Marked: Chapter 31

Special Agent Laurens lives in a two-bedroom ranch in the western suburbs. Potted flowers decorate her porch. A garden gnome stands guard beneath a maple tree in the front yard.

“What if she’s not home?” Harley questions as we make our way up the walkway to her front door.

“She’s home,” I assure her, pointing to the window on the garage. “Her car’s here.”

Harley rings the doorbell, then steps back to my side.

“Are you sure this will work?” she asks while we wait.

“It will.” I move the bag from my right hand to my left, then push the doorbell again. There’re no cameras.

Not surprising for a dirty cop, but stupid, considering she can’t see who’s at her door from the safety of inside.

“See? She’s not here.” Harley gestures to the door.

“She’s here,” I say, opening the screen door and pounding on the interior door.

A moment later, the doorknob turns.

“Her doorbell must have been broken.” Harley tenses besides me.

Special Agent Laurens opens the door in a pair of black yoga pants and a bright yellow workout tank. Sweat drips down the side of her face.

We’ve interrupted her workout.

The flush from the exertion of whatever routine she was doing drains from her face when she sees us standing on her porch.

She blinks, then quickly composes herself.

“Harley.” She shoves on a plastic smile. “What are you doing here?” Her concerned eyes move to me, then to my bag.

“I’m sorry to bug you on a Saturday, but I remembered some other things, and I needed to talk to you.” She reaches for the screen door, but Laurens grabs the handle from the inside, holding it closed.

“Mom gave me your address,” Harley says. “I really need to tell you about it. Do you mind if we come in?” Harley drops her hand from the door, giving Laurens the impression that she has a say in whether or not we go inside.

There is no choice here, but she doesn’t fully comprehend the situation.

As far as she knows, people she works for, and with, have gone missing. There’s no proof any of them are dead. And there never will be. So, she has only suspicion.

And nothing to back up the idea that we’re behind any of it.

“We’ll only be a few minutes. We have dinner plans with her mom.” I make a show of checking my watch. “We only have about an hour before we have to be there. It’ll take almost that long to get there.” Laurens lives on the outskirts of the city.

Laurens relaxes.

“Okay. Yeah. But really, just a few minutes.” She pushes the screen door open, letting us inside her sanctuary.

“Let’s go in the living room.” After shutting the door behind us, she leads us to the small room just off the foyer.

It’s a standard living room. A couch faces a flat-screen television and is pushed back against a wall. Over the couch hangs a painting of some Italian village. A vase of flowers sits in the middle of the coffee table.

All normal for a suburban home.

The coffee table is pushed back and there’s a workout video paused on the TV screen. Pilates.

Typical.

“Have a seat.” She gestures to the couch.

“I’d rather stand, if that’s okay?” Harley says, and I take a seat in an armchair in the corner. I’m not needed yet, so I’ll just stay out of the way.

“Yeah. That’s fine.” She sinks into the couch herself. “I did some looking and there wasn’t anything about an Arthur in the files. If you want, I can schedule some time to talk with your mom this week, see if she remembers something.” She frowns. “Today’s the day, right? I don’t want to push her about this until after, unless you think I should?” She glances at me in the corner before facing Harley again.

“Today is the day,” Harley says firmly. “Quinn was shot on this day, eleven years ago.” She plays with her purse strap that hangs diagonally across her torso, sliding her hand down to the bag at her hip.

“Yes.” Laurens leans forward, gripping her hands together. “I’m sorry, Harley, I know today is such a bad day for you and your mom. If you’d rather we talk about this some other time, I understand.”

“No.” Harley shakes her head. “Today’s fine.” She swallows, rolls her shoulders back.

“Okay. What is it you wanted to tell me?”

Harley sets her jaw.

“I know what you did.”

“What I did?” Laurens tilts her head, still playing the oblivious fool. “Did what?”

“I know you work for the Blackwood family, hiding their crimes, diverting any investigations that might come up. You’re on their payroll,” she says firmly. It’s a beautiful scene, watching her take back power from those that stole it from her.

I’m a lucky man, getting to watch my little bird find her wings.

“Harley,” Laurens laughs her name. “I don’t know who’s been telling you this, but they’re wrong.” She shoots me a glare. “Is it you? Have you been lying to her?”

I smile.

“I don’t tolerate lying, Special Agent Laurens. I would never do such a thing.” I put my bag down at my feet on the soft beige carpeting.

Her gaze slides to the bag.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Harley. I haven’t done anything other than try to find the men responsible for your sister’s death.” Her denial is flat, rehearsed. And maybe someone with a less trained ear for such bullshit would believe her. But she’s not good at her job. Any of them.

As she makes her denial, her gaze flicks to a case sitting on the bookshelves next to the television. Her gun is probably inside. One of them, anyway.

“You never did a real investigation into our case. You pretended, took statements from me, questioned me every now and then, hoping I hadn’t remembered what really happened.” Harley takes a small step forward. “And it wasn’t that hard to let it go unsolved. We were dumped at a hospital. Quinn’s body, too. Nothing linked us to that mechanic’s shop.”

Laurens’ face contorts with that little fact.

I get up from my seat, moving behind Harley while she continues to lead the scene. Such a powerful woman, my girl.

“No physical evidence, only my fucked-up memory, and Mom didn’t know anything.” She pauses. “That should have been a flag to me. How could Mom not have known anything about who kept us prisoner?” she huffs.

“Harley.” Laurens rubs her hands against her knees. “I know this is all confusing. Your memories are starting to come back, obviously, and it’s all messed up. I think you should see a doctor. A therapist who can help you sort it all out.” She reaches for her cell phone on the coffee table, but Harley’s quick.

She snatches it up first and tosses it to me.

“What are you doing?” Laurens barks at me. I pocket her phone, then flip open the wooden box she keeps eyeing. Sure enough, there it is.

“I don’t think a therapist is going to help much.” Harley twists toward me, smiling when she sees the gun. “I think that would work best,” she says to me with her hand out. The Glock in her purse, the one I took off the security guard at Jimmy’s place, can stay tucked away.

She’s right, Laurens’ own gun is best.

“Harley!” She sits back on the couch, flittering her eyes to me. “What are you doing? Please. You need help. You’ve got this all twisted.”

“She’s helping herself,” I tell her. “You’re a dirty cop who helps monsters steal little girls and women. You help them get away with the worst things imaginable.”

“Look. It’s not my fault. I had to. You don’t understand.”

“I do understand.” Harley pulls back the slide. “You probably had a good reason at the beginning. Maybe they were blackmailing you, or you needed money, or whatever. I don’t care.

My sister and I were beaten, raped repeatedly, and then my sister was killed. That’s what I know. That’s what I care about.”

She aims.

“Harley, please. I can help you.” The begging begins. “I’ll open a real investigation. We’ll get them all.” Special Agent Laurens offers what she cannot give.

“There’s no need for that,” I say. “We’ve already taken care of them.”

Laurens’ eyes widen. Fear rolls off of her.

“Please, I’m sorry. So, so–”

The bullet strikes Special Agent Laurens in the forehead. Her lifeless body slumps back, the back of her head splattered against the wall.

“I couldn’t listen to her anymore.” Harley drops her hand to her side with a frown. “All the lying and the begging. It’s just annoying.”

“True.” Bringing my bag to the coffee table, I pull out a pair of latex gloves. “Let me have it.” I wiggle my fingers at the gun in Harley’s hands.

“What are you going to do?” She peeks into the bag as I pull out a rag to wipe off all of her prints. “What’s that?” She points at an insulated lunch box that’s inside the duffel bag.

“We need to replace your prints.” I open the lid of the box and pull out Jimmy Blackwood’s hand.

“Oh. Ew.” Harley takes a step back. “It stinks.” She covers her nose.

“Of course it does.” I laugh. I’ve preserved it as best I can with ice packs, but decomposition is going to smell.

Carefully, I wrap his hand around the gun. Pressing his fingers in all the right spots. Once I’m satisfied with my work with the weapon, I go to work placing fingerprints on the coffee table and on the glass of water sitting beside the flower arrangement.

“Won’t it look sloppy, leaving the gun behind?” Harley asks when I drop it in on the couch beside her.

“Maybe, but she’s a dirty cop and he’s in the Mafia. What better way to close this case fast than to pin it on a mobster?” I close the box, zip up the bag and gesture toward the front door. “Are you ready?”

She chews on her lips.

The next stop is the worst stop.

But this has to draw to a close.

She takes in a deep breath, rolls her shoulders back, and gives a firm nod like she’s made her decision.

“As ready as I’m going to be.” She heads to the door. “Let’s get it over with.”