Hostile Territory - Marie James Page 0,49
happened tonight rather than immediately concerning myself with him being forced to kill someone to keep me safe.
Behind him is a stern-looking man in a white button-down shirt and khaki slacks. The gun and badge clipped to his belt leads me to believe he’s a detective, but until I know for sure, I watch Deacon in order to know what to do next.
“Coleman,” the newcomer says with a nod in Flynn’s direction.
Deacon watches Flynn folding my things for a long while, his jaw clenching and unclenching before he looks away.
“This is Detective Mendoza,” Deacon says as he hitches his thumb over his shoulder. “He’s got a few questions for you.”
Detective Mendoza takes a few steps toward me but stops when it’s clear that Deacon isn’t going to allow him to get between us. Deacon does turn to face the bed, giving me his back, and I’d pay good money to see the look on his face as he watches his friend and employee folding my belongings before placing them in the retail bags.
“Ms. Grimaldi, I work for the St. Louis Police Department. I’d like you to tell me what happened here tonight.”
I glance toward Deacon, and Detective Mendoza tracks the move.
“The truth,” he says with a hint of annoyance in his voice.
Deacon’s back stiffens, but he doesn’t turn back around.
I don’t know if it’s because it’s the middle of the night and they both wish they were still sleeping or if there’s bad blood between these two, but neither one is happy right now. Just that thought is ridiculous. There’s a dead man in the hall. Of course they’re not happy.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I was sleeping,” I begin, somehow feeling like I’m already under interrogation even though I’m sitting on a French silk-covered chair in a posh hotel room. “I heard a bang.”
“There’s a man lying dead in the hall.”
I nod, swallowing again. “I know.”
“You know?” Mendoza looks over at Deacon, but Deacon doesn’t even turn his head to acknowledge the guy. “Mr. Black assures me you haven’t left the room.”
“I haven’t. He came in here and I saw the guy before he could close the door.”
“Do you know the man in the hallway?”
“Don’t fucking be ridiculous, Mendoza,” Deacon snaps.
“I didn’t really look at him. The blood,” tears begin to stream down my face, “all I saw was the blood.”
“So you’ve never heard of,” he looks down at the small tablet in his hands, “Sebastian Wilks?”
I shake my head.
“Ever heard of the Crips?”
“Everyone has heard of—”
“How much time do you spend in Benton Park West?”
Confusion draws my brows in, but it’s Deacon that emits a wild growl. “Wrap it up, Mendoza.”
The detective scowls, but he flips his notebook closed without another word. When he pulls a business card from his pocket, Deacon takes it rather than letting him get close enough to hand it to me.
“Call me if you think of anything else,” Mendoza mutters before walking back out of the room.
“Fifteen minutes,” Deacon tells Flynn before leaving as well. Once again, he doesn’t even look back at me before he leaves.
Chapter 21
Deacon
“I can’t.” She shakes her head to emphasize her refusal.
“We can’t stay here,” I argue.
“I can’t go out there. Is it—is he still out there?”
“Mendoza is waiting for the coroner. He can’t move the body.”
She begins to tremble all over again. “You had to kill a man because of me.”
“He was a bad guy, Anna.”
“He’s still dead.”
I hate that she won’t look up. I miss her honey-colored eyes on me. Fuck, this night went to shit incredibly fast. I’ll never tell her that the douchebag dead in the hall had to go through me to get to her. Quite literally in fact, because I was standing at the fucking bedroom door contemplating coming back inside to pick up where we left off when the hotel room door fucking opened.
“Dead bad guys don’t matter.”
“He’s dead,” she says again. Those two words have been on repeat like even though she knows it’s true it still doesn’t seem real. “You killed him.”
She’s a civilian, and people who don’t do the work I do are affected differently by seeing shit like dead people with a bullet hole in their heads. Just another fucking piece of scum off the street as far as I’m concerned.
“Wasn’t the first, won’t be the last,” I assure her, but my words aren’t calming. If she shakes much more, she’s going to wiggle herself right out of the chair onto the damn floor. “Let’s get out of