Strike Me Down - Mindy Mejia Page 0,84

would have to do it in her place. Pivot. No, the police presence was totally normal. After the terrible hit-and-run accident, we wanted everyone to enjoy the tournament safely. No, we didn’t have any more details on the accident. No, Logan was unfortunately not available to make any comment.

Covering for my wife, again, and how was it possible within the physical laws of the universe that she’d become more onerous when she was gone? This wasn’t how I’d envisioned a Logan-free Strike. C.J. backed me up where she could, taking my prompts and adding her own flourish, but the more we said, the more they wanted to know. I was actually relieved when the announcer boomed overhead.

“Ooh, that was brutal! That landed hard. Head hook, followed by a roundhouse to the head and she’s down. She’s on the mat, ladies and gentlemen, and she is not getting up!”

Each word became louder and more intense. Abandoning the press conference table, the reporters rushed to the edge of the balcony with C.J. hot on their heels. I took longer, breathing deep, trying to compose the next ten minutes. Then the ten after that. Logan was not going to break this company. A new face. A new life. The rebirth would begin tonight.

“Medics are in the ring.”

By the time I reached the balcony, a crowd of people blocked any view of the prone fighter. The Brazilian paced the opposite side of the ring, waving off the coaches and trainers who hovered at the ropes. “Let’s watch that replay while they make sure Osborne is okay.”

Osborne.

My eyes snapped to the jumbotron, where a slow-motion pan showed the Brazilian’s glove sneaking over Merritt’s guard and slamming into her skull. She ducked away, straight into a kick coming from the opposite side. A trail of blood shot from her mouth. Her eyes bulged and rolled before she went down, dropping like dead weight to the ground.

Looking like—Logan’s voice taunted in my head—a silver fucking medalist.

NORA

ONE OF the first things Jim Parrish had taught her, after he’d recruited Nora outside the courthouse all those years ago, was that a good investigator was unpredictable. They exploited overlooked data, showed up at unexpected times, changed focus quickly. They created no patterns, worked to no discernible rhythm. In certain cases, a good investigator could look, to the untrained eye, like a very bad investigator.

Nora had walked into this investigation assuming she could handle it like any other case, looking for the intersection of opportunity, pressure, and rationalization. She’d been thorough, resourceful, charting every possible outlet for Strike’s hemorrhaged millions, but she hadn’t been unpredictable, not where it mattered. Someone had laid out a path long before she ever accepted this engagement, and she’d followed it like a perfectly trained retriever. She’d been the bad investigator who appeared to be good.

Gregg Abbott had accused his wife of stealing twenty million dollars. Logan Russo said her husband was framing her. One of them was lying. Maybe they both were. In order to figure out who, Nora would have to conduct the interview of her life.

The security guard didn’t stop at the entrance to the ICU ward after he dragged Nora out of Corbett’s hospital room, but she was too busy typing the account number into her phone to struggle.

“Nora?” Mike sprung out of his chair as the guard hauled her straight through the waiting room and into the corridor. The kids, thankfully, were still at the vending machines. Mike chased them down the hall, making every head turn as he shouted, “What are you doing? That’s my wife.”

“Your wife endangered a critically ill patient. She’s leaving the premises now and if she tries to come back,” the guard’s grip on her forearm tightened, “we’ll have the police give her a free tour of a jail cell.”

“No, there’s some mistake. Nora would never—she—”

Nora saved the account information and turned to look over her shoulder. Mike’s shirt was the same one he’d worn to the fireworks yesterday, stained with ice cream and puffed over his belly. His beard had grown even thicker after days of neglect.

“It’s fine,” she shook her head.

“But this is crazy.”

The crazy part was that her husband had no idea what she was capable of. She’d never let him close enough to see.

“I’m sorry, Mike, for everything. You deserve so much better.” She shook the guard off long enough to pull Mike into an embrace. He stiffened, surprised by her hug, and she felt another wave of guilt for what she