Page 163 of My Heart Still Beats
“True that. Good for you.”
“Not so good for me.” I draw in a breath, determined to just spill everything quickly. “Remember that small warehouse Dad used to do business with? The one we had a hunch was dealing in stolen goods?”
“Yeah…” Braden says slowly.
“I was on an errand for Dad one day, and I found a stash of about fifty grand hidden there. I left it, of course. To this day, I don’t know who it belonged to. The owner, one of the workers, I have no fucking clue. Anyway, I knew the code—”
“How the fuck did you know the code?”
“Ansel was closing one day when I left with supplies, and I saw him punch it in.”
“And you memorized it?”
“I couldn’t help it. You know I have one of those memories. I swear it’s a curse.”
And it is. I remember every detail of that night. Every excruciating detail of the following several weeks when the search was on for that convict who escaped, whose photo I recognized. Whose fate I knew.
I spill it all to my brother.
The break in. The theft. The murder. Everything.
“You pulled out the guy’s teeth?” Braden says, his eyes wide.
“Hell, no! I didn’t. Jerry Thompson did.” A chill runs down my spine. “He knew exactly what to do. It was psychotic.”
“So you didn’t do anything.”
“Not exactly true. It was my tarp we wrapped the body in, my truck we used to transport it to the bay.”
“And no one saw you?”
“Jerry again. He knew exactly where to go,” I say.
“Fuck.” Braden rubs his jawline. “No wonder he’s doing time.”
“I know. Anyway, the next day the news came on and showed that dude’s mug shot, and I recognized him.”
“How’d he get in the warehouse?”
“I have no clue. My gut tells me he got in during the day and hid. Whether he was going to use it as a hiding place or he was going to rob it, I have no idea. He could have known about it on the inside if he was dealing in stolen goods.”
Braden nods. Keeps nodding.
I wait.
I wait for him to blow.
Then I realize he won’t. Not Braden Black. Not the master of control.
Minutes tick by. Minutes that seem like hours. Until—
“This was fifteen years ago, Benji. Why are you telling me now?”
I press my lips together. “Because Dirk Conrad got in touch with me three months ago. Asked for cash. I told him to fuck off, and he did. Or so I thought. Now he’s back.”
“And he wants more cash?”
“Ten million,” I say, “and he seems willing to go down with me if I don’t pay.”
