Dirty Little Lies by Julie Leto

marsh on Peddack Island. If there’d been any physical evidence of a crime, it was long gone.”
    Frankie came around the corner and leaned against the doorjamb between the living room and the kitchen. “Then why blame the guys? You had no proof.”
    Manning slammed his hand on the table. “The Hightower family couldn’t get their silver-spoon sons to Europe fast enough. Police never even interviewed them. And Bennett? He gave a statement written by his rich father’s attorney and then clammed up tighter than a drum. Even changed prep schools to one in Newburyport for the rest of his senior year. They acted guilty. They were rich and privileged and thought they could get away with murder. And obviously, they did.”
    “What about Evan Cole?” Frankie asked.
    Dismissively, Manning inhaled half his cigarette, then ground out the filter on a plate. “He wasn’t there.”
    “You know this for sure?”
    Manning shot up from his chair. “Look, you don’t think I checked into every dirty little secret those creeps had? You think I didn’t do my best to find out who killed my sister? Girls her age don’t steal boats and then walk into a nearly frozen marsh, bang their head on a tree, and die alone, okay? Whether on purpose or because they were fucking with her mind, they lured her there. She died because she couldn’t let go of Brad Hightower or his lifestyle.”
    He took a deep breath, which instigated a coughing fit. “But the past is the past,” he said once he’d regained his ability to speak. “Leave it be.”
    Manning slumped back into his chair, defeated. Marisela could easily guess what he was feeling. He hadn’t been there to protect his sister. He hadn’t been able to give her justice. Now, he seemed to have just given up. On a lot of things, including himself. Or else he’d turned the dirty work over to someone else who could get the job done.
    Marisela stood, figuring they couldn’t get much more out of him right now. Their next step would be to find Brad and Raymond Hightower and find out their side of the story.
    “One more thing,” Frankie said just as Marisela brushed past him. “Where can we find your sister, Tracy? We’ll chat with her next, see what she can share.”
    In the flash of movement that followed, Manning launched forward and grabbed Frankie by the collar.
    Marisela moved to intervene, but Frankie already had the man in a headlock, his forearm tight against the guy’s throat and his arm twisted behind him.
    “Get…off…me,” Manning ordered, failing to execute a decent head-butt thanks to Frankie’s iron grip.
    “Calm down first, maricón ,” Marisela spat out, knowing if the jerk didn’t comply, he might be nursing a broken arm in the next few seconds.
    Manning gulped huge breaths of air and held his hands out, as if to show he had no further urge to attack. Once satisfied that the man had recognized the error of his ways, Frankie tossed him toward Marisela, who broke his fall.
    Frankie stood in front of them, arms crossed, eyes cool. “You don’t want to push us, Mr. Manning.”
    Manning heaved, his face red and skin splotchy. “Stay the fuck away from my sister!”
    Marisela struggled to contain the man. He was out of shape, but his rage imbued him with unpredictable power. He’d gone from calm to out of control in seconds. Question was, was Manning so hot to protect his sister because of what she’d suffered in the past—or because of what he’d done in the present, like hire a hit on a congressman?
    Or maybe the wallet behind the hit belonged to Tracy? Maybe Parker Manning didn’t have the cash on hand to pay an assassin, but perhaps, despite her sad past, Tracy Manning did.
    “Something you want to tell us about Tracy?” Marisela asked. “Something you’re hiding?”
    Manning just shook his head.
    “Leave her alone. She’s been through enough.”
    “Which makes her all the more likely to want Bennett dead,” Frankie offered.
    “Tracy’s been to