Page 33 of Forced Into Your Arms
A lockbox. Storage unit. Safe-deposit box.
Or nothing that mattered at all.
I removed it from the ring and set it beside his phone anyway. Right now, I wasn’t overlooking shit.
My phone vibrated across the desk with a text from my aunt asking if I’d made it home. I responded before she had a chance to call and fuss at me, then sat here for another few minutes before finally getting up.
I needed a drink.
I poured myself some cognac and carried the glass back into my office. Sleep still wasn’t happening, so I might as well use the time to figure out what I could.
I opened Sam’s wallet again and started going through the receipts I’d almost thrown away the first time. Gas stations. Restaurants. A couple stores. Nothing that explained why he’d been at Grady. The last receipt was from three days before the shooting and came from a restaurant I knew Sam liked, which didn’t tell me shit either.
I tossed it onto the desk and took a drink.
“What the fuck were you doing, Sam?”
The question lingered in the air without an answer.
I knew what the police had told me. According to the cameras they were able to pull, Sam had driven into the parking garage alone. He’d parked, gotten out and walked toward the elevators. A few minutes later, two men followed him inside and they walked back out and headed opposite from his car.
That was it.
No clear faces.
No plates.
No explanation for why Sam had been there in the first place.
The nurse had heard enough to know they were talking about me, but not enough to know why. That was the part that kept bothering me.
Sam had been arguing with somebody about me.
According to Milan, he’d said I deserved to know something.
Know what, though?
I took another drink and stared at the phone.
Whatever Sam had been trying to tell me, there was a good chance the answer was sitting right in front of me.
I just couldn’t get to it yet.
My phone rung again, and this time I almost ignored it until I saw my aunt’s name.
“Whatyou doing calling me? I just texted you.”
“I know what you did. I asked if you made it home, not for you to send me one word.”
“I said yeah.”
“Exactly. One word.”
I shook my head and leaned back in my chair. “I’m home, Auntie.”
“That’s better.”
“You called me for that?”
