Picking up speed, Zig checked the rearview again. There were only a few cars on the road.
It made no sense. Back when Nola cornered Zig in the shower, she was clearly still working the case, still asking questions, still trying to figure out the truth behind Black House, the Reds, and whoever had hired Zion to pull the trigger on Rashida and Mint. Yet the more he thought about it, this case was working her. The speed that she ran out of there . . . Her hands were shaking as she tugged open the window, like her life depended on it. Roddy said the same—that she ran without even talking to him. For Nola, Mint’s death was more than just a normal case. It was one that cut to something deeper, something from her past. Something she’d rather keep there.
Zig glanced over at Roddy, who sat calmly, his posture a perfect L-square. There were damp spots across the chest and arms of his uniform, where he’d scrubbed away the blood, but his shoes were still a mess. So were his knuckles, which were bruised and swollen, covered in a dozen red-and-purple cuts—each a tiny screaming mouth.
Zig could still picture Roddy sitting on the big redhead’s chest, pounding Seabass in the face, pile driver after pile driver, with a savagery and ruthlessness that came far too naturally.
From the moment Roddy first showed up, Zig thought his best bet was to keep him close. But what if that was wrong? The way Roddy exploded on Seabass was like a grenade. And only a fool keeps a grenade close. Nola’s words echoed in his brain. You don’t know who he is at his core.
“What’d she say?” Roddy asked.
Zig turned. “I-I’m not sure what you’re—”
“Your ex-wife. In the bathroom. When I was banging on the door, you said you were on the phone with her. What’d she say?”
“Ex-wife stuff. Nothing really.”
“It must’ve been important if you took the call in the shower.”
Zig’s eyes again slid toward Roddy, who was still staring straight ahead, palms down on his thighs, like he was sitting in church. “It was about our daughter,” Zig replied.
“The one who died.”
Zig didn’t answer.
“I’m not trying to pry, Mr. Zig. When we first met, I looked it up. The old newspapers . . . the obituary . . . none of it listed a cause of death.”
This was the point where most people stopped talking.
“I found the old police report,” Roddy added. “It said your daughter was run over. That you and your wife were having an argument—and that your daughter ran outside and hid under your car.”
Roddy had part of the story, the police never knowing that for Zig and Charmaine, it was more than an isolated argument. They were having marital problems, made even worse when Zig found out that Charmaine was cheating on him. That’s why Maggie ran out that night. To avoid the screaming, she hid under the car and eventually fell asleep.
“The report said when you realized she was gone, you jumped in your car to go find her,” Roddy added. “But as you backed up in the driveway, you accidentally—”
“Listen . . .”
“I’m just saying. I’m sorry it happened. That must’ve been—” Roddy couldn’t find the right words to finish the sentence.
“In one mile, take the exit for Route 130 on your right,” a robotic Google Maps voice said from Zig’s phone.
Zig hit the gas. They were close.
“Mr. Zig, if today were a color, I’m thinking it has to be black. Or midnight blue.”
“Anything else, Roddy?”
He thought about it. “You think anyone’s waiting for us at Elijah’s?”