Scythe & Sparrow (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #3)(19)
He loves reminding me of that night, I think in the hopes that I’ll become so annoyed by his teasing that I’ll move back home just to prove to him I can take it in person. But when the city is home to your almost-fiancée and the shattered remains of the life you thought you wanted, one-upping your overbearing brother simply to stop him from taking the piss out of you just isn’t sufficient motivation.
“You know, Lachlan, every time you tell me that story, you remind me why I think Nebraska might be growing on me.” Lachlan grumbles something in Irish and I grin, a smile that fades as my focus returns to the true purpose of my call. “Now that you’ve gotten that out of your system, I need to know about Matthew Cranwell.”
Lachlan sighs, and I hear typing in the background. My brother might claim to hate his side gig as a contract killer, but he’d still be the first to admit that his access to information and resources does come in handy from time to time. “Fine. I had Conor pull some information together like you asked. There wasn’t much, so don’t get too excited, yeah?”
I nod, though he can’t see me, and grab my pen and paper. Lachlan rattles off Cranwell’s birthdate and location, his social security number, the date of his marriage to Lucy, and the names of his three kids. There are bank details, debts. His suspension from the Lincoln County Sheriff’s Office for his role in an aggravated assault six years ago, a bar fight that got out of hand. Since then, he’s had a surprisingly minimal police record for someone as unpleasant as he seems to be, just a drunk-and-disorderly citation from last year. I’ve already gone through his medical history, but Lachlan mentions the high points anyway, including the eye surgery. There’s nothing that unearths the true depths of Matthew Cranwell’s darkness. No grand reveal. No damning mark.
But my instinct tells me the darkness is much deeper than what we can see.
“That’s all I’ve got,” Lachlan says, and I imagine him tapping his silver rings along the edge of the desk in the Leviathan office, a place he’s told me about but never shown me, always wanting to keep me and Rowan at arm’s length from his batshit crazy boss, Leander. “Anything else you want to know?”
Temptation bubbles to the surface. I could ask about Rose.
I know so little about her. How does one become a motorcycle circus performer, anyway? What series of choices would lead her there? Where has she been? What has she seen and done?
Her name is right there on my tongue. But I don’t say it. Not only because I want to unravel her mysteries for myself, but because I can’t bear the thought of putting her at risk. My brother would never knowingly hurt her—he might be an assassin, but at least he has a conscience. But Leander Mayes? Not so much. He would fuck anyone up if it provided him enough gain to justify the effort, whether it’s power, or connections, or money. I can’t stomach the thought of Rose being anywhere on Leviathan’s radar.
“No. Thank you. This has been helpful,” I finally say.
“Not too helpful, I hope.”
“Just helpful enough.”
Lachlan hums a thoughtful note into the phone, and then we say our goodbyes. I stare down at my notes for a long while, reading and rereading the information until I’m confident I’ve memorized it before I take it to the shredder and destroy it.
And then I grab my jacket and leave.
It takes just over fifteen minutes to get to Elmsdale. A few more to get to his farm. I drive past it, just a hint slower than the speed limit, and park by the poplar trees that border the northwest corner of the field that stretches from the front of his house where my truck will be hidden by the dense foliage.
I open my door and take a deep breath of the impending storm.
The first drops of rain pelt my jacket as I walk the shoulder of the deserted highway toward Matt Cranwell’s driveway, my eyes never leaving the house. There’s no light on inside the home to fight the encroaching darkness of the massive thunderstorm that rolls toward us. At first, it seems deserted. And then I hear the whine of a grinder coming from the barn.
I stop and just stand there, watching the place. It looks like any other farm. A simple house. Toys in the yard. Outbuildings and equipment. I’m not sure what I’m even doing here, staring at someone’s house as the sporadic drops of rain gradually become a downpour. Someone could see me, even with the storm covering the land with an early film of darkness. What the fuck am I doing?
There’s a flash of lightning, illuminating something lying at the edge of the driveway. It’s peeking from between the first stalks of corn at the edge of the field.
An aluminum baseball bat.
In another flash of light, I imagine every moment of Rose’s injury. The way Matt Cranwell must have struck her. The force of his blow. The rage and malice painted across his face. Her agonized scream. I hear and see it all. I feel it. Just like I’m standing right there, watching it unfold.
Help.
Before I truly realize what I’m doing, I’m halfway up the drive and there’s no turning back. My gaze slices to that bat, the dented metal beaded with rain. My hands curl into fists. It takes every last thread of my restraint not to pick it up as I pass.
When I’m a few feet from the barn, the grinder stops, leaving only the quiet crackle of an old radio behind. I halt, but the thought of backtracking down the driveway doesn’t cross my mind. I just wait in the rain, listening as something heavy collides with metal. A handful of words passes through the narrow wedge of the open door, the tone gritty, the sentence disjointed. Cranwell is talking to himself, but beyond the occasional swear, I can’t make out much of what he’s saying. A moment later, a ratchet ticks as it tightens a bolt, and I take the opportunity to move closer to the light and peer inside.