Spitfire Suckerpunch (House of Pain Book 2) (35 page)

Shay Spears wasn't just another kid on 125
th
street. She was the one with potential that he couldn't save, the one he'd failed. The one that could have had a bright future if she hadn't been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or been related to the wrong person. After a moment, she stood, shoving the chair back. She walked to the corner of the room, wrapping her arms around herself. She was cold, he guessed. They usually kept the interrogation rooms cold to throw off the perps. He clenched his fists at his sides, the overwhelming urge to protect her coming over him There was something so sad about her that he couldn't tear his eyes away. She slid down the wall, balling herself up on the floor, making herself as small as possible. Then she put her head down, burying it in her crossed arms, effectively shutting him out.

After a few minutes, he turned and forced himself to walk out of the room. He left her behind, telling himself that in a few weeks, he would forget all about the poor girl. After he pulled a few homicides and a few big cases, Shay Spears would be a distant memory.

It was a total fucking lie, but he had to tell himself something.

Present Day

As Tate gunned his way down the empty late night streets toward Harlem, he could still see the sad, lonely, lost look in her eyes, as clear as day. She'd been so young and she'd been so fucked. He bet she was remembering that sense of hopelessness now, especially if the detectives already had her alone in an interrogation room. He had to get to her. He had to get to her before she shut down completely. He knew that if she shut down and withdrew into herself like that day six years ago, he would never be able to forgive himself. Not only that, but he might lose her forever.

It might just be impossible to get her back.

***

Shay sat on the hard plastic chair in the gray room, staring at a dark scuff on the wall. Her eyes felt so swollen, she longed to close them and go to sleep. She wanted to sleep until it didn't hurt anymore. She didn't know how long it would take, and she didn't really care to think about it. She didn't want to think of anything, because when she did, her mind would find its way back to her father. She kept imagining horrible things. While she'd been in the Bronx at Thalia's holiday party, her father had been shot. While she was dancing and trying to make herself have a good time, her father was murdered. She didn't know if she would ever be able to get over that. He'd died alone. He'd died thinking that she hated him.

Her head throbbed.

She curled her hands on her lap, her mouth dry and her tongue feeling swollen. She needed water or something, but there was nothing to the room but a table and two hard chairs and four walls and one locked door. She was stuck. She hated being stuck, but she wasn't going to cry anymore. She didn't know if she even could cry. She was all dried up and stiff, like a hard sponge. Her eyes went blurry as she stared without blinking, but no tears came. The door opened and the sound was as loud as a gunshot in the quiet room. She jumped and blinked, crossing her arms across her chest defensively. The detective at the door was rumpled and wide, blocking the exit. His face was as blank as hers, as schooled as hers. As far as he was concerned, she had information and he wanted it. He didn't care about her or her father. No matter what he said, no cop cared about her father's murder.

It was just a job to the detective. A job to file and sign away.

“I want to see Sgt. Tate Grayson,” she said, her voice sounding rough and jagged to her ears. The cop didn't answer her, but walked further into the room. It was only then that she noticed another person behind him. It was his partner, she assumed, a hispanic woman with a short dark bob.  The woman closed the door and the rumpled detective sat in the chair in front of Shay, the plastic and metal creaking under his weight. Shay was almost tempted to slap her hands over her ears or smash her face into the wall, whatever would make them shut up. They weren't even talking yet. Just the sound of their breathing and the rustling of their clothes was almost too much.

“Miss Spears, my condolences,” the rumpled detective said, scrubbing his finger through his red mustache. Shay forced herself to take a slow breath so that she didn't explode. She pressed her tongue to the side of her mouth to prevent herself from spewing the barrage of obscenities that were threatening to spill out. “I'm Detective Holder. This is Detective Ramirez.” He motioned to his partner, then turned back to Shay. “We just have a few questions and then we'll let you go.” Ramirez shifted in the corner, her heels clacking on the linoleum.

“I don't know anything,” Shay mumbled.

“We'll see,” Holder said, sitting back in the chair. It creaked loudly again and Shay gritted her teeth, her whole body feeling on edge. “You might know something of value.”

“All I know is what they  told me. My father got shot,” she said, her jaw painfully clenched. “And then he died.”

“You never know what might come in handy in an investigation, Miss Spears,” Holder replied. “We just want to talk.” Shay shook her head. He was asking her to remember all the shit she didn't want to remember and she had no interest in it. She didn't trust them to find her father's killer anyway. The man had a lot of enemies and it was well known. She'd even given up years of her life for him, his own daughter. But she'd still loved him anyway, because he was her father. She didn't apologize for that, even if it had bitten her in the ass more times than one.

And now he was dead.

“Let's start from the beginning. Did you see your father today?” Detective Holder asked. “If so, around what time?

“Sgt. Tate Grayson. I want to talk to him,” Shay said, turning to Ramirez. “Please.”

“Why don't you talk to us for a bit?” Ramirez said, leaning in closer, her gold earrings glinting harshly in the fluorescent light.

“Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt your father?” Holder began again. “A business partner, an old girlfriend...” he trailed off, like he expected her to finish the sentence.

“I told you, I don't know anything,” Shay repeated.

“Don't you want us to find who did this to your dad?” Ramirez piped up.

“I didn't see anything. I haven't seen him since Christmas,” she said, before she could stop herself.

“Do you know where he's been staying?”

“I don't know.” She closed her eyes for a moment to give herself some relief from the bright lights. But when she opened them again, the glare was just as harsh as ever. “I have no idea.” Holder scribbled something on the yellow pad he'd brought into the room with him. Then he lifted his head and stared at her, like he was willing her to continue. She stared back until she had to blink.

“You need something to drink, hun?” Ramirez said. “Coffee? Soda?”

“No,” Shay said.

“The sooner you tell us what you know, the sooner you can get out of here,” Holder said, shifting in his seat again. Creak-creak went the chair. “The sooner you can get home to your family.”

“I can go anytime I want. Unless you're arresting me?” Shay glanced between the two cops. Holder squinted his eyes at her.

“Now, why would we arrest you?”

“You wouldn't. Because I didn't do anything.”

“All you have to do is let us know anything that might help,” Ramirez said, her tone softer than her partners. “We just want to help.”

“Miss Spears, you're currently on probation. Correct?” Holder said, tapping his pencil on the table. Shay snorted out a laugh, because she knew that her past would come up sooner or later. God, she hated cops. They always had a habit of missing the point. Even when she was sitting there, traumatized and in shock, they were trying to shake her up and intimidate her.

“I want to talk to Sgt. Tate Grayson,” she repeated.

“We can arrange that. But first talk to us,” Ramirez prodded. Shay worked her jaw, trying to decide whether or not she should cooperate. Everything in her said not to, but she also knew that without her statement, her father's killer might never be found. She didn't know what was worse. It was in her blood to not trust cops. She hugged her arms tighter around her chest. A wave of longing for Tate swept over her. All of a sudden, she wanted him more than she'd ever wanted anybody.

A loud knock on the door made her jump. Ramirez and Holder shared a look and Ramirez went to the door and slipped out. Holder let out a rough sigh and ran his hand through his mustache again. On the other side of the door, Shay could hear muffled talking. There was a small, yellowed window near the top of the door, but she couldn't see anything without standing.

“Okay, let's start from the top,” Holder began again. “When was the last time you saw your father?”

“On Christmas,” Shay said softly, still trying to focus on the voices outside the door. Her heart starting pounding in her chest. She had a bad feeling, almost like she was reliving the day she was arrested, six years prior.

“And what time did your father come by on Christmas?”

“Around noon.”

“How long did he stay?”

“All day,” she said, her eyes on the door.

“Did you talk about anything out of the ordinary? Anything strange?” Holder leaned forward. The knob turned and Shay jumped again, her heart squeezing in her chest. Then she felt all of the apprehension dissipate when Tate walked through the door. Tears welled up in her eyes as emotion hit her like a ton of bricks. She gasped in a sharp breath. Holder turned, his brow furrowing.

“Detective Holder,” Tate said, giving the other man a curt nod.

“Sergeant,” Holder grumbled.

“Can I have a minute?” Tate didn't look at Shay, but she knew all of his attention was focused on her.

“Uh we're actually right in the middle of—” Holder began.

“A minute, Detective,” Tate cut him off. Holder huffed and shot a look at his partner. “We just need a minute,” Tate said. Ramirez shrugged and stepped out of the room. Holder make a lot of noise following her, but Shay didn't care. The only thing that mattered was that the detectives were gone. She just wanted to get the hell out of the police station. She wanted Tate to make that happen for her. When the door closed behind the detectives and they were alone, Tate crouched in front of her. He didn't say anything at first; he was just there. Like he knew that she didn't want to talk. Like he knew exactly what she needed. It took a long minute for her to compose herself. She didn't want to burst into tears in an interrogation room.

“I need to get out of here.” She blinked away the tears.

“Baby,” he whispered and she steeled her spine against him. If she didn't, she was going to melt into a puddle of goo right then and there.

“They keep asking me questions,” she said. “I don't want to talk to them.”

“Okay,” he said, resting his elbows on his knees. He raised his green eyes to meet hers. He looked just as tired as she felt. She wondered if he'd been at home in bed when he got the call about her father. At the thought of his bed, her muscles cried out, wanting to be in the middle of his big bed so badly it ached. Her whole body ached, in fact. The grief hurt like getting burned in a fire.

“Tate,”  she whispered, leaning forward, wanting to touch him. She threw her arms around him and buried her face in his neck, the urge to sob rising up so fast it was almost impossible to stop the tears from flowing. Her throat ached as she choked down the sadness, wanting to hold out for as long as possible. He was steady against her, like a rock. She wanted to be able to trust him. She wanted it so badly.

“Did you see anything?” he asked, his voice pushing through the haze of grief in her brain. “Did you hear anything?” She shook her head miserably because she couldn't open her mouth. If she opened her mouth, a scream would escape. “Alright, baby. Alright,” he said, his voice stronger. She wanted to trust in him so badly. She wanted to hold him tight and never let go. But mostly, she wanted him to take her far away from the harshly lit, windowless room that made her remember too many bad times.

“Take me home,” she whispered in his ear, her voice thick. “Please.”

***

Tate saw it in her eyes the second he walked in the room. She was beautiful, but on the brink. She was dressed like she was had come from party, he could tell. Her eyes were smudged black with mascara and her lips were stained bright red. She was wearing a tight black dress and sequined red heels. She was absolutely stunning. He hadn't seen her in a few days, but it could have been a lifetime. Her eyes were wide and she was shaking and he knew she was in shock and traumatized. He also had no idea what she'd seen or what she knew. He had no idea if Sam Spears's death would come back on Shay. At that moment, as much as he wanted her to cooperate with the detectives, her safety was first and foremost in his mind. He had no idea if her father's death was due to an old conflict or a recent one. He had no idea if the conflict had died with Sam Spears. He wanted her safe, and the only way to keep her safe was for her to be with him. He had her and he wasn't going to let her go. When she asked him to take her home, he didn't hesitate.

“Can you stand up, baby?” he asked. She nodded, and he put his hand against the table and pushed himself up to standing. She followed him up, not loosening her arms from around his neck. He put his arm around her waist, holding her against him to steady her. He could hear her breathing was jagged and uneven in his ear. He wondered how long it would take before she exploded. He could sense the emotion in her was going to reach its boiling point soon. He just wanted her to be far away from the precinct and somewhere comfortable and safe when it happened.