And clutched in his hand, tightly gripping it even as he hit the ground, was my father’s faded blue corner-towel.
CHAPTER 3
“Where is it?” I screamed, twisting the fabric of Damon’s jacket so tight it choked him.
Damon coughed, struggling under my weight. He tried to buck me off, but my knee was planted firmly in his sternum, driving the last of his breath out.
“Where’s the envelope, Damon?!”
Damon gasped, a twisted, bloody smile showing on his teeth in the streetlamp's glow. “You’re too late, crazy... I didn’t get it... I just got this.” He held up the blue corner-towel.
“You ransacked the locker just for a towel?” I demanded, pressing my knee deeper.
“I was looking for the key,” Damon choked out. “But it wasn’t there. Somebody already beat me to it. I just grabbed the towel to prove I searched the place.”
I froze. If Marcus’s men didn’t have the key, who did?
“Who sent you?” I asked, leaning in close.
Damon sneered. “The boss. He figured your old man left insurance. But you’re screwed, Maya. The house always collects.”
The house always collects.
My breath caught in my throat. I stood up quickly, releasing Damon. He coughed, scrambled to his feet, and limped away into the darkness of the alley, leaving me standing alone in the cold air.
I walked slowly back into the garage. Leo was picking up the discarded papers from the floor, his face stricken.
“Did he have it?” Leo asked, looking up.
I shook my head. “No. He said someone beat him to it.”
I stared at the wall, my mind spinning. Damon had used a very specific phrase. The house always collects. It wasn’t a fighter’s phrase. It was a gambler’s phrase.
Six years ago, before everything fell apart, Coach Harris had a severe sports betting problem. My dad used to lend him money to keep the bookies off his back. But a few months before the title fight, Harris suddenly bought a brand-new car and paid off all his debts. He claimed he won big at a casino in Vegas.
Who was at the clinic earlier, pushing me to go to the gym? Coach Harris.
Who visited Leo in the hospital the day the contract was signed? Coach Harris.
And who knew exactly where Dad hid things when he was paranoid?
Coach Harris.
I pulled out my phone and dialed his number. It rang three times before he answered, his voice groggy.
“Maya? Is everything okay?”
“I need to see you, Coach,” I said, keeping my voice perfectly level. “I went to the gym. I found out something terrible about Leo.”
“I’m at the Starlight Diner on 4th Street,” Harris said quickly. “Come meet me. We’ll figure it out.”
“I’m on my way.”
I hung up. I looked at Leo. “Lock the shop. Don’t open the door for anyone but me.”
Twenty minutes later, I walked into the Starlight Diner. It was mostly empty, the neon sign buzzing weakly against the front window. Coach Harris was sitting in a corner booth, nursing a black coffee. He looked up, his face etched with faux concern as I slid into the vinyl seat across from him.