Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 161434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 807(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 538(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 161434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 807(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 538(@300wpm)
God, this man.
I’m still walking on pure air as we lie there—me on top of him, our arms tangled—for a nice long while. Then we shower together, and I pass out in his arms.
* * *
The next morning we sit in overstuffed brown chairs across from the attorney.
Nick hands him several printed pages. “Data from the GPS tracker on Frisk’s truck. That’s everywhere he’s been in the last sixteen hours. I also put the username and password at the top of the page. You can log in anytime and see where he’s going in real time. At the bottom of the page, there’s another address. That’s the warehouse he’s moving drugs from.”
Dear God. Nick wasn’t joking when he said he went full stalker with Will yesterday.
“How do you know he’s moving drugs from there?” Sutton asks, a weathered bull of a man.
“I was putting air in my tire at the gas station across the street. I watched a few guys move boxes of cocaine into his trunk.”
“These boxes weren’t concealed? Why did you think they had cocaine?” The lawyer folds his hands.
“Believe me, I checked. He was moving whole bricks stuffed under towels that day.” Nick takes out his phone and leans across the desk. He swipes his finger across it, revealing several photos.
“We may be able to use that,” Sutton says slowly, leaning back in his chair. “The photo proves Mr. Frisk’s vehicle had cocaine in it, but it doesn’t prove he was transporting it knowingly, particularly if it was concealed. However, with the warehouse as an active drop site, we’ll have to see how that plays out. And while I won’t ask if the trunk was unlocked—I don’t want to know—if it wasn’t, using that photo could open you up to liability. It may not be allowed in the chain of evidence if his attorney argues it was obtained illegally.”
Nick opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but then closes it, frustration etched on his face.
Sutton holds up a hand.
“I don’t need you to confirm or deny anything, Mr. Brandt. It’s not pertinent at the moment, and the less I know is probably better. Frankly, we’re still facing two big problems. Abby Halle isn’t talking. She believes she’s safer in jail, and as long as her daughter’s also safe, she’s not talking—”
“Because he hit her,” I point out. “She’s probably afraid of what he’ll do next if she does open up.”
“I think she’s afraid he’ll try to snatch Millie if she talks,” Nick says.
“Do you think if I assured her we could get a protective order for her and Amelia, she’d talk?” Sutton asks.
“Maybe. I’m not sure,” I say, fidgeting with my hands.
“If a protective order gets her to open up, that will help with the second problem.”
“Second problem?” Nick asks.
“Does a protective order actually protect someone?” I ask.
The attorney stiffens.
“Well, he wouldn’t be able to come within a certain distance of her or any known residence, so it definitely helps.”
“On paper,” Nick says.
I glance over at him.
“The order makes it illegal for him to come near her.” He looks at me darkly. “I may have looked into getting one against a tabloid spy or two. I’m just not sure a thug moving bricks of illegal drugs around and hitting his ex-girlfriend has any qualms about breaking court decrees.”
“If a protective order won’t actually help her and Millie, then I don’t want you using it to get her to talk. I want her out of jail, obviously, but not at the cost of anyone’s safety,” I say.
Sutton rolls his chair closer to his desk.
“Well, there’s problem number two. Unless I can get a statement from Abby or we find some corroborating evidence, it’s unlikely they’ll issue a warrant for Will Frisk.”
“What about the pictures?” Nick asks.
“Again, it’s circumstantial and we don’t want to incriminate you, Mr. Brandt. We need something more to go on that wasn’t obtained by subterfuge. I’ll have the warehouse reported and watched. If we come up with clear evidence, another illicit transfer, then I’ll send it to the DA. At that point, they may issue a search warrant.”
“Define corroborating evidence?” I ask.
“Text messages, pictures with Frisk, finding the drugs themselves with his prints on them—or someone who claims to have acquired them from him,” Sutton says.
Nick goes ashen white.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he bites off.
“Are you sure?”
He doesn’t answer. He just stands and bolts out the door.
My stomach sinks. I have no idea what’s going on.
I knew something was wrong last night when he was on the phone with a strange woman, and instead of throwing up some distance, I let him tell me he loved me and slept with him again.
I’m such an idiot.
Another memory flashes through my mind.
The night he dressed me up like all the models and influencers he hangs out with to piss off his ex. Is that who he was on the phone with last night? Carmen Seraphina?