Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 82187 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82187 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
And for the first time, he believed God heard him.
Ramon Vasquez
Vasquez lay on his back in the pitch dark, fully dressed under his thin comforter, the edge of his hoodie cinched tight around his face. It was after seven and the temperature had dropped to forty-four.
He was shivering so hard he wondered if he was chipping his teeth.
He’d tried to make another arrangement with Georgia Power, but they were no longer taking his word that he’d pay.
On top of all else, his stomach gave a deep, hollow growl.
He squeezed his eyes shut, but sleep refused to come. His mind wouldn’t stop racing.
Did God kill Day?
God had stormed out of the department like a man possessed.
He’d seen that look before—during a deal gone bad in a crack house that ended with three junkies in the hospital and another missing a kneecap.
Vasquez had assumed Day was as good as dead.
He should feel triumphant, maybe even satisfied. But instead, an oily guilt saturated his stomach like engine grease.
He rolled over, smushing his face into the flat pillow.
Joshi.
He couldn’t stop thinking about him. How he’d smiled at him like he wasn’t scum.
I’ll never keep someone like him. He’s too good for me.
Vasquez squeezed his eyes tighter.
He thought about Mercer’s money sitting untouched in that offshore account.
Crooked money that could solve everything…except he’d feel like the filthiest bastard on Earth if he spent a penny of it.
He’d been a damn good cop once. He should be a detective by now, if not for God’s constant interference. Reporting him for every minor slip. Tanking his chances at promotion.
He only wanted his father to live better.
His chest burned. He thought about the way his parents had worked themselves ragged to give him a decent life.
The way his father lay in that nursing home, needing companionship, decent accommodation, and proper medical care.
And there he was, failing him spectacularly.
Too late for regrets now.
He was just starting to drift when a thunderous pounding rattled his front door.
His heart leapt to his throat as he bolted upright.
What the actual fuck?
He stayed silent, praying whoever it was had the wrong apartment.
“Sheriff’s department!” a male voice barked. “Open up!”
Vasquez untangled himself from his blankets and felt around blindly for his badge on his end table.
“Shit.”
He cracked the door an inch.
A sheriff’s deputy in a tan uniform stared back, face like stone.
“What’s going on? I’m a cop!” Vasquez said, showing his badge.
The deputy’s gaze didn’t budge. “Don’t care. Got a writ of possession. You’re evicted, buddy. You gotta go. Now.”
Vasquez’s chest caved in.
He shut the door long enough to shove his few belongings into a garbage bag.
He gathered his important papers, a handful of clothes, a stack of unpaid bills, and the framed photo of him and his parents at a Braves game.
He passed Mrs. Zellman in the hall, who stood there with her arms crossed over her bony chest.
“I’m gonna sue you for the rest of my rent, believe that.”
Vasquez ignored her and trudged outside, breath steaming in the frigid night air.
He hoped he had enough gas to find a motel nearby and get to work.
The motel lobby smelled like Pine-Sol and depression.
A scratched plastic sign above the bulletproof glass read No Refunds After Thirty Minutes.
A man in a pleather coat stood counting cash beside a mostly empty vending machine while a few women leaned against the wall, glaring at Vasquez like he was interrupting business.
He’d be sure to change in and out of his uniform at the station for his own safety. This didn’t look like an establishment that welcomed law enforcement officers.
He took out a cash advance on his last credit card he’d been saving for emergencies, since the motel was cash only for rooms.
The place was a literal shithole.
Walls stained with old splashes of something dark. Cigarette burns riddled the carpet, and the sink faucet rattled like it might snap off if twisted too hard. The tub was so filthy he’d need shower shoes to avoid gangrene.
He dropped onto the bed and lowered his head into his hands. It wasn’t long before the headboard next door began to slam rhythmically into the wall.
Fuck my life.
He yawned and checked his watch. By the time he’d dumped his stuff inside, it was less than an hour until his shift.
No point in lying down. He supposed he’d rest when he was dead.
Lawson (Law) Sheppard
Law hunched over Wes’s workbench in the basement, sweat beading along his hairline despite the cool air seeping through the decades-old window.
The glow of the industrial lamp above him cast unappreciative shadows across the scattered blueprints.
He squinted at the pages.
Wes’s chicken-scratch, slanted handwriting was almost impossible to decipher. It was littered with technical terms and measurements in metric and imperial, like Wes couldn’t decide which system he preferred.
Law tried following a line of circuitry on the paper with his finger, until it forked into three different paths, each labeled with Wes’s cryptic shorthand.