The Price of Grace (Black Ops Confidential 2)

The sharp sting of guilt pierced her chest. “I’m so sorry.”

Delilah shook her head. “It’s not your fault.”

It was.

Delilah held out her hands for the flowers. “They’re beautiful,” she said. “And my favorite.”

Gracie’s too. She handed her the vase of lilies.

Delilah sniffed them. Sliding over the hospital phone and a Styrofoam cup of water, she placed them on her nightstand. Delilah’s eyes creased with concern. “Don’t look so… You didn’t do this.”

That wasn’t true. She had known that someone was trying to kill her. She should’ve shut down the club. She should’ve gone home, hidden behind the gates, told Momma the truth sooner, and organized sooner.

“I’m responsible. I’ve come here to tell you that. I’m taking care of all of your hospital bills, and I’m working with your attorneys to get you the money you need to”—she bit back the word she’d almost used; recover wasn’t an option—“rehabilitate.”

Delilah closed her eyes. “I know.”

It wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“You can tell me about him.”

“About who?”

“Your man. At the bar. He’s so hot.”

Dusty? She wanted to hear about Dusty?

She opened her eyes and read Gracie’s hesitation correctly. “I’m sorry, that must seem weird.”

Gracie shrugged. “Kind of.”

Delilah flopped exasperated hands down by her sides. “I’m just so tired of conversations about pain and fear. About lawyers. About interviews for television news and calls for justice. My leg hurts. My back hurts. And I’m bored and anxious. My family barely leaves my side. I had to have the nurse throw them out yesterday. They mean well, but they’re making it worse.”

She wiped a tear from her eye. Oh. Gracie got it. With one single act, Delilah had been blown out of normal life and into abnormal life. She wanted to feel normal again, to talk to someone about everyday things.

Sitting in the closest chair, the burgundy vinyl still hot from the last person, she put her purse on the seat next to her and began her story. “I met him in Mexico.”

Delilah’s gaze sharpened. “On vacation?”

Uhm. Well… “A wild trip, for sure.”

She shared as much of the story as she could—the heat, her first glimpse of him, the banter, and him unexpectedly showing up at her club months later. She waxed on about his Southern charm and his way of making everything better. When she was finished, Delilah thanked her. Gracie squeezed her hand, took a business card and a pen from her purse, wrote down her personal number, and told her she could call any time. Day or night. Then she apologized again and left.

As she slipped out of Delilah’s room, she felt worse than when she went in. Twenty-six. Delilah’s entire life had been dramatically changed at twenty-six.

Should’ve closed the club.

In the hallway, she spotted the man she now realized was Delilah’s father. He stood by the nurse’s station.

She acknowledged him with a nod, and he approached her. She tensed, fisted her hands, waited for him to say the club should’ve been more secure, for him to ask how she could’ve let this happen, for him to ask—as so many in the media now did—if her family had enemies.

He stopped in front of her and said, “Stop blaming yourself.”

A sob escaped her, and much to her shock and horror, tears flooded from her like water over an overwhelmed dam. He gathered her in a hug. He smelled like tobacco and spiced tea.

He let her cry. “It’s okay,” he soothed. “There are fields where we run and fields where we crawl. And Allah looks over them all with eyes tinged in joy.”

Gracie pulled away, wiped her eyes. “I’m so very sorry about your daughter.”

He shook his head. “You confuse empathy with guilt. You are not responsible. This is something I have learned. Others will use what you hold dear to commit crimes. They are not your crimes. They would make you feel responsible, like you caused their bad actions. Don’t let them deceive you. Fight them in this. Fight them where they would lay roots.”

He tapped his head. “Here.”

And tapped his heart. “Here.”

Fight them. He was right. Fight them she would.

* * *

As she left the hospital, Gracie found him exactly where he said he’d be. Sleek, dark hair and roving, dark eyes, Victor sat on a bench outside the hospital doors, his right arm in a sling to help his clavicle heal. He wore black-and-white checkered slacks and a white shirt, unbuttoned enough to see his naturally tan skin.

She sat beside him on the white wooden bench, leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, avoiding his sling. “Got your text. Seems an odd place to meet though. I thought you’d been released.”

“Came back for a checkup. Figured you might be around and was hoping to talk with you for a minute. I was so out of it the last time we spoke, I forgot to ask you about the Tony stuff.”

“Tony stuff? What are you talking about?”

Victor’s voice dropped low. “FBI didn’t tell you?”

Blood rushed to Gracie’s suddenly pounding head. “What is this about?”

“The security footage you gave me.” He made a fist. “You know how I’d been looking through it for anyone suspicious?”

She nodded.

“Well, after I’d spotted El, I kept looking. That’s when I spotted him. At first, I couldn’t believe it, so I asked to see more footage. Hoped I’d see him again. Sure enough, I did. Got up close. Double- and triple-checked. It was him.”

He’d spotted someone at her club? What did this have to do with Tony? Chills ran up and down her spine. “Tony’s dead.”

Victor shook his head. “Where’s his body?”

She opened her mouth and shut it with a snap. “Dusty. Dusty…buried…”

More chills. As if she’d plunged into Lake Michigan in November. Had Dusty buried Tony? How would she know? She wouldn’t. She hadn’t examined Tony’s body. Hadn’t tried to stanch a wound. Why would she? He’d been poisoned. Or so they’d thought.

How hard would it have been for him to have taken a drug that night that mimicked death? Not hard. And it would’ve been easy to fool both her and Justice. Everything had been so chaotic. Emotional.

Her stomach soured. Tony was alive? Her heart leapt with joy. Tony had faked his death—with Dusty’s help? Her heart thrashed with anger.

But she had no more tears left. Not for the relief she felt. Not for the grief. Not for the rage. Dusty. Her hands curled into fists.

“I’m sorry, Red. Fuck. I should’ve told you sooner.”

“Don’t do that, Victor. You won’t put up with me blaming myself for the club, and I’m not putting up with you blaming yourself for not telling me sooner.”

Her mind raced. Was Tony working with Dusty? Was he providing the FBI with information on Momma? Was the family in worse danger than she’d suspected? Had Dusty been collecting information on her family, on Momma, on her, last night?

Tony was alive. Anything seemed possible.

She’d been an idiot. Dusty had asked her, in bed no less, if he could meet Momma. And then what had she done? She’d brought him to the house. That had worked out great. He’d shown disgust when he’d listened to Momma’s story.

Stupid, Gracie. So f’ing stupid! “Can you let me be the one who tells my family? It’s my responsibility.”

“Sure.” He squeezed her knee. “And if you want, I’ll kick FBI’s ass for you.”

Standing, she slung her purse over her shoulder and said, “I’ll kick it myself. Thanks.”

Chapter 53

Watching where he stepped, Dusty picked his way through the burnt debris, staying out of the way of the remediati

on workers who—given the go-ahead by the authorities—were loudly breaking things apart and clearing Gracie’s club.

Not much to salvage as far as the front part of the club went.

The furniture had been singed with fire and smoke and soaked with water and foam. The walls were covered in soot, the decorations destroyed.

He’d be interested to read the reports, to see what the authorities and what Leland and his crew had found in here. Clearly a professional job.

Three explosive devices had been planted around the club, near the dance floor, sitting areas, and bathrooms. They’d been designed to keep the action out here, so that whoever had tried to access the servers upstairs could do their job without interruption.