Free Deadly Sins by Kylie Brant

visitors.”
    “She ain’t.”
    “I’d feel better if you asked her.” He reached into the breast pocket of his suit, noted the man’s barely perceptible response. He was willing to bet the oversized militarysurplus jacket the guy was wearing concealed a weapon.
    Cocking a brow, Adam said, “My card?” But the man didn’t visibly relax, even when Adam withdrew a business card and handed it to him.
    The man didn’t look at it. “She ain’t talkin’ to no press.”
    “Please.” Adam’s voice was pained. “Do I look like a member of the press to you?”
    “She ain’t talkin’ to no one strappin’, neither.” The man gave a meaningful nod to Adam’s jacket. “Leastwise no one without a badge.”
    “Well, I don’t have a badge, although I am working with the FBI. So I’ll just give this to you to hold, shall I?” This time when Adam reached into his suit jacket, the man’s hand disappeared into one large cargo-sized pocket of his coat. Pretending not to notice, Adam withdrew his Glock, hit the magazine release, and racked the slide back to eject the cartridge. Dropping both into his pocket, he handed the empty gun to the younger man. “Maybe you could tell Ms. Shelton she has company.”
    Indecisive, he stood for a moment, his gaze going from Adam to the weapon. After a moment, he opened up the front door and called, “Tyreque!”
    A slighter, much younger man appeared. Still in his teens, Adam estimated. And not nearly as hardened as his companion.
    “Stay here.” The older man headed into the building leaving the newcomer guarding the entrance.
    This guard, however, was chattier than his friend. “You ain’t no reporter.”
    “A fact I give thanks for daily.”
    The kid cocked his head, giving Adam a thorough onceover. “Don’t know exactly what you do look like. Maybe Pacino in one of them older flicks. One of them where he gets shot at the end.”
    Because there was no real answer to that comment—other than to admit how close it came to the truth—Adam asked a question of his own. “Are you related to Danny Shelton?”
    “He was my uncle.”
    “I’m sorry for your loss.”
    The kid looked away, moving his shoulders jerkily. “Shit happens, right? But it shouldn’ta happen to Danny. He never hurt no one, man. All the time out there sellin’ them stupid flowers. And he gets offed doin’ that? Life sucks.”
    Before Adam could agree the older man reappeared and with a jerk of his head motioned Adam inside. “Stay here, Tyreque.” The kid settled himself into the vacant lawn chair as Adam stepped by him and through the front door. Upon closer inspection he saw the lock was broken, probably long ago. It wouldn’t keep out unwanted visitors.
    And in the time since Danny Shelton had been killed in the shooting targeting Byron Reinbeck, there had probably been a lot of unwanted visitors.
    At the foot of a rickety staircase, the man shot Adam a glance. “Fourth floor. And the elevator ain’t worked since she moved in.”
    “Lead the way.” He wouldn’t have trusted an elevator in a place like this in the best of times. But by the time he reached the last flight, Adam was doubly glad for the time he’d spent in the hot tub last night.
    Rosa Shelton, mother and legal guardian of Danny Shelton, was standing in the doorway of apartment 431. Nearly filling it, actually. Despite the earliness of the hour, she was fully dressed in a neat navy dress, dark nylons, and low-heeled pumps. Her short hair was styled in soft gray curls around a plump face the color of mocha coffee. She wore her age and weight more easily than her grief. It sat heavy on her shoulders and filled her eyes.
    “I’m expectin’ the Reverend Andrews anytime now,” she said, her gaze not moving off Adam. “So Bobby, you take yourself down those stairs and wait for him.”
    The man—Bobby—didn’t move. “Tyreque’s already down there.”
    “So now you’ll both be down there.” She glanced away then, and