The Sinner (Black Dagger Brotherhood 18)

Balthazar crossed his arms over his chest. “The way you are is not your fault. But you need help—”

“Don’t tell me what I need.”

Now Butch was the one putting his body in between two males. “My guy, I don’t get the games you’re playing here, and considering the shit that’s on my plate right now, I really don’t have time to fuck around with you. Stay in your lane, or I’m going to make it so Wrath puts you back on your side of the highway. I’m really trying to be decent to you—although I’m wondering why in the fuck I bothered.”

On that note, Butch limped out, and when Balthazar came with him, he was surprised. He expected a heart-to-heart to happen between the cousins, but clearly that wasn’t on the menu. Then again, as the door clapped shut, there was the sound of glass shattering against the inside panels.

“Guess I won’t have to go back and get my empty,” Butch muttered as he headed down the hallway of the new wing that had been opened.

“You hurt your ankle?” Balthazar said.

“Wish it was that. You remember those protective bras people used to put on cars? Like, back in the late eighties?”

“Not with any great particularity, no.”

“Well, then you lucked out. But tonight, I saw fit to actually make a front grille need one. With my nuts.”

The Bastard was still making wincing noises of consolation as they entered the second-story sitting room. There was a bar cart off to one side, and Butch went right over to the liquor. No Lag in the truncated lineup of bottles, but he was thought up enough to settle for bourbon. After he poured himself some I.W. Harper over ice, he motioned the diamond-cut bottle toward the other male.

“Thanks, but no,” the thief said. “Your roommate’s given me a new habit, so I’m good with that.”

As Balthazar lit up one of V’s hand-rolls, Butch faced off at the Bastard. “I don’t get it. You’re all in my ear about what Syn’s capable of, and I have no reason to doubt you. But Boone told me what happened a couple of months ago. Syn copped to attacking that human who was castrated, but Boone was the one who did it. Why’s your cousin saying he killed people he hasn’t?”

“I don’t think he’s lying now.” Balthazar exhaled a stream of smoke in frustration. “And Boone thing aside, Syn’s never had to lie before because the bloody knife was always in his dagger hand.”

“Look, I don’t mean to call you out.” Butch swallowed half his bourbon. “But you brought this to my attention, and I appreciate the open lines of communication, blah, blah, blah. I just don’t want to keep accusing this guy of shit he didn’t do. It’s not helping.”

“He admitted what he did, though.”

“He just told me he cut the legs off of a guy whose pins were still very much attached when he was taken to the morgue. It was the head that had been liberated. So he’s lying.”

Balthazar frowned. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

There was a pause as Butch finished what he’d poured. And went for a refresh. “I need you to be honest with me.”

“Always.”

“Do you have something against the guy? Are you trying to screw him or something? ’Cuz from where I’m looking at things, it seems like you’re trying to set him up.”

* * *

Two and a half minutes after Jo came into work, her fingers were flying across her keyboard at her desk in the empty newsroom, her eyes locked on her computer screen, the edits to the article update being made so fast, she prayed that they made sense. When her cell phone went off, she answered it curtly with just her last name and tucked the thing into her shoulder so she could keep going.

In the back of her mind, as she listened to McCordle’s latest intel, she realized she was actually a reporter. And that felt good.

“Right. Yup. I got it. Thanks.”

She ended the call and kept on typing—

“What the hell are you doing.”

As she looked up, Dick threw the current copy of the CCJ down on her keyboard. Jabbing his forefinger at the front page, at the article Jo had researched, written, proofed, and typeset, along with the picture she had chosen, blocked, and set into the columns, he barked, “I thought I made myself clear. And where the hell is Bill.”

“Lydia lost the baby last night,” Jo said. “So he’s taking a personal day.”

Dick paused. But only for a split second. “Then I want Tony on this. And I’ll take care of that personally.”

As he lumbered off to his office and slammed the door, she had the image of a kid kicking apart their brother’s Lego set.

Jo looked at her screen. Spell-checked what was on it. And put that shit on the Internet.

Under her sole byline.

Then she got up from her chair and walked into Dick’s office without knocking. He was looming over his desk, dialing a landline, going back and forth between an old fashioned Rolodex listing and the keypad on the phone.

When he didn’t send a glare her way, she couldn’t tell whether he was ignoring her or if he was just focused on trying to get the numbers right without his reading glasses.

He looked up sharply when she cut the call by depressing the receiver’s home button and holding it down.

Before he could start yelling again, she said calmly, “You’re going to let me continue to report on Johnny Pappalardo and also the dead body found nine hours ago on that fire escape.”

The ugly flush that rode up Dick’s thick neck suggested that getting pissed off at her was the only exercise he’d had for the month.

“Don’t tell me what you’re going to do—”

Jo leaned in and lowered her voice. “It turns out I’m a helluva reporter. You know what my next story is going to be on? Sexual harassment at the CCJ by its editor-in-chief. How many women do you think will take my call on that? I figure I’ll start off by telling them my own story, the one about that business trip you asked me to take with you? That long weekend away—where you made it clear that if I didn’t go, I wasn’t going anywhere at this paper? How many other women who used to work here have a similar story, Dick?”

Her boss slowly shut his mouth.

Jo released the button on the phone, the dial tone loud in the silence between them. “Thinking of what kind of quote you’re going to give me? Make sure it’s a good one, one that your wife’ll understand. Her family owns this paper now, right? Plus, I’ll bet the story’ll have national reach, and you’ll need another job after she kicks you out of the house and you get fired here. So you better try to put yourself in a favorable light in twenty-five words or less.”

She gave him an opportunity to respond. When he put the receiver back in its cradle, she nodded.

“That’s what I thought,” Jo said as turned on her heel and left his office.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Butch entered the Pit from the underground tunnel that connected the mansion site to the training center. As he opened the steel-reinforced door with a code, he kept quiet. V and Doc Jane were doing some work down at the clinic, so they weren’t home, but Marissa had come back to read in bed right after Last Meal, and he didn’t want to disturb her. Her work at Safe Place was demanding, and if she were sleeping, he wanted her to log those hours of rest. azar crossed his arms over his chest. “The way you are is not your fault. But you need help—”

“Don’t tell me what I need.”

Now Butch was the one putting his body in between two males. “My guy, I don’t get the games you’re playing here, and considering the shit that’s on my plate right now, I really don’t have time to fuck around with you. Stay in your lane, or I’m going to make it so Wrath puts you back on your side of the highway. I’m really trying to be decent to you—although I’m wondering why in the fuck I bothered.”

On that note, Butch limped out, and when Balthazar came with him, he was surprised. He expected a heart-to-heart to happen between the cousins, but clearly that wasn’t on the menu. Then again, as the door clapped shut, there was the sound of glass shattering against the inside panels.

“Guess I won’t have to go back and get my empty,” Butch muttered as he headed down the hallway of the new wing that had been opened.

“You hurt your ankle?” Balthazar said.

“Wish it was that. You remember those protective bras people used to put on cars? Like, back in the late eighties?”

“Not with any great particularity, no.”

“Well, then you lucked out. But tonight, I saw fit to actually make a front grille need one. With my nuts.”

The Bastard was still making wincing noises of consolation as they entered the second-story sitting room. There was a bar cart off to one side, and Butch went right over to the liquor. No Lag in the truncated lineup of bottles, but he was thought up enough to settle for bourbon. After he poured himself some I.W. Harper over ice, he motioned the diamond-cut bottle toward the other male.

“Thanks, but no,” the thief said. “Your roommate’s given me a new habit, so I’m good with that.”

As Balthazar lit up one of V’s hand-rolls, Butch faced off at the Bastard. “I don’t get it. You’re all in my ear about what Syn’s capable of, and I have no reason to doubt you. But Boone told me what happened a couple of months ago. Syn copped to attacking that human who was castrated, but Boone was the one who did it. Why’s your cousin saying he killed people he hasn’t?”

“I don’t think he’s lying now.” Balthazar exhaled a stream of smoke in frustration. “And Boone thing aside, Syn’s never had to lie before because the bloody knife was always in his dagger hand.”

“Look, I don’t mean to call you out.” Butch swallowed half his bourbon. “But you brought this to my attention, and I appreciate the open lines of communication, blah, blah, blah. I just don’t want to keep accusing this guy of shit he didn’t do. It’s not helping.”

“He admitted what he did, though.”

“He just told me he cut the legs off of a guy whose pins were still very much attached when he was taken to the morgue. It was the head that had been liberated. So he’s lying.”

Balthazar frowned. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

There was a pause as Butch finished what he’d poured. And went for a refresh. “I need you to be honest with me.”

“Always.”

“Do you have something against the guy? Are you trying to screw him or something? ’Cuz from where I’m looking at things, it seems like you’re trying to set him up.”

* * *

Two and a half minutes after Jo came into work, her fingers were flying across her keyboard at her desk in the empty newsroom, her eyes locked on her computer screen, the edits to the article update being made so fast, she prayed that they made sense. When her cell phone went off, she answered it curtly with just her last name and tucked the thing into her shoulder so she could keep going.

In the back of her mind, as she listened to McCordle’s latest intel, she realized she was actually a reporter. And that felt good.

“Right. Yup. I got it. Thanks.”

She ended the call and kept on typing—

“What the hell are you doing.”

As she looked up, Dick threw the current copy of the CCJ down on her keyboard. Jabbing his forefinger at the front page, at the article Jo had researched, written, proofed, and typeset, along with the picture she had chosen, blocked, and set into the columns, he barked, “I thought I made myself clear. And where the hell is Bill.”

“Lydia lost the baby last night,” Jo said. “So he’s taking a personal day.”

Dick paused. But only for a split second. “Then I want Tony on this. And I’ll take care of that personally.”

As he lumbered off to his office and slammed the door, she had the image of a kid kicking apart their brother’s Lego set.

Jo looked at her screen. Spell-checked what was on it. And put that shit on the Internet.

Under her sole byline.

Then she got up from her chair and walked into Dick’s office without knocking. He was looming over his desk, dialing a landline, going back and forth between an old fashioned Rolodex listing and the keypad on the phone.

When he didn’t send a glare her way, she couldn’t tell whether he was ignoring her or if he was just focused on trying to get the numbers right without his reading glasses.

He looked up sharply when she cut the call by depressing the receiver’s home button and holding it down.

Before he could start yelling again, she said calmly, “You’re going to let me continue to report on Johnny Pappalardo and also the dead body found nine hours ago on that fire escape.”

The ugly flush that rode up Dick’s thick neck suggested that getting pissed off at her was the only exercise he’d had for the month.

“Don’t tell me what you’re going to do—”

Jo leaned in and lowered her voice. “It turns out I’m a helluva reporter. You know what my next story is going to be on? Sexual harassment at the CCJ by its editor-in-chief. How many women do you think will take my call on that? I figure I’ll start off by telling them my own story, the one about that business trip you asked me to take with you? That long weekend away—where you made it clear that if I didn’t go, I wasn’t going anywhere at this paper? How many other women who used to work here have a similar story, Dick?”

Her boss slowly shut his mouth.

Jo released the button on the phone, the dial tone loud in the silence between them. “Thinking of what kind of quote you’re going to give me? Make sure it’s a good one, one that your wife’ll understand. Her family owns this paper now, right? Plus, I’ll bet the story’ll have national reach, and you’ll need another job after she kicks you out of the house and you get fired here. So you better try to put yourself in a favorable light in twenty-five words or less.”

She gave him an opportunity to respond. When he put the receiver back in its cradle, she nodded.

“That’s what I thought,” Jo said as turned on her heel and left his office.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Butch entered the Pit from the underground tunnel that connected the mansion site to the training center. As he opened the steel-reinforced door with a code, he kept quiet. V and Doc Jane were doing some work down at the clinic, so they weren’t home, but Marissa had come back to read in bed right after Last Meal, and he didn’t want to disturb her. Her work at Safe Place was demanding, and if she were sleeping, he wanted her to log those hours of rest.