Page 15 of Protected By Razor

“They got everywhere.” He pushes a folder across the desk. “Your girl walked into the middle of something.”

I don’t correct the ‘your girl’. I open the folder instead.

It’s all there. The plate she partially got — they ran it, ran the man, ran his associates. Mike, the dog handler is small. Above him there’s a guy called Carlin who runs operations across the south side, and above Carlin there’s a chain of payments to the Road Kings’ bookkeeper going back eighteen months.

“Protection,” King says. “Road Kings take a flat monthly to make sure no other crew touches Carlin’s setup. Dogs, card rooms, some other shit we haven’t fully figured out. The fighting brings in the most reliable cash.”

“And Mike?”

“Panicked when a vet’s assistant started asking questions. Reported it up. Carlin sent a warning. He thinks she’ll back off.”

“She’s not going to back off.”

“I know. That’s why we’re handling it.”

I close the folder.

“Road Kings know we’re looking?”

“Not yet. They will. We were going to deal with Carlin’s lot regardless — dog fighting in our city, we don’t tolerate it. But the Road Kings’ angle changes the shape. Their protection meant nothing. We make sure everyone knows that.”

I nod.

“Razor.”

“Yeah.”

“You good?”

“I’m fine.”

He looks at me for a long second. Then he nods once and goes back to his reading. King doesn’t ask twice, but he knows me well enough that I’ve clearly got shit going on in my head and that I’m not fine.

I pick her up at five.

She walks out of the clinic with her bag clutched against her chest and her face set in the careful way she has when she’s holding something down. Marissa is watching her from the front desk with an expression I don’t like.

She doesn’t tell me what happened until we’re back at the apartment.

She doesn’t tell me then either, actually. She unlocks the door, drops her bag, and walks straight to the kitchen sink. She stands there with her hands on the edge of the counter, breathing.

I close the door. I lock it.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Darcie.”

“It’s nothing. Marissa just?—” Her voice cracks and she presses her mouth shut.

“Marissa what?”

She doesn’t turn around.

“Someone called the clinic. Asking about me. What time I work, what days, whether I drive home or walk. Marissa told them she couldn’t give that out. We called the police — finally, because that’s a thing now, that’s actually a thing they can write down?—” Her voice keeps cracking. “And they said they’d file it, but there’s nothing they can do unless something happens. And then I looked in the car park and there was a man just standing there, probably just waiting for his wife, but I nearly screamed. I just don’t know who to trust.”

She finally turns around.