Crossfire (Cross Duet #1)

5. IVY

5

IVY

“Ivy.” Detective Mitchell’s voice grated against my ears with the sandpaper of pity as we sat, crammed into a tiny conference room at the Chicago police station.

The same one I’d been in before with him, when we’d been discussing my father’s death—which, after careful investigation and corroboration from the medical examiner, was ruled a suicide.

Today, the air hung heavy with the stench of old coffee and the detective’s overpowering aftershave, the oxygen stagnant, as if the building’s ventilation system had given up trying to breathe life into this cramped space. The battered conference table between us was blanketed in scratches, probably the aftermath of the frustrations of those who’d sat here before me.

My joints began to ache from the battering they’d taken, fighting off my assailant.

“Let me get this straight…” the detective continued.

Code for allow me to repeat this information back to you, so you feel even stupider than you already do .

Like I hadn’t mentally beaten myself up enough for what I’d done.

“Your father said he’d come up with the money for his mother’s medical needs just before he died.”

I hated the way Detective Mitchell was looking at me like I was a fool.

In his defense, a gun-wielding lunatic by the supposed name of Bob tried to kill me less than an hour ago, and if I hadn’t taken all those fighting classes, he would have likely murdered me.

But I digress. Detective Mitchell was the no-nonsense kind of guy—complete with a no-nonsense short haircut and creases in his forehead that probably came from years of raising his eyebrows in shock that people like me could get into predicaments like this.

“And some stranger reached out online…”

Here we go.

“And said he had the money and to come meet him.”

I picked at my nail.

“It wasn’t like that.” At least not exactly. The detective was trying to make me sound like a complete idiot, and I wasn’t. “I talked to this guy?—”

“Robert”—the detective looked down at his notes—“Wilson.”

“Bob.” I nodded. “On the phone. We had several conversations, and I asked him very careful questions that only someone who was close to my father would know.”

Every sympathetic tilt of the detective’s head, every note of forced patience in his voice, chafed against my raw edges. I wasn’t just another case to be pitied or a puzzle to be solved. I needed answers, not borderline patronizing remarks.

“And what was Bob’s explanation again for why he was the one holding your father’s money?”

“After we’d been talking for a while, Bob mentioned he was cleaning his garage one weekend. He found the box my dad had given him shortly before he died and started pulling everything out, trying to drum up any other memories he could share with me because he knew I liked hearing them so much. That’s when he found the key.”

“A key.”

“He did a little sleuthing and discovered it was a safety-deposit box key.”

When the detective said nothing, I rambled on, the words tumbling out in a rush, as if their speed alone could force his understanding.

“Bob felt terrible; he’d been in the possession of this key for a year and didn’t realize it, but after thinking back, Dad had made comments to Bob, alluding to cash he’d set aside for Grams’s medical bills.”

“Why would he give Bob this key rather than leave it with a suicide note or something?”

“When Bob and I had talked about it, we presumed Dad might be paranoid someone at the scene of his suicide would lock it into evidence—or worst case, might even steal it.”

Detective Mitchell tilted his head slightly. “But why did your father give it to Bob? Why not give it to you or your mom?”

I took a deep breath, eager to unravel the lie Bob had spun so we could get to the part where Detective Mitchell would investigate why Bob had done this.

“My mom and dad were always terrible with money. So, he’d never give it to her; he’d be too afraid she’d blow the cash. And if Dad gave it to me, I might’ve suspected he was about to end his life. Giving it to Bob made sure I’d get the key, but not until after he died. At least, that was the story Bob fed me.” Obviously, all of it had been a lie.

“Why didn’t you guys meet at the bank, then? Why some remote garage?”

I shifted. “He was afraid he’d get in trouble for having a key that didn’t belong to him. He did a little research and discovered that if you possess a stolen safety-deposit box, you can be charged with theft or possession of stolen property. Even if you don’t take anything from inside of it. Bob was a paranoid guy. Like one of those off-the-grid, government is always watching kind of people, and he was afraid he’d be accused of stealing it.”

As the words tumbled from my lips, embarrassment crawled over my skin. I was a smart woman. A careful woman. But even the most vigilant people can find themselves ensnared in a con man’s game—especially when they’re desperate.

“And that’s why you agreed to meet him somewhere remote. And you went willingly.”

When he put it that way, he made it sound like I’d followed some man who claimed to have lost a puppy and needed help to find it in his machete shed.

I mean, damn, here I was, telling him I was attacked. A bomb went off, and instead of focusing on who the heck this Bob guy might be, the detective was too busy making me feel like a moron.

Beat you there, Detective. I’ve never felt stupider than I do right now, but that didn’t explain how Bob knew all of this.

And it wasn’t just about the money. The money was tangible, a concrete problem to solve, but it represented something far more profound and personal.

When Dad died, his passing left me with more than just grief; it burdened me with the overwhelming responsibility of managing Grams’s medical needs and the financial strain that came with it. Since then, my life had been consumed by this seemingly insurmountable challenge—a constant reminder of the void left by my father’s absence.

I clung to the hope that if I could secure the finances, I would finally be able to breathe again, to break free from the suffocating burden of this responsibility and move forward with my life. Until then, this problem was an anchor, dragging me deeper into an ocean of despair.

After all, how can you possibly move forward in life when your past is dragging you under?

My deepest fear was that this anchor would remain forever, that my father’s death would continue to haunt not only my heart, but every aspect of my existence. If I could solve this financial problem, it would offer a glimmer of hope that one day, maybe, just maybe, this pain might ease. And life could resume some semblance of normalcy.

“Look, saying it out loud, I realize how naive that sounds, but this was after months of swapping intimate stories about my father. Things this guy could only have known if he truly was my father’s friend.”

“Have you ever met this man who claimed to be your father’s friend?”

Claimed . That word felt like a bullet.

I don’t think Detective Mitchell appreciated how hard it was for me to let my guard down and trust Bob or how close I came to never walking into that garage in the first place. I didn’t appreciate him looking at me like I was a wide-eyed, eyelash-batting moron.

But then I deserved it, didn’t I? After all, that’s exactly what I had done—turned into that wide-eyed, naive fool.

It only takes a second of misplaced trust to cost you your life.

“A lot of my dad’s friends were through work, and he would meet them for activities outside the home. He didn’t bring people around the house. And meeting him wasn’t just about the key,” I admitted. “Bob told me he had answers as to why…” As my voice trailed off, I pulled the tissue paper around my finger until blood pooled at the tip. “He said he had information that would explain why my dad did what he did.”

Look at that worried look on his face; he thinks I’m batshit crazy, that I’ve gone off the deep end. Maybe I have. I mean, hell, look what I’d just done.

After what happened when I was thirteen, I grew up really freaking fast and prided myself on my street smarts, and then I go and do this.

“It’s just,” I continued, “no one can tell us why. He had no reason to…” My words trailed off again as I tugged the tissue paper so hard, it finally tore with a pop.

The detective swirled the pen in his hand, as if moving it would swirl the right words into his mouth.

He wasn’t looking at me like a lunatic anymore, but a pathetic victim wasn’t much better.

“We’ve been over this, Ivy. The finances. Your grandmother’s health. What your mother did to him. And that’s just what we know about. That doesn’t even factor in quiet struggles with mental health. Many people don’t tell family about what’s going on in their head because they’re ashamed, embarrassed, or afraid to admit the truth.”

My eyes stung, but I bit back the tears; Dad had nothing to be ashamed of.

“Look, I know you want answers. Some explanation that’ll give you closure, but, Ivy…” He shifted in his seat and changed his tone—lowering the volumes of impatience and frustration and increasing the volume of compassion. “Whoever this guy was who lured you into that garage, that was his sole purpose.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat.

“Why?” I challenged. “Why would he do all this?”

Detective Mitchell cleared his throat. “Few months back, I investigated a case where a woman was targeted online. That case turned out to be human trafficking.”

“Human trafficking.” Seriously? “There are far easier ways to kidnap a woman than what this guy did.”

“Are there?” The detective leaned back in his seat. “Is there anything else he could have said that would have convinced you to risk your life to meet him?”

I clenched my jaw. “And the bomb? How do you explain that?” I watched enough news to know bombings were rare, especially in cities. What motive would human traffickers have to blow up a parking garage after failing to snatch a woman?

“Still working on that, too, but one thing is clear: a stranger lured you to a remote area, and when you fought back, he tried to kill you.”

I wound another band of tissue around my ring finger, focusing on the pain of my skin rather than the pain stabbing through my heart.

“If he was a trafficker, how would he know so many details about my dad’s life?”

“Traffickers are smart, Ivy. They’re professional, often backed by skills and money that rival Fortune 500s. They know how to tap into electronics and get information. How else would they lure victims?—”

I unleashed a death glare. If he used that word one more time, so help me, I might snap.

“People,” he amended with a frown. “To a remote location where they could easily abduct you?”

I draped my arms over my stomach, like it could stop the explosion of emptiness that gutted me.

“You don’t believe me.” Why am I not surprised?

He appeared to struggle to find the right words, probably wanting to sound compassionate rather than worried about my mental state.

News flash: he was failing.

“I believe you believe there was some secret reason your father took his own life, but, Ivy”—he sat forward and clasped his hands on the table in front of him like he was about to deliver bad news—“I say this with compassion because I can see the dark circles under your eyes. You look even thinner than the last time we spoke, and now you almost got killed.” He sighed. “You need to find a way to move forward.”

I can’t.

“I can get you the names of those?—”

“I don’t need a therapist,” I interrupted. Well, maybe I did if you spoke from a purely psychological perspective. Or if you looked at my choices today, but whatever. I was fine.

“Suicide is a difficult thing to accept,” Detective Mitchell said. “His wife?—”

“He forgave her,” I said. “And cheating doesn’t make people suddenly suicidal, and even if it did, he was the sole caregiver of his mother.” Even if my dad would leave me, “He’d never leave her behind. Something else must have happened that made him end it all.”

The detective looked at his watch and thinned his lips.

He probably had a huge caseload waiting for him, but hopefully, he’d review all the information I’d given in my police reports. Police needed to uncover the real name of the man who’d tried to kill me since Bob was probably a fake and find out why “Bob” had targeted me, specifically.

Not only to prevent another unexplained trauma in my life, but also so another woman wouldn’t become a target if Bob tried with someone else.

As for this conversation, however, it looked like Detective Mitchell had run out of time.

Maybe patience, too.

He stood up with a sigh.

“All right, look.” This time, when he spoke, his words were tense. “I can’t give you closure on why your dad took his life, but”—he pointed his finger at the table—“this? Let me dig deeper into the texts you sent me. See if our IT team can help me find the guy that lured you there. No matter who he is, he needs to be stopped before he hurts someone else.”

I softened and stared into his eyes for several seconds.

“Thank you,” I said.

His lips curled down with empathy. He could be hard at times, but I also sensed his frustration, that he couldn’t help more. Cases were often imperfect, and police couldn’t always answer everything.

“I’ll be in touch if we have any other questions about the incident today, but as for what happened to you…” He ran a frustrated hand over his face, then put his hands on his hips, looking down at me sternly. “I’m sorry to be blunt, Ivy, but you need to be more careful. If you’re not, you’ll fall prey to some other psycho. And next time, you could get killed.”