“No. Who is that?”

“That.” He pointed at the woman. “That is Meredith Harper, the wife of Timothy Harper, Sr. and the mother of Timothy Harper, Jr.”

I frowned. “Why am I seeing her picture?”

“Because she’s the reason you’re sitting here.”

I was confused. “Huh?”

He grinned before taking the picture back and sliding another one in front of me.

It was Harper’s dad. Same smirk. Same bone structure, except this guy had half the hair Harper did and a bigger gut. Harper didn’t have a gut, but he would in twenty years. He was also in handcuffs, his head down, and his pants undone. Whoever took this picture had perfect timing.

Harper, Sr. was being led out of a building, two cops beside him, and right behind him a woman was stepping out. Long legs. Tight dress. Hair hanging down. She was also in handcuffs.

“I’m just going to educate you here. This is Harper, Sr.” He pointed to the woman. “This is the hooker we arrested him with.” That picture was taken away and he laid out three more. Different men. Different women. All in handcuffs. “And this is the prostitution ring that Harper, Sr. participated in and was arrested during. How we found out about this—” Meredith Harper’s image was laid on top of them. “—was because Mrs. Harper here got tired of the cheating, the hookers, the drugs, and when she found out her husband impregnated Harper, Jr.’s high school girlfriend, she decided enough was enough. She came to us, and we pulled him in.”

I sat back, chewing on all this.

I wasn’t liking what I was feeling.

“What does this have to do with me?”

He took Meredith’s picture away and put Harper, Sr.’s picture back on top. “This guy didn’t like being arrested. This guy decided that he had information on the Red Demons, and he wanted to use it to get immunity for this shit.” He pulled away the top picture and used it to wave at the others. “Harper, Sr. was stupid because what we found out today is that all the evidence we thought we had on the Red Demons was bogus. All of it. Not the information itself. That was real, but Harper, Sr. can’t be used as a witness anymore because what we weren’t told is that Harper, Sr. is also in bed with the cartel.”

A phone started ringing in the room, and it wasn’t mine.

Detective Brennan stared at me, his eyes hard, and he clenched his jaw. “If I look at my ringer, am I going to find out that it’s coming from your brother?”

I swallowed. This guy was the most cop-like cop I’d ever met or seen on television. He was emanating frustration, exhaustion, but a ring of danger. And right now, the frustration was only slightly edging out the air of danger, and so I swallowed. Again.

And I didn’t answer that question.

He grunted before leaning back and pulling out his phone. He turned it off, then indicated my own. “Pull it out. Call your brother back—”

I reached for the phone, but it was still in use.

Channing’s voice sounded from it, “I’m here. I’m listening.”

Brennan gestured to the table. “Put it there.” He raised his voice. “But you listen, Monroe. Not a word.”

My brother, for once, was quiet.

I was also now impressed by this cop. As cops went, he might do.

“So, we have an issue. One, the case fell apart. We can’t bring forward a witness who will never testify, and we’ll know he’ll never testify because what cartel would ever let one of theirs enter the court of law. A dead witness. That’s who they’d let in. In a body bag, but cartel aside, last night Harper, Sr. and Harper, Jr. were both taken. And your sister here was a witness to Harper, Jr.’s kidnapping. Witnesses said that two of the men stopped and stared at you. Witnesses also said that you seemed like you recognized one—”

“Bren, take me off speaker.”

I jumped. I’d never heard that voice from my brother.

I hesitated a second and he roared, “Right fucking now, Bren! Right NOW!”

I grabbed the phone, taking him off speaker and put the phone to my ear.

“Get up right now and leave.”

“Wha—”

“Get up! Grab your bag. Get up. Then leave. NOW!”

I bent for my bag.

As I stood from the chair, Channing added, “He can’t keep you there. You’re not being detained for anything. Don’t look at him. Walk out. Keep me on the phone as you go. Tell me where you are.”

I expected Detective Brennan to say something, but he didn’t. He stared at me, his eyes turning a mean shade, and I reached for the door. I half-thought it’d be locked. It wasn’t.

I narrated, “I’m leaving.”

I went down the hall, telling him as I moved throughout the precinct.

I went past the front desk, and I told him that.

As I went through the door, feeling the sun back on me, I told him, “I’m heading for my car.”

“Okay. Put me back to speaker. I want to be there as you drive to the house.”

My hands were shaking once I got in, and I dropped the keys twice before inserting them all the way. As I pulled out from the lot, I said, “You’re scaring me, and I don’t scare much.”

“I know.” He let out a breath of air. “Just keep driving. I’m going to hang up. I need to call Brock. Is Cross at the house?”

“Yeah. It’s Sunday.”

“The others?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see them when I left.”

“Okay. Just call ’em, but Bren, I have to ask…did you recognize any of those guys who took Harper?”

I didn’t answer. I made a vow last night not to tell anyone. The only person I was going to tell at a later time was Cross, when that later was going to be, I hadn’t decided. Knowing me, it probably would’ve been as soon as I got home after talking to Detective Brennan.

“Fuck, Bren!”

“They weren’t cartel.”

He was quiet. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay. That’s—that’s better, at least. But I have to ask, is there anything I need to know? And I’m saying anything. Anything weird. Anything odd. Anything that doesn’t make sense to you.”

I frowned. “No—” Drake. “Wait.”

“What? Wait, what? What?”

“Drake.”

“Ryerson? Your ex?”

“Yeah.” My heart was beating fast.

“What about him?”

I ran down the phone call to him, and again, my brother did one of his silent spells.

It took until I was pulling onto the block for the house before he said, “Bren. If it was who I’m thinking you recognized, then word did get to them who the witness was.”

“That cop said the case was done. That the cartel wouldn’t let him testify—”

“But the information was correct. They’re like the cartel. They don’t let loose ends stay loose. You know what I’m saying, right?”

Fuck.

My palms were sweaty.

My heart was trying to beat out of my chest. “Channing—”

“No. No. Don’t get scared. I’m sorry. I’m reacting like this because you’re my sister, and you’re three hours away from me, but I’m leaving. I’ll be there in a few hours. Is Dad still there?”

“Yeah. I think.”

“I’m going to call him, see if he knows anything.”

And that just tightened my chest all over again. I felt like someone was squeezing my entire body in one giant grip. Squeeeeeze.

“Did they or whoever you saw think you recognized them?”

Again. No answer from me.

“Shit! No.”

I pulled into the driveway, parking beside Cross’ truck and I turned the engine off, leaving the keys in the ignition. Each outburst from Channing was setting me on edge. I was so far on the edge, I was off of it. I was in the air, hanging suspended over a cliff. And how I wasn’t falling, I didn’t have a clue.

“Bren.”

I did not like how soft my brother’s voice just got.

“Bren, you have to know that Brennan calling you down there today might’ve been a ploy.”

“I thought that guy was your friend.”

“Not anymore.”

I frowned. “What do you mean, a ploy?”

I leaned forward. From where I parked, I could see the backyard of the house. I couldn’t fully see the patio table, but there was a chair pulled out. And beyond, was that… I leaned even more forward until I recognized what I was seeing.

“They’re here.”

My brother had been talking. I hadn’t registered, and I was the one who cut him off.

I said it again, “They’re here. They’re in the backyard. They have Cross.” And I was scrambling.

“Bren!”

The phone was turned off as I was out the door and running for the backyard.

I had no plan. No weapon. No ways to escape. I just had me, a panicked heart, as I rounded the corner, my heart stopped.

The guys were home.

Or they were supposed to be home.

But no. No one was back there, except—“Dad?”

He was standing on the patio. Arms folded. Head bent down. No. He wasn’t standing. He was pacing, and he whipped his head up at my voice, then immediately shot a frown at the other guy with him. Maxwell Raith. Unlike my dad, whose shoulders were tight and he seemed strung-out, his MC president looked anything but. Feet kicked out. Head leaning back, his face up for the sun, and as he saw me, too, he lifted up his arms in a big stretch over his head.