“Eat.”
With that order, he turned on his heel and strode back to the entrance of the funeral home.
“I guess I’m keeping the coat,” I called after him.
I watched him go, and then when I was certain he was inside, I opened the bag to find my favorite breakfast burrito wrapped tight in foil. The diner didn’t deliver. And Lucian shouldn’t have known my favorite breakfast.
“Infuriating,” I muttered under my breath before briefly bringing the filtered tip of his cigarette to my lips where I could almost taste him.
2
Keep the Coat and Leave Me Alone
Lucian
B
y the time I pulled into the driveway of the house I hated, fat flakes had been falling for nearly an hour. I exhaled slowly and slumped against the heated leather of my Range Rover’s driver’s seat. Shania Twain crooned softly from the speakers. The windshield wipers groaned across the glass swiping away the snow.
It looked as though I’d be spending the night here, I told myself, as if that hadn’t been the plan all along.
As if I didn’t have an overnight bag on the back seat.
As if I didn’t have this cloying need to stay close. Just in case.
I punched the button on the remote for the garage and watched the door silently rise before me in the headlights. The services and meal had eaten up the remaining daylight hours. Friends and loved ones had lingered over Simon’s favorite dishes and drinks, reminiscing while I’d avoided Sloane. I didn’t trust myself to keep her at the necessary distance when she was wounded like this, so I’d relied on physical distance.
I dismissed all thoughts of the blond pixie from my mind and focused on other more important, less annoying things. Tonight, Karen Walton and a few of her local friends were safely ensconced in suites at a spa just outside DC where they would enjoy a day of pampering tomorrow.
It was the least I could do for the neighbors who had given me everything.
The caller ID on my dashboard screen lit up.
Special Agent Idler.
“Yes?” I answered, pinching the bridge of my nose.
“I thought you’d be interested to know that no one has seen or heard from Felix Metzer since September,” she said without preamble. The FBI agent had even less enthusiasm than I did for wasting time with unnecessary small talk.
“That’s inconvenient.” Inconvenient and not entirely unexpected.
“Let’s skip to the part where you assure me you had nothing to do with his disappearance,” she said pointedly.
“I’d think my cooperation in this investigation should at least buy me the benefit of the doubt.”
“We both know you have the means to disappear just about anyone who annoys you.”
I glanced again at the fanciful house next door. There were exceptions.
I heard the snick of a lighter and an indrawn breath and wished I hadn’t already smoked my only cigarette of the day. I blamed Sloane. My self-control wavered around her.
“Look, I know you probably didn’t dismember Metzer and feed him to your school of highly trained piranhas or whatever the hell aquatic life you rich guys invest in. I’m just pissed. Our useless crime boss son gave us the name, we did the legwork, but it’s yet another lead that didn’t pan out.”
The longer my team worked with Idler’s, the less annoying I found her. I admired her single-minded quest for justice, even though I preferred vengeance.
“Maybe he went underground,” I suggested.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about it,” Idler said. “Someone is cleaning up their mess. I’m gonna be pissed if this keeps me from personally slamming a cell door in Anthony Hugo’s face. The only two people alive who can corroborate that Anthony commissioned a list of people for his minions to assassinate are his idiot criminal son and his idiot criminal son’s ex-girlfriend. Neither is going to win any points in front of a jury.”
“I’ll get more,” I assured her. I wasn’t about to let a man like Anthony Hugo walk away unscathed from hurting the people I loved.
“Until Metzer or his body show up, we’re looking at another dead end.”
“My team is working on untangling Hugo’s financials. We’ll find what you need,” I promised. Hugo was good, but I was better and more tenacious.
“You’re awfully calm for a civilian who could become part of the mess that needs cleaning,” she pointed out.
“If Hugo comes for me, he won’t find an easy target,” I promised grimly.
“Yeah, well, don’t do anything stupid. At least not before you get me something I can use to nail the bastard with.”
My team had already gotten her several small somethings. But the FBI wanted an airtight case with charges that ensured life in prison. I would see to it they had it.
“I’ll do my best. As long as you don’t contemplate making any deals that impact those I care about.” My gaze flicked next door again. The house was still dark.
“Hugo is the big fish. There will be no deals,” Idler promised.
I let myself into the mudroom, the perfect organizational space for the family that didn’t live here. The furniture, the finishes, even the layout of the house had changed. But even new paint, carpet, and cabinetry weren’t enough to vanquish the memories.
I still hated it here.
It made no financial sense to hang on to this godforsaken place, this reminder of a past better forgotten. Yet here I was. Once again spending the night as if I could somehow weaken the hold it had on me if I just spent enough time here.
It was smarter all around to sell the place and be done with it.
It was why I’d come back last summer. But one look at those green eyes—not a soft, mossy green. No, Sloane Walton’s eyes blazed with emerald flames. One look and my best-laid plans disintegrated.
But it was time. Time to free myself from the house, the memories. From the weakness those years symbolized. I’d risen above. I’d made something of myself. And even if I was still a monster under the trappings of wealth and power, I had done some good. Wasn’t that enough?
I would never be good enough. Not with this blood in my veins, on my hands.
I’d made the decision to move on in the thick heat of last August. The summer swelter had made me think I’d gotten over the painful hope of spring. Yet here I was, six months later, and the ties that had anchored me to this place felt even more restricting. I blamed Sloane for why I counted down the days until spring.
Until the trees bloomed.
I hated to think the reason for my life in DC was tied to something so pathetically fragile. That I was something so pathetically fragile. Yet every spring when those fragrant pink blooms exploded into being, my chest loosened. My breath relaxed. And my oldest enemy stirred.
Hope. Some of us didn’t get the luxury of hope. Some of us weren’t worthy of it.
Soon, I promised myself. Once I knew the Waltons were taken care of, I’d sever ties with this place. I’d give myself one last spring here and then I’d never come back.
I flipped on the lights in the kitchen, a clean space of grays and whites, and stared at the stainless steel silhouette of the refrigerator.
I wasn’t hungry. The thought of food made me feel vaguely nauseated. I wanted another cigarette. A drink. But I was nothing if not disciplined. I made choices that made me stronger, smarter. I prioritized the long game over short-term fixes. Which meant ignoring my baser instincts.