RECKLESS VOWS

The Call

“Did you speak to Calloway?” Doyle asked.

“Briefly.”

“And?”

“He invited me to the garage tonight.”

The silence on the line lasted half a second too long.

“For what?”

“To talk.”

“About the magazine piece?”

“About Eli.”

“Wren.”

There it was—the warning beneath the warmth.

I sat on the motel bed with the case file open beside me. “You told me to establish access.”

“I told you to build a racketeering case.”

“Those things overlap.”

“Not when you start confusing the target with the dead.”

My thumb pressed into the edge of the report.

“Did you read the old file?”

“I reviewed it.”

“Did you see reference 4471-B?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Because it’s redacted.”

“It’s an eight-year-old file.”

“It has a missing attachment.”

“Then request it through the proper channel.”

“I did. The system sent me to you.”

Another pause.

“Some records remain restricted for good reason.”

“Such as?”

“Confidential sources. Ongoing investigations. Protected identities.”

“Eli was seventeen.”

“He was also connected to people involved in organized crime.”

“Connected how?”

Doyle exhaled. “You’re too close to this.”

“That’s why you sent me.”

“I sent you because you understand financial structures.”

“You sent me because I grew up here.”

“That helped.”

“You said it was an asset.”

“It is.”

“Then let me use it.”

His voice cooled. “You’re building a case against Rhett Calloway. You are not reopening your brother’s death.”

“Did you know he asked my grandmother for money?”

The line went silent.

“Doyle?”

“What money?”

“Sixty dollars.”

“I’m asking you.”

“Why?”

“Because you brought it up.”

“I did not.”

“You said money was usually how it started.”

“For a kid involved with a criminal organization, it often is.”

“You knew.”

“I read the file.”

“The money isn’t in the file.”

“Then your grandmother told you.”

“I never mentioned her.”

His breathing changed.

Barely. A small drag of air through his nose.

I held the phone tighter.

“Did you speak to Dot?” I asked.

“No.”

Too quick.

“Did someone tell you?”

“Who?”

“You tell me.”

“Wren, stop.”

The command came clean and sharp. No warmth now. No mentor’s concern.

I looked at the locked door.

“Why?”

“Because grief makes patterns out of unrelated facts.”

“Does grief also create missing files?”

“Watch yourself.”

“Does it erase wallets from evidence inventories?”

“Watch yourself.”

“Does it write redactions?”

He hung up.

The phone remained against my ear after the line went dead.

I lowered it slowly.

For three weeks, Doyle had spoken about this assignment as if he were handing me a key. He had praised my judgment, my discipline, my knowledge of Ashwood Falls.

Now he sounded like a man trying to keep me away from a locked room.

I took the legal pad from my bag.

Doyle knew about money before I told him.

Under it, I wrote:

Doyle knows about the restricted file.

Then:

Find 4471-B.

I crossed to the desk and opened my personal phone. Priya Anand’s name sat near the top of my contacts.

Priya knew the task-force system better than anyone on our team. She also knew when I was frightened because I started making lists.

I typed, Who was the originating officer on the old Ashwood Falls case?

My thumb hovered over send.

If Doyle had asked Priya to watch me, the question would reach him before it reached her.

I deleted the message.

A motorcycle engine growled outside.

I went to the window.

Rhett’s black bike waited beneath the motel sign.

He stood beside it, helmet hanging from one hand, staring up at my room.

I should have been angry that he had followed me.

I should have reached for the curtains.

Instead, I opened the window.

His head tilted back.

“Your timing is terrible,” I called.

His mouth curved. “You always said that about me.”

“I said you were terrible at timing.”

“Same difference.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Inviting you to the garage.”

“I know where it is.”

“Do you know how to get in without interrogating me on the street?”

“I’m capable of knocking.”

“That would be a first.”

The motel sign buzzed above him. Red light slid over his face and made his green eyes look almost black.

“What happens at the garage?” I asked.

“You ask your questions.”

“And you answer them?”

“I’ll answer what I can.”

“You really like that phrase.”

“You really like pretending it means nothing.”

My fingers tightened around the window frame.

“Rhett.”

“Wren.”

He said my name differently this time. Softer. It moved through me before I could stop it.

“Come down,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because if you stay up there, you’ll keep thinking instead of asking.”

“I’m good at thinking.”

“You were always better at running.”

The words landed between us.

He lowered his gaze first.

I closed the window, grabbed my jacket, and took the stairs.

Rhett waited beside the motorcycle.

“You came,” he said.

“Don’t look so pleased.”

“I’m trying not to.”

He held out a helmet.

I stared at it. “I’m not riding with you.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“Then why bring it?”

“Because you used to steal mine.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Some things are.”

He opened the garage door.

Warm light spilled across the pavement. The smell of oil, metal, and rain wrapped around us.

Rhett stepped aside to let me pass. His hand brushed the small of my back.

Neither of us pretended it was accidental.

Inside, the door rolled shut behind us.

For the first time since coming home, I was alone with the man I had blamed for Eli’s death.

Rhett locked the door.

Then he looked at me.

“Ask me what happened,” he said.

I opened my mouth.

No question came out.

His gaze dropped to my lips.

Mine fo

llowed.

Somewhere behind us, a tool hit the concrete floor.

We both turned toward the sound.

A shadow moved beneath the office door.

Rhett’s expression changed.

“Get behind me.”

“Who is it?”

He reached for the gun at his waistband.

“Someone who knows you’re here.”

The office handle began to turn.