The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

She wasn’t ready for the truth, though, she’s not ready for the truth, and I’m growing impatient. In her haste to remove the veil of secrecy, she’s ignoring important details—a mistake, and neither of us can afford her mistakes. I’ll expect more of her in the immediate future. She must rise higher. She must study and learn the lessons that I’m teaching her, instead of scratching away at an itch she will never reach.

One thing is clear after today; she wants my attention. She needs my attention. She needs to know that I am not just watching, but watching closely, and that learning will be rewarded, while mistakes will be punished. It’s time to ensure this lesson is learned. Tonight, she’ll know that I’m right here. She’ll know that I’m watching her, that I’m listening to her needs. She’ll know that I’m guiding her work.

She’ll know that failures have consequences.

Chapter 28

Lang and I leave our head-on collision with Newman with two agreed-upon points: we aren’t done with him, and the man’s an arrogant asshole. By the time we’re in the scorching hot car, I’ve snagged the name and employment information on Newman’s wife.

“Newman and Becky Smith have been married for ten years. They have a twelve-year-old and a seven-year-old. Becky is forty-one and an elementary school teacher.”

“I bet he treats her like dirt under his shoe, too,” Lang grumbles, starting the engine, and I burn my hand on the seat. God, you have to love Texas in August.

“Start driving toward Westlake. I want to catch her at work, away from Newman and her kids, if we can.” I punch in the number for Becky’s school, hoping to catch her before she leaves for the day.

Lang revs up the Mustang. “I’ll drive to Westlake by way of a fast-food joint.” He shifts to reverse.

My stomach growls its approval, but my call is a bust. “School doesn’t start back until next week. She’s off today.” I dictate her home address from Chuck’s text message. Lang detours to a drive-thru hamburger joint, and by the time we’re handed our food, the AC is cranking out cold air, Chuck has sent me a full file on Newman, and we’re on the highway.

In between stuffing my face with hot, salty fries, my splurge of the day, I scan a file and share important pieces with Lang. “His dad was a professor at UT Brownsville and get this—he taught literature.”

“Was?” Lang asks while we idle in standstill traffic. “He’s dead?”

“Yep.” I sip my soda and scrunch up my face with the bitter taste. “I hate Diet Coke. Everyone in this city has nothing but Diet Coke. Can a girl just get a Diet Sprite please?”

“The real deal spares you that problem,” he says, holding up his Coke.

“I hate real Coke, too.”

“You’re crazy.”

“So are you. We’re homicide detectives. It’s a part of the job.”

“Spoken like my booty call last night.”

“All righty then,” I say, and move back to the topic at hand: Newman’s father. “He died of a heart attack when Newman was in junior high. His mother’s dead as well. Fell and hit her head in her own home when Newman was twelve.”

“So, did Newman or his father bash her head in? That’s what I want to fucking know.”

“There is the question,” I say. “I’m betting on the father, who groomed his murderous son. Newman ended up in the foster system.” I shoot some questions off to Chuck by way of text while multitasking and downing the remaining bite of my grilled chicken sandwich. Sipping my nasty Diet Coke again, I read onward until I’m poking at my screen and glancing over at Lang. “He was in the foster system, and one of the kids with him complained that he abused her dog and then molested her. She ran away and was never seen again.”

“Ran away or she’s dead?” Lang queries.

I point a finger at him. “Good question.” I shoot off another text to Chuck.

“How did he end up a professor at UT himself?” Lang asks, working through this new bit of information. And why wouldn’t he? It’s not like the car is moving.

“A scholarship to UT, which I’m sure was aided by his father’s history there at the school. Not that he needed that aid. The man has a rocket-fueled brain. His IQ test and SATs were off the charts.”

“Really? How do they compare to yours?”

My brows dip. “That matters why?”

“Brains against brains,” he declares. “Like-minded gladiators fighting it out. It’s an interesting matchup.”

That like-minded comment hits a nerve that he should understand. It brings us full circle back to that “crazy” conversation. When you do this job long enough, you start questioning yourself, wondering how and why you’re capable of seeing what you see and still remain human.

Lang gives me a wink. “Don’t worry. You have the edge. You have me.” He flexes his biceps. “This does count for more than a guy like that likes to admit.”