Gray Witch (Black Hat Bureau 5)

The world would descend into bloody chaos, and humans would never trust the night again.

Asa handled the cleaners when I failed to rise above my churning thoughts, but I came alert in time to show him where I parked Clay and Colby.

“Ready to go?” I offered Clay a hand. “We’ll bring the SUV around so you don’t have to flash anyone.”

“They should be so lucky.” He let me help him up with a grunt. “This butt is a work of art.”

His creator had been a master sculptor, so there was no arguing the point, but I didn’t let that stop me.

“I’m prime beef,” he continued, sounding more like himself. “Grade A.”

Leaning around him, I took in the crosshatch pattern in his skin from sitting on the pine needles for so long. “You’ve got the grill marks for sure.”

* * *

We chose another hotel, unrelated to our cases, and booked a double queen to share. It was the best option they had, and none of us minded the closeness after the insanity of a night that somehow felt longer than the day of the challenge. Clay still had no memory past leaving his hotel, and Colby was disturbed by how normal he seemed during their trip.

When acting on orders, Clay was himself before, during, and after. That was the most unsettling part of his curse of servitude. He had no choice in what he did, or sometimes said, and memory of those events were at the discretion of his master.

All that meant I had seen this before, and it shook me to see it again with fresh eyes.

Blame the tiny shoot of conscience blossoming in my mind, or the rush of feelings Asa had inspired, but I had forgotten how misery, shame, and fear swirled across his face in a smear of uncertainty when he woke with no recollection of his actions.

On the balcony, forearms braced on the railing, I stared out at the scenic recycling center parking lot across the street and turned my options over and over and over in my head.

The director would be out for blood after what Parish did to him. He would want to make an example out of him. But Parish was off the table.

So…did I let Dad take the fall?

Or did I accept the blame?

We had cost the director a prime opportunity to string up one of his top people to quell the rising rebellion, and he would expect one of us to pay for it out of our hides.

Already, the urge to run from my problems—again—twitched in my calves.

The choice was easy last time. Now? Not so much.

There was more than Colby to consider. I had Asa, Clay, and my whole life in Samford.

Selfish as it made me, I didn’t want to give up any of that. I had gotten greedy, and I wanted it all.

Hours.

I had hours to find a solution.

Hours until my grasp on Samford slipped as I tumbled into free fall.

“Mind if I join you?” Clay didn’t wait for permission before shoving in next to me. “I know how he did it.”

“How who did what?” I had so much spinning in my head, I was out of room for more. “Parish?”

“Your dad.” He let me come to terms with that. “I was given orders long ago to obey Hiram.”

“The director never rescinded them because Dad was, as far as anyone knew, dead.”

Either the director never intended for Dad to step foot out of his cell again, or he couldn’t retract it.

And Dad must have known it, if he singled Clay out sometime prior to his run-in with Parish to ensure he had backup he could trust with his secret.