, anything once you look through those.” I nod my head, looking down at the stack of photos in his hand.

He leans forward, placing his elbows on top of his desk, and then starts riffling through the shots.

His eyes stay neutral, but there is a tick in his jaw. I guess that’s understandable. He’s wanted to bring Drago’s family down for a long time. From my understanding, Tom, back when he was a senior detective in the field, worked eighteen months on a case that was supposed to take down Vincent Acerbi for the murder of an undercover cop. Not only did evidence disappear from the crime lab but so did a witness.

Putting myself in Tom’s shoes, wouldn’t I want any crumb to bring down a family I believed was guilty?

“Where did you get these?”

I don’t want to tell him they arrived at my condo, but I can’t tell him they were left at the station either. He could easily track that in the logs.

“They were left for me anonymously. I don’t know where they came from or who left them for me.”

“How convenient.”

“Maybe,” I say for lack of knowing what else to say to that. “But it still proves Acerbi didn’t make a deal of sorts with Marino.”

“Who knows you and Houston are on this assignment?”

“Other than Mike and Connie, I don’t think anyone else other than you, sir.”

“Why the fuck does Connie know?”

Why the fuck is he so angry she does is a more appropriate question, I think to myself.

“She’s my partner. I had to tell her, Tom.” Is he serious right now? “I spend a good amount of time on the Acerbi case. She had to know why.”

“Why? Yes. What? No.” He pushes himself back, leaning into his chair. “Those photos might show Acerbi not accepting anything from Marino, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t smuggling dope into this city.” He leans up again, picking up the photo haphazardly. “Houston know about these?”

“No, sir.” I shake my head. “I just got them. He and I haven’t spoken.”

“You can go, Andrews.” He lifts the stack of photos. “I’ll speak to Houston and he’ll advise you on our next move.”

“Sir, with all due respect, shouldn’t I be involved in our next course of action? Perhaps we need to go back to the baby’s mother since I haven’t found anything to corroborate her claims. Then, if she still doesn’t want her son, I think we need to tell Acerbi about him. He may want the child.”

“I’m not putting an innocent child in the hands of a criminal, Brianna.”

“We don’t have any evidence he is a criminal.”

He barks out a laugh, but it seems too forced.

“There is no change in this investigation. And I’m not bringing the mother back in at this conjecture nor am I informing Acerbi of the kid. That would prove more harm than good. I’m not tipping him off that we’re watching him.”

“But, sir, your contact—”

“Detective!” I square my shoulders at the rise in his voice. “I said you could go. This discussion is over. Houston will follow up.” He pauses, and I suspect he’s waiting to see if I have more to say. I hadn’t meant to almost blurt out I haven’t received a call back from the captain in special ops or that I still have Gabriel.

Drago does need to know, though. And I’m not sure how I’m going to continue to keep this a secret. It feels wrong and I know that’s because it is wrong. He should have been told. Plus, it’s a piece of the missing puzzle. If he knows about Gabriel’s existence, then does some of what Miss Carlisle said have any truth to it? Is it possible he threatened her and the baby’s life?

I don’t know, and I want those answers. I need them. I need them to be untrue.

Without another word, I gather my purse from his couch and then leave more ticked off than I think I’ve ever been. None of it makes sense. Something about the way Tom is handling this is as off as Gabriel’s mother’s story was.

---

When I get back to the station, Connie is nowhere to be found. Alana can’t be my sounding board on this. I need my partner’s take. Something isn’t right. My gut says something isn’t right.

“Hey, Bri.” I glance up to see Mark swaggering toward my desk. He’s one of the friendlier, more respectful detectives working at the same precinct I do. His desk is closer to Mike’s office than mine is because he’s also part of the homicide unit Mike’s on.

“What’s up?” I ask, leaning back in my chair as he nears.

He leans against my desk, crossing his legs at the ankles, looking down at me with a too-serious expression for the kind, light-hearted guy I know him to be. He’s a veteran detective, having served almost the same number of years on the force as Mike. Whereas Mike is a no nonsense type of detective, Mark’s the jokester, so him giving me a look of concern has me giving him my full attention.

“I hear you’re having to work with Houston on a case.”

“That’s right,” I groan, realizing how unprofessional I sound. I know it’s just something I have to suck up and get over. “Mike tell you?”

He shakes his head. Mark’s silent for a beat while he places his palm on my desk, wrapping his fingers around the edge.

“Overheard him boasting about it the other night at Phillip’s.” Phillip’s is a small dive bar that cops from all over the city like to frequent. It’s a place they can let down their guard and know there are enough badges that’ll have their back if need be. I say their because it’s not a place I go often. I’ve only been a few times in the past and I’ve always felt out of place. I’m not sure why; just never felt at ease there like the rest of the people I work with seem to.

“What did he say?” I’m too curious not to ask.

“That he’s going to be the one to bring down an Acerbi when so many others have failed.” I clamp down my teeth so that I don’t say something I might later regret. That motherfucker! What the hell does he and our chief have against Drago? It’s Vincent that’s allegedly done crimes—even if there’s no hard evidence against him either. So maybe they think ‘like father like son.’ Who knows . . .

“Yeah, well, when there’s no proof of wrongdoing I’d like to know how he plans on doing that.”

“Just be careful when it comes to Houston. That’s all I really want to tell you.” He looks away from me, scanning the large open area. Only two other detectives are seated at their desks, eyes on their computer and both wearing headphones, so no one is paying us a lick of attention. He almost seems paranoid.

“Why the warning, Mark? I honestly don’t give a damn what Houston says. I’m going to do my job the same as I always do.”

“I have no doubt you will. My point is, if that case goes south or doesn’t pan out, he’s likely to blame it all on you. Wouldn’t be the first time.” A dry laugh escapes his lips. “Or even the second or third. It’s his MO. I just want you to watch your back. It’s not always the criminals you have to be mindful around.”

“Okay. I’ll be more careful. Thanks, Mark.”

“Anytime.”

He walks off and I bring my mug of coffee to my lips, pondering his words. It’s not always the criminals you have to be mindful around. Tipping the mug back, nothing comes out. Rats!

It’s early afternoon, but today is slow and I need all the caffeine I can get. Getting up, I head to the break room. I could drink coffee all day long. I love the stuff.

The break room is also the kitchenette and when I enter the small room it’s empty, so I get right to it, placing a K-cup in the machine and then putting my coffee mug underneath followed by pressing the button.

Just as the machine is about to brew my steamy goodness, I hear rapid footsteps, alerting me someone has entered the break room, but before I can glance behind me, I’m grabbed forcefully by my right elbow and swung around, my back crushing into the stainless-steel refrigerator behind me, sending a sharp pain up my spine.

“Ow. Son of a . . .” I glance down at the firm hand wrapped around my arm, then I look up, glaring at the motherfucker in the process. “What the fuck, Lance? Get your han—”

“Shut your little mouth,” he spits in my face. Anger radiates from him and mine is about to match it. “Listen, bitch, and listen well.” He inches closer to my face, lowering to look me in the eyes. “That cock-sucking trap of yours better fucking watch what comes out of it, or you won’t like what’s shoved in it.”

“Take your goddamn hands off me, now,” I force out, hitting him with the same animosity he did me only seconds ago.

He does release the grip he has on me but steps even closer, making me press into the hard surface of the fridge, trying to get farther away but failing to do so.

“You need to be more worried about doing your job than spewing worthless shit to the chief. You hear me?”

“My job?” I raise my hands between us, pushing on his chest, gaining a few inches of space.

“Find something on Acerbi. Put down your little fucking coffee, stop pissing around, and get the evidence I need to put that motherfucker away. Got it?”

Don’t do it, Bri. Don’t show him any of your cards.

Fuck it.

“Sounds to me like you’re walking on the dirty side of that thin blue line, Houston.” I raise my eyebrow in every ounce of defiance I can muster. “You a card carrying member of the Dirty Blue?” I don’t give him time to answer—not that he would. “Sure sounds like it to me.”

His palm flies up, connecting with my chest, shoving me backward. Luckily for me, I have nowhere to go except maybe two or three inches, connecting to solid surface again. The force moves the refrigerator, rocking it.

“Be real careful what you say, Andrews. I don’t give a fuck what you think, or what you think you know, but it better stay inside that pretty little mouth of yours, or . . .”

He steps back with a smirk on across his face, never finishing his threat.

“Or what?” I cross my arms.

He laughs, then turns without another word coming from his lips.

I rub my chest with my palm once he’s out of sight. It hurt, but it’s nothing compared to the fire burning inside my gut. Maybe it’s not Drago my time needs to be spent investigating. Maybe it’s detective Lance Houston.