Rogue - Michele Mannon Page 0,8

had you brought to me.”

Brought to him?

My head hurts. I’m tired. I want to get home to Madelyn and my mother. Make a few phone calls and tackle the other issue weighing heavily on my mind. Maybe the truth might just strike enough of a sympathetic chord that he’ll let me go on my merry, miserable way.

No twenty-three-year-old—no one at any age, for that matter—should have to survive the murder of her father then, in an awful twist of fate, struggle to prevent the death of her sick mother.

I straighten then lean forward and fold my arms on his desk. I might be blonde but I’ve got the temperament of a redhead, which is why instead of cowering before the intimidating man, I find my body stiffening in anger. “Those Pricks shot my father. One moment, he was sitting on the front porch, reading the newspaper and minding his own business, and the next he’s riddled with bullets from a drive-by shooting. He died in my arms.” I blink, but my tears have long since dried up. If only I’d had a rifle with me, and that Mercedes and the Pricks inside would be history. Yet crying in front of this man could only be perceived as weakness. I inhale sharply, then continue. “The sheriff is afraid to act. Always has been a coward but in recent years, he’s worse. Too afraid of the consequences to do his damn job.”

“But you’re not?”

“Not what?”

“Afraid.”

I look around the room, thinking about his question. Yeah, I’m afraid—scared shitless. But not because of those Pricks. No, my fear stems from the not knowing. The uncertainty of a possible life without my mother, of what will become of Madelyn if I can’t get her the hell out of this Shelby shithole and away from the riffraff and send her off to college like she deserves. Along with the weight I carry on top of my father’s murder . . .

Yeah, that’s real fear. Accompanied by real loss.

“Could you kill a man?”

I blink. Could I? Kill the men responsible for my father’s murder? Men going about their business, scot-free while law enforcement turns a blind eye. All those Tuesday mornings spying on their compound, patiently waiting for them to screw up so I could report them to Homeland Security. Growing more frustrated with each passing week where thoughts of justice changed to the overwhelming desire for revenge. “Well, if push came to shove—”

“—even if it doesn’t, could you do it?”

I think about how I held my father in my arms as he breathed his last breath. “Yes,” I snap.

“Good.” Hayden rolls his pencil between his fingers.

I rise to my feet. This conversation is alarming, forcing me to admit things best left alone, even in my darkest thoughts. “Well, it’s been nice chatting with you. I better be going.”

“Sit. I’ll tell you when you can go.”

I narrow my eyes on him but my thoughts linger on the words can and go. Just in case, I say by way of confirmation, “Fine, but I’m out of here after this.”

With a nod, he gestures to the chair. “Depends.”

Not exactly what I expect him to say. But instead of poking the lion, I do as he bids and flop down onto the leather seat.

“Your father is dead.”

Damn him. “Murdered. I just told you so.”

“And your mother?”

I wince, and his eyebrows arch. What does he want, my whole bleeding sob story? The double header that’s become my life—lose one parent . . . lose—

“—your mother?” he persists.

Sweet Jesus. “She’s sick, okay. Stage four cancer.” I close then open my mouth to emphatically add, “Which is why I really have got to get going.”

“Siblings? Brothers and sisters?” His tone has softened, but something in his demeanor—the way he holds that pencil, poised midair, without a single, solitary thump—sets me on edge. As is, I’ve revealed far too much information about my family. No way in hell am I dragging Madelyn into this screwy situation.

I stare him square in the eyes and lie. “None.”

“Good.” He flips open the file on his desk and scribbles something onto a paper inside. “You’re from Shelby?”

I scowl. “Unfortunately, yes. Born and raised.”

“Do you know a local man named Franco?”

“Yes. Everyone in Shelby is familiar with that scumbag.”

“Does he know you?” Something in his tone changes, like he’s pleased with my answer.

I brush the thought off as my memory of my first meeting with the mob boss races through my mind. “He bought me an ice cream a