Mine to Keep by Cynthia Eden

Skye was still inside.  The clean-up crew would be arriving there soon.
    “Is the cop gone?” Trace asked, getting right to business.
    Reese nodded. “He just left but, you should know, I don’t think he bought your alibi.”
    “It doesn’t matter. He’s not going to be able to tie me to Ben Sharpe’s murder.”
Ben, why the hell did you seek me out? Why didn’t you just stay hidden? You could have stayed alive then.
    “The detective’s gonna dig.”  Reese thrust his hands into the pockets of his pants. “Are you worried about what he’ll find when he starts poking around in Sharpe’s past?”
    Sharpe’s past was linked to Trace’s. “He’ll see the official records, nothing more.” Because there were things that Uncle Sam wanted covered up, too.
    Some blood and death didn’t need to ever see the light of day. 
    “You went after Sharpe.” Reese’s voice was hesitant. “Is the ME gonna find anything on his body that will link back to you?”
    Trace remembered the instant back at his penthouse when he’d shoved his forearm under Ben’s jaw. Rage had burned through him in that moment, and he’d reacted purely on instinct. “I think I’m clear.”
    Trace glanced back at the fire station—no, it was a studio now, her studio.  “Stay close to her.”  He pulled out his keys.
    “Boss?”
    He glanced at Reese.
    “There something that you want to tell me?”  Reese’s gaze was steady. “You pulled me off Sharpe’s detail last night. Told me that you could handle things.”
    Reese thinks I killed him.
 Trace shook his head. “There’s nothing else you need to know. Not yet.”  Not until Trace had done some digging of his own. 
    Reese gave a grim nod.
    Trace looked down at his hands.  The tanned flesh. The callused fingertips.  Sure, he wore the thousand dollar suits. He sat in the boardrooms. He played the games.
    But there was more to him than that.  And there would always be blood on his hands. One way or another. 
    ***
    Alex Griffin paused outside of the nondescript apartment.  He heard the rumble of the train outside the building, the scream of sirens.
    He was following a hunch that he sure hadn’t shared with his new captain.  Because when it came to Trace Weston, the captain would let fear rule him.
    Fear of money and power.  Alex had seen that same shit go down before.  It wasn’t happening again. 
    Alex raised his hand and pounded against the door. He had little to lose—so why worry about fear?
    Footsteps shuffled toward him, then the door opened, and a man stared out at him with bleary eyes.  Thick stubble lined his jaw, and his eyes, a muddy brown, widened as he took in Alex.
    “You again?” the man demanded as he shoved back his dirty blond hair.
    “Yeah, Parker, it’s me.” 
    “Hell.”  The guy definitely didn’t sound happy to see him, but Parker Jacobs backed up and let Alex into his apartment.
    The place was a dump. Not because of its location, but because Parker Jacobs was a slob. Half-eaten food and old newspapers littered the area. A pile of dirty clothes hid the couch.
    Parker shoved the dirty shirts and jeans away and slumped on the faded cushions. “Why the repeat visit?”  Parker ran a hand over his face. “I told you everything I knew about Trace and Skye last time.” 
    Alex didn’t sit. He crossed his arms and stared down at Parker, carefully studying the other man.  There was a heavy bump in the middle of Parker’s nose, from an old break.  A break that Alex knew Trace Weston had caused.
    “Your parents took in Trace and Skye as foster kids when you were sixteen,” Alex said. He figured it was better to start back at the beginning.
    “Shit.”  Parker exhaled heavily. “If we’re going over all of this crap again, then I need a drink.” He lunged up from the couch.
    Alex shoved him back down. He’d already smelled the alcohol on the guy’s breath. His breath, his clothes, his skin. The guy reeked. “You’ve had more