Page 70 of Forced Into Your Arms
Since then, there had been a handful of texts between us. Most started with her asking something about the hotel, thesecurity or when she could get back into her apartment to get some things. They always ended with her calling me controlling and me telling her she talked too damn much.
Milan was difficult on purpose. She questioned everything, argued when there wasn’t anything left to argue about and refused to follow simple instructions without making me explain why at least twice. Any other woman doing half that shit would’ve gotten ignored.
With her, I found myself waiting to see what smart-ass response she would send next.
My phone vibrated across the desk while I sat in my office at Blackwell’s going over the new floor plans. I glanced down, expecting Mace or one of the managers at my restaurant, but Milan’s name appeared on the screen.
Milan:I found an apartment. Since apparently you’re head of Atlanta Apartment Security now, you want to come inspect it?
I read the message twice before leaning back in my chair.
She was definitely being funny, but the fact that she’d asked me at all meant she’d listened. Milan could’ve toured the place, signed the lease and told me afterward just to prove she didn’t need my approval. Instead, she’d invited me along, even if she’d hidden it behind a joke.
Me:What time?
The dots appeared, disappeared, then came back.
Milan:You’re serious?
Me:You asked if I wanted to come.
Milan:Didn’t expect you to really want to.
Me:Of course.
She sent back an eye-roll emoji, followed by the address and a time.
I looked at the clock. The showing was in less than an hour, which meant she’d probably been debating whether to ask me until the last minute. That sounded like her.
A knock came at my office door before it opened, and the guy I’d given Sam’s phone to stepped inside. I’d dropped it off with him a couple of days ago after getting tired of staring at a screen I couldn’t get past.
“I got you in,” he said, placing the phone on my desk. “Wasn’t easy, but you should be able to access everything now.”
“Everything?”
“Everything that’s still on there.”
I looked up at him. “What that mean?”
“It means I got past the lock. I didn’t go through his personal shit, so I can’t tell you what’s there or what might’ve been deleted before I got it.”
I nodded and reached for the phone. “Good looking.”
He left, and I pressed the button on the side. The screen came to life without asking for a code, and a picture of Sam and my aunt filled the background. They were standing in her kitchen with flour all over their clothes, and I remembered the day it was taken. Sam had convinced himself he could bake my aunt a birthday cake and damn near burned her house down.
For a few seconds, I just stared at the picture.
It was strange how death could turn the smallest shit into something that mattered. A picture I probably would’ve laughed at and kept moving before was different now. Sam would never stand in that kitchen getting on my aunt’s nerves again. He’d never call me talking shit or show up somewhere without being invited. All I had left was a phone full of pieces of his life and the hope that somewhere inside it was something that could tell me why somebody wanted him dead.
I looked at the time again. I had about twenty minutes before I needed to leave, which wasn’t enough to go through everything, but I could at least check his recent calls and messages.
The call log didn’t tell me much. My aunt. Mace. Me. A few numbers I recognized from work and several I didn’t. Mace’s name appeared more than anybody else’s, but that wasn’t unusual. He and Sam had been close for years, and the three of us talked damn near every day.
I moved on to the messages, starting with the most recent threads. Most were regular conversations about work, family or plans that didn’t matter anymore. A few mentioned meetings at the restaurants, while one from my aunt reminded him to come by her house. I figured it was probably the same visit where he’d started asking questions about my mother.
Nothing explained Grady.
I was about to move on when a thread from an unknown number caught my attention. The last message had been sent two days before the shooting.
