Conditional Probability of Attraction (The Outlier Prophecies Book 2)

by Tina Gower

  “No problem.”

  I ease a leg out of the car, but Becker is crowding me. I won’t be able to stand until he backs away. I crook an eyebrow at him in question. He drops his head, like he’s thinking. His eyes are slightly beginning to glow. The gold around the rims of his iris shines. For a minute I wonder if he’s scented the guy following us again, but instead he struggles with his fist in his coat pocket to get it out. He holds his hand out to me, hesitant, almost like he’s testing something. He backs up an inch for me to stand, but it’s obvious he wants me to take his hand in mine again like I did in the car.

  Maybe I should have read the full Surviving as a Lone Wolf book. Maybe I should have read as many books on werewolf behavior as possible before touching him the way I did in the car before we left. And maybe, just maybe I was beginning to understand what Becker had said to me weeks ago when I offered my body to calm him in that small moment of weakness between us. He’d been in rough shape after Jack’s case ended and I volunteered to be his pack to get him back on his feet. It only meant to be near him, like hugs and snuggles, and things like that. Not sexual. He’d made it clear that it wasn’t sexual what we’d be doing. But as we curled into one another that first time, he’d said he was sorry.

  I touch his hand, wondering what sort of Pandora’s box monstrosity would happen next. He lifts me from the car. I rise slowly, no sudden movements. His glow deepens to an amber, honey hue. It’s never worked like that before. His eyes always calm when we touch. We pause there, face-to-face. Something feral has replaced Becker. He watches me like a wild animal would, not like the guy I’ve come to know. Gone is the shy, annoyed, sometimes sweet, tough man. In his place is something else.

  Careful, I inch forward; he watches me. I place my hand on his cheek. “Ian.” He stills. “Are you okay?”

  “No.” He closes his eyes and he tips his head into my hand on his jaw.

  “What do I do?”

  “Nothing,” he whispers. “Don’t move.”

  The palm of my other hand, the one he grips tight, sweats. My pulse quickens. I make an effort to slow it, knowing that Becker is sensitive to such things. If I’m keyed up, won’t it be harder for him to regulate himself?

  “Is it someone nearby?” I whisper back, almost hoping that there’s an explanation for his sudden turn. “Is he following us?”

  He shakes his head no, eyes still closed. I keep quiet, my gaze darting around for any witnesses to what must seem like an intimate moment between two coworkers. Then I feel his head move away from my hand, his shoulders lower. He keeps his eyes downcast. I can see they’re back to the mostly teal with flecks of brown in and around the iris.

  When I see it’s him again, I keep my voice at a low volume. “What happened?”

  He keeps his head down, thinking, then peeks at me. “I don’t know.” Although it seems he has some idea from the way he’s brooding and sneaking looks at me. “I think this case is getting to me. I’m running on empty. I didn’t really eat much all day.”

  I didn’t really see him eat breakfast, only the coffee from this morning. And at lunch he ate a few bites of sandwich and took it with him. Even if he chowed it down later, it wouldn’t have been enough for a guy his size. Not to mention the marathon he must have run this morning when he chased the assailant from the parking lot.

  He blinks, as though he’s become aware of where we are. “We should get moving.” He marches forward, pulling me along.

  “Uh, Becker?” I tug on our still joined hands.

  He looks down at our connection, confused. “Oh, right.” He stares at them like it’s some unsolvable puzzle to separate.

  I let him take his time, easing his grip until he releases me, reluctantly. It’s painful to witness, how much he relies on touch to function. And maybe there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to let go for different reasons. Reasons I should keep firmly to myself. No more slipups like earlier. No unscheduled, unneeded touch sessions. Although Becker made it sound that the event was unrelated to what just went down, I can’t be totally sure.

  He punches in the floor number. The hum of the elevator is the only sound. The ding makes me jump slightly. I look over at Becker, but he doesn’t seem aware of his surroundings, as though he’s working something out in his head. We cross the skywalk and into the station’s upper floors where we journey in silence down the yellow-papered hallways, and scratched square cream linoleum tile to his office. I struggle to keep up with his larger steps. Becker nods to the woman behind the glass at the entryway, keying in the code for us to pass. It buzzes and he jerks the heavy metal door open like it weighs nothing. The inside buzzes with multiple conversations in gruff voices, ringing phones, officers walking past with dirt smudged, scruffy—criminals, or predicted criminals, I assume—in cuffs.

  When we reach what I assume is his cubical, inside is a completely empty pocked Formica table, he instructs me to sit while he gathers all the necessary paperwork and sets it in front of me.

  “I’m going to change. I’ll be right back.”

  I don’t remember a thing from the parking garage this morning. I never saw the guy, never really knew what was happening until Becker force-closed the elevator, trapping me inside to keep me from helping in any way. So, the paperwork is easy. I simply say I was there at the same time as the assailant. I saw Becker and he indicated we were in danger, that someone he claimed he’d pursued a few days ago had entered the garage. Officer Ian Becker took off in pursuit of this person.

  I’m halfway through writing it all out, when a very large, male, possibly troll or gremlin, appears. He definitely has the thick trollish skin, but not as meaty around the torso, which points to gremlin. His complexion doesn’t have the telltale hint of green tint, more of a weathered slightly unripe apricot. He hooks his elbow over the entry of Becker’s cubical.

  “You the girlfriend?”

  I look around to see who he might be talking to. Trying not to stare too much at his impossibly thick neck—his arms that are the size of an average human’s thighs—or his every bulging muscle. When I realize it’s me he’s referring to, I point to myself, half laughing. “Girlfriend?”

  “Yeah, I figured Ian must be hiding one.” The man’s voice is like gravel. It’s as though his voice box got chewed up and thrown into a cement mixer. “It’s the only thing that explains why he doesn’t sleep in the break room anymore.”

  “Well, I’m going to disappoint you. I’m Kate Hale. I’m the new girl in Accidental Death. We work together.”

  “Hale? You the one who averaged on that Roberts case a few weeks ago? Good work on that.”

  I blink in shock. “Our victim ended up in traction. I don’t think we exactly nailed it.”

  “But he ain’t dead.” His lips tip up in an amused smile and he held out his hand. “Name’s Hank Lipski. Ian’s partner.”

  Despite Hank’s obvious goal to fish for information on Becker, there’s something about him I like. “I didn’t know he had a partner.”

  Hank laughs, but it’s more like one loud bark. “Neither does he.”

  I let out a nervous laugh, unsure of the joke.

  “Lipski!” I snap my fingers. “The donuts. Happy Birthday.”

  His amused smile turns into a full grin. “Are you sure you’re not Ian’s girl? Because we’ve all been wondering what’s tamed him.”

  I fiddle with my pen. “I’m not sure what you mean…”

  “Don’t pretend you didn’t notice. I’m sure it was hard to ignore. He was in a funk for about a year since he tried to lone it and it progressed into a full-out problem. Beck’s always been a loose cannon, but he was unpredictable. He’d just come back after a six month suspension. His liaison work with Accidental was supposed to keep him out of trouble. But I can see he’s found a way around that.”

  “He did, didn’t he?” I can’t help but laugh, remembering how Becker seized the case and kept it from entering the proper channels. Although I could blame him for the ultim
ate failures of the case, if we’d used the proper channels and sent Jack to Homicide he’d have been dead.

  Officer Lipski nods as though he approves of my positive assessment of the situation. “The captain had been trying to recruit other werewolves to rein Ian in, but it’s hard to get werewolves into the city, and well, once they took a gander at Beck they didn’t have an interest to try. See, Ian’s a special case. He didn’t grow up in the culture, so it’s a little harder to get him to play nice, even with his own kind. Plus there’s the rumor around wolf land that Becker offed his own pack. Obviously not true, but you know how harsh gossip can be.”

  I frown, wondering where this conversation is going. Becker’s partner assesses me with every bit of information he releases, like he’s waiting for me to disprove his theories, or weigh in on the debate.

  Lipski pulls up a chair next to me, flipping it to sit in it backward. “Then one day after his case with you, he strolls in here like a new man. Coulda swore he got laid.”

  I set the pen above the paper. “Mr. Lipski, I’m not sure this is the most professional conversation to be having about a colleague.”

  He leans away from me in his chair, like he’s trying to figure something out from the words I chose. Then he presses his lips together and shrugs as though in the two seconds of silence I’ve answered his questions. He lifts his leg over the chair and sets it into the corner where he got it and backs away from the cubical. “You’re right.” He waves his hand that’s more like one huge paw in the air, like he’s pushing the thought away. “Ian is too socially paralyzed to talk to a woman outside of work. Took the guy to a bar once and it was a disaster. He sat at the table the whole time scaring all our women away. Doubtful he’d know what to do with someone so obviously”—he pauses, looking me up and down with an appreciative gaze, but he must catch my glare because he clears his throat—“intelligent.”

  I smile. “Nice save.”

  He pushes himself from the cubical and smiles. “I thought so.” He takes a step back. “Hey listen, hope to see you around. I’d chat more, but I can hear Becker growling on his way from the locker room. Bothers him he can’t hear me from there, so I should leave you alone.” He motions to his ears. “Werewolves ain’t the only ones with exceptional hearing.”

  I assume he’s joking until Becker comes tearing through the cubical maze minutes later, arm hooked around a duffle bag like it’s someone’s neck he’s strangling from behind. He comes straight toward me, inspecting the area then sniffs the air around me and slams his bag on the floor. He uses the bar across the legs of the table as a ladder.

  He hefts himself up, chest level, to Lipski’s cubical. “What did you say to her?”

  “Nothin’”

  “Fuck you.”

  “That’s an awfully nice offer as a birthday present, but the donuts were enough.”

  He jumps down off the table leg bar and snatches my paper work and tosses it over the cubical at his partner. “You wanted a statement so bad, there you go.”

  So that’s why I’m here. Becker didn’t exactly arrange for this as our cover. Hank must have twisted his arm to get me in so he could chat and feel me out. Or maybe that’s me being paranoid.

  Hank stands, his head peeking over the top of the cubical and waves the paperwork. “Thank you. Now was that so hard?”

  “It was nice meeting you, Officer Lipski. Please let me know if you need to contact anyone in Accidental, or if you have need of an investigative actuary’s consult.” I hand him over my card, if only to solidify that this was a work related encounter and nothing more.

  “Pleasure, Ms. Hale, a true pleasure. You guys headed out for a nice dinner?” He asks innocently enough, but when Becker shows his teeth, Hank offers us both a satisfied smile.

  “I’m headed home, actually, to finish up some work.” I interject, trying to steer the conversation to a more professional level.

  Hank doesn’t take his eyes off his partner. “Home, eh?” He seems to see something in his partner’s reaction to my words. “Beck, you will never fail to amuse me.”

  Becker ignores his partner’s taunts. “Come on, Kate, let’s go.”

  He grabs his duffel and marches off without waiting to see if I’ll follow. Turning around several times, I notice Hank watches us from his cubical.

  In the elevator, Becker presses the buttons several times, as though hitting it over and over will make it go faster. “Don’t talk until we’re in the car, at least a dozen blocks away.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Seriously? He has that good of a range?”

  “No, but I don’t want to take chances,” he grumbles, but it’s with not as much irritation as he’d expressed before.

  “How did you end up partnered with him?”

  “Nobody else can stand him. He’s a gossipmonger. Most people can’t handle his meddling, so the captain thought it would be best to pair him with someone he wouldn’t get any dirt on.” Becker drags his fingers through his hair until he puffs it up into a mess on top of his head. “Despite those qualities, he’s actually good at what he does. He’s loyal, and he’d take a bullet for anyone in that room.” Becker’s tension eases as he talks about Hank. “Probably because his skin is so thick it might as well be Kevlar.”

  “You like him, regardless of the show you put on in there. And he provided a convenient cover for us.”

  We cross the street.

  “I don’t know about convenient.”

  Entering the garage, Becker guides us through the maze of cars, positioning his body to block me from any potential target openings. Although the police station’s garage has a guarded entry, that detail doesn’t seem to faze Becker. He ushers me inside the car and waits until I have all my legs and arms inside before closing me in and jogging to his side.

  I click my seat belt into place and take a deep breath. “Now we have to survive a dinner with Ali. I was thinking of surprising her with a weekend away. Or maybe we should stay at your place?”

  Becker thinks it over, starting the car and backing out of the garage. “My place is getting fumigated. I kind of already put a plan in motion.”

  “All right.” I tap the door’s armrest. “That’s probably better. I loathe packing.” Staying with Becker might have kept Ali away for the weekend, but when I got back, she’d wonder where I was. I never leave or take a vacation without planning it months in advance.

  “I’ll sleep on the couch,” Becker says.

  “Oh, please, we both know you won’t.”

  “Just thought I’d offer,” he mumbles.

  Becker waves to the parking garage security. I contemplate ducking out of sight, but decide against it. People at work already know I’m with Becker, no reason to hide.

  I pull out my notes from the Ever After file. “The case I’m working on—it does have some strange threads I think you should take a look at. If we pull out case notes, maybe we can bore Ali into thinking we really are working on work. She’ll leave right after dinner and not notice you’re overnighting it.”

  “What kind of strange threads?”

  “So far I’ve looked up about a dozen deaths that had been matches for clients of the Ever After service. They’re all heart related.”

  “Coincidence?”

  “It would be strange, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, it’s not exactly clean cut.” Becker shoots me a look, one that says he’s thinking what I’m thinking. “It’s sounding less and less like a glitch. Someone tampered with those matches, but why?”

  “I’m working that part out.”

  “What are your leads?”

  I sigh, shrugging into the car seat. “The usual. Two suspicious business owners and a list of internet posters who all seem to have motive of some kind or another. Pretty much anything and everyone.”

  “Who has the most to gain?”

  “The business owners are the obvious angle. They’ve got reason to knock down a competitor.”

  “Is Ever Afte
r that much better? Isn’t there enough business to go around?”

  “Doubtful any of them will let me look at their financials.”

  He coughs out a dry laugh. “No. Good luck.”

  “That’s the problem. If I can’t get any proof, then why bother digging? Especially since I’ve been given notice to leave it alone or suffer consequences from HR. Also, Ever After doesn’t want me to look too deeply into it either. You’d think they’d want to know if someone was tampering with their matches.”

  “Might be because of the lawsuit.”

  “Lawsuit?”

  “Yeah.” He gives me the you-don’t-know face. “It was all over the news a week ago.”

  I remember what I was doing a week ago: sitting by Jack’s bedside, waiting for him to recover. Hospitals are a total time warp.

  “I missed it.” I pull out my phone to research it.

  Becker explains as I read over the various news sites. “Class action lawsuit. A group of people who claim that their matches weren’t suitable. They think Ever After was cutting corners for profit.” Becker takes the long way to my apartment, so we hit every light. Stopped at the latest block, he reaches over and offers me some gum. I wave him away. “Maybe they think if you dig too deep you’ll find something that will be used against them as evidence.”

  “Then why not wait until the case is over before enlisting help from one of the government departments?”

  “It makes them look good to seek what they can claim is an outside audit.”

  “But it’s not an audit.” I scan the file to see if there is an outline of my job role and come up with nothing. How is it I didn’t notice that? “I’m helping them gain access to our database and they’re giving us a ton of money for the privilege.”

  “Doesn’t matter. They will probably explain to the judge that they’re intent is to use Accidental to help them audit the issue. All they need is an open ticket in their financials showing money flow to your department.”

  “That’s…dishonest.”

  “Welcome to the government.”

  I shift in my seat. “Ever After must have friends in the department. I feel kind of dirty that my boss chose me for this job.”