“I have no idea. You think your father has something to do with this?”
“I think there are a lot of people connected in this town,” I say, not about to go down the rabbit hole that is my father with him, at least not now. “I need anything on Emma and the men in her life you can get me.”
“You need a lot of things,” he says dryly.
“Yes, Lucas, I do. I also need to know about Danica Day, the new medical examiner. And Officer North, who just transferred from the city to work for Andrew.”
“You want me to hack the government, Lilah?”
“Yes. You have my permission. I’ll protect you.”
“Fuck, Lilah. Who protects you?”
“Me, and I’m damn good at it.”
“What do I get out of this?”
“My love and devotion,” I say sweetly. Yes, I can do sweet. People would be surprised how well and those people include me.
“Which would be enough,” he says, “but we both know that was never going to happen.”
“Obviously,” I say, “we aren’t talking about the same kind of love and devotion.”
“Nope,” he agrees. “What do I get out of this?”
“Steak prepared by a master chef for Thanksgiving dinner.”
“No shit? You got a chef off the TV show?”
“Hell no,” I quip. “I don’t do TV show bullshit. He’s a real master. And yes, there will be mac ‘n’ cheese made three ways.”
“I think I’d better leave my inappropriately basic diner-made coconut cake at home.”
“If you do, you won’t be let in the door.”
“Well, if Kane has his way I won’t be let in anyway.”
“True,” I concur. “But he does like all things coconut.” I firm my tone. “Get to work. I need to know everything you can find out tonight.” I’m about to hang up when I hesitate and say, “Look for connections to me, Lucas.”
“You? What the hell, Lilah? Are you in danger?”
“No, but you are if you don’t hurry up and get to work.” I hang up.
And I lied before I did. I am in danger. I have to go home and tell Kane that Lucas is coming to dinner.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
On the drive home in the snow, an old Rolling Stones song, “Beast of Burden,” plays on my radio. My mom loved it and her loss has always been my beast of burden. Her murder is my motivation, among others, to hate my father and destroy Pocher. The snow, too, has decided to be its own kind of beast of burden.
It pounds down on the windshield in a blinding ferocity that forces me to drive like a grandma who’s grabbed grandpa’s glasses instead of her own, and thus cannot see the road. Patience isn’t one of my virtues, and it’s utilized only when forced upon me. To make matters worse, I’m at the “Ol’ Betsy stoplight” as the locals call her, the one that takes ten years to change.
My fingers thrum the steering wheel while Kane’s words come back to me: There’s a reason Murphy doesn’t even deny wanting us together. He believes together we’re dangerous to the Society. So does the Society.
And what, I think, has the Society proven to do when someone is dangerous to them?
They kill them.
But do they taunt them first? Is that what this—tonight—was supposed to be?
My cellphone buzzes with a text message and I glance down to find a message from Andrew: Jamie’s number is an unregistered number. It’s a throwaway.
I reply with: Of course it is.
Ol’ Betsy turns and my mind is forced back to the road.
By the time I’m in the garage at the house, Kane is waiting for me at the door. He studies me with intensity, intensely unreadable. He’s assessing, questioning, but not talking. God love him and his understanding of how I operate.
I’m in my head.
I need to stay there right now.
He backs up to allow me to enter the back hallway and I’m quick to do just that. Once we’re both inside the warm house, I strip off my wet boots and he takes my coat before I follow him to the kitchen. I settle onto a barstool in front of the marbled island, while he prepares, and then hands me a hot Bailey’s coffee with whipped cream. Yes, the dark, dangerous Kane Mendez put whipped cream on my coffee. And still, we haven’t spoken a word.
He joins me, claiming the spot next to me while I sip my coffee, the warm, sweet liquid sliding down my throat and helping me come down about two notches.
Ready now, for more than my own mental ping-ponging of thoughts, I grab my phone, thumbing through photos until I find the image of the jar of blood. I set it in front of Kane.
“That was left for me in the refrigerator of the crime scene.”
He glances at it and then me, arching his dark brow. “The victim’s blood?”
“Pig’s blood,” I say matter-of-factly. “That’s not confirmed, but it’s going to be pig’s blood. I know it.”
He doesn’t freak out but then I don’t expect anything but calm, thoughtful contemplation from Kane. He doesn’t even ask why I make that assessment. He simply asks, “Is this Pocher or a Roger protégé?”
Just that easily he’s already in my headspace. And the question spoken at just the right time grounds me in logic rather than the emotion that had me storming out of Emma’s kitchen ready to kill Pocher.
“Logically,” I say, “the dress and the jar could point to either. Of course, my first reaction was Pocher. We just found out he came back. And when I saw that dead woman and then saw the jar of blood, I was ready to kill him.”
“Andrew influenced that. He already believed it was Pocher when he called you to the scene.”
“True. And it could be Pocher.”
“But your gut isn’t reading it that way. I can tell.”
I sip my coffee and add, “With the dress, and without the jar of blood, this would have read like a classic jealousy crime. The groom was already neglecting the bride and she had a side dude. And yet, it wasn’t a crime of rage. We’re not even sure how the woman died.”
“Meaning what?”
“She seemed to have a rupture from her throat, but there was no obvious cut.”
“Poison?” he asks.
“The new medical examiner doesn’t think so.” My cellphone rings with Lucas’s number where it still lays between me and Kane. His jaw clenches.
“I called him to hack for me, and he’s coming to dinner. And before you scowl, he was going to be alone, Kane.”
He downs his coffee, every last drop, and stands up, his spine stiff. Fuck. I answer the call on speaker. It’s better that way, with Kane’s ear where my ears are right now. “Lucas,” I say, and I don’t warn him that Kane is in the room. If he’s not smart enough to figure that out, he deserves whatever he gets. “What do you have for me?”
“I pulled Danica and North’s records. I’m sending them in a secure file by maildrop for you to accept. But there’s nothing exceptional there to see. And before you bitch, I’m digging deeper, but that will take time.”
“What about the victim and the men in her life?”
“Both her dead husband and her fiancé have donated to various Pocher-driven campaigns. That was easy to pull. Her fiancé has actually donated to your father’s campaign. But Lilah, you’d be hard pressed to find anyone in this town who hasn’t pandered to Pocher’s power. And that’s all I have now. I’m drunk. I’m still drinking. No more updates tonight.”
“Yes, but—”
“No,” he says, “and I’m hanging up.” He disconnects.
I grimace and I’d call him back, but I decide better.
Kane at this point has filled a whiskey glass and is leaning on the counter in front of the sink. I stand up and close the space between us. I step directly in front of him and he downs his drink and sets the glass down. His hands are on the counter behind him. He doesn’t even think about touching me and I know it’s about Lucas. Which is exactly why I want him to know that I’m
not thinking about Lucas, but rather those donations that connect Emma’s fiancé to my father. And I’m thinking about his words, his declaration that we’re dangerous to the Society. “What if—”
He grabs me and pulls me to him. “If you say that woman died because we’re together, and turn this into another reason to take off my ring, I swear to God, Lilah, I’m done.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
I can be hard. I can be cold. I can apparently be a killer. But I love Kane Mendez. He’s hard, too. He’s cold as ice. He’s forever in control. But he’s not those things with me. And it’s in this moment, for the first time ever, I realize how much I hurt him when I left him. Just how much I cut him.
“I regret every moment we were apart more than you can know. I’m not taking off the ring, Kane.” My hands settle on his chest. “Not ever. I’m not—”
His mouth closes down on mine, his hand on the back of my head, and just that easily, he reminds me I’m human again, capable of wanting, loving, needing, and forgetting all but the moment. But more so, he reminds me that he’s human. He isn’t always in control. He has emotions, torment I can taste on his tongue, even desperation he’d allow no other human to know he’s capable of feeling. I’ve pushed him away. I’ve hurt him. But I’ve always loved him and he doesn’t yet know that I’m done fighting against this, against us.
He just doesn’t know that.
And that’s a problem.
Kane picks me up and I don’t fight him. He has this thing about taking me to his bed, now our bed, as if that establishes some sort of ownership of me and us. Not that I could ever be owned, but deep down, I know we own each other. We always have. We always will. And if that’s what he needs, to feel that ownership, I’m not at war with him. I’m at war with Pocher and the Society. But he doesn’t take me upstairs and to the bedroom. He walks to the living room, neutral territory, and I understand his message. The tide has shifted. The demands have changed. Either I’m in this as his equal or I’m not in this at all. And neither is he.
He sets me down on the floor in front of the couch, and I don’t give him room to question where I stand. I undress and he doesn’t. He lets me stand there naked, and some might say vulnerable, but that’s not really me, and certainly not with Kane. When others fear him, he’s safe to me. And so, I stand there, comfortable in my own skin.
Seconds tick by and we just stare at each other before he drags me to him, his fingers tangling in my hair. “This time it’s all or nothing, Lilah.” He doesn’t give me time to answer. He kisses me again and in a rush of heat, we’re both undressing him. And my God, this man naked is everything. I shove him down onto the couch, and he takes me with him. He’s sitting and dragging me on top of him. Some might say that’s about Kane giving me control, but Kane never really gives away control. Well, maybe that’s not true. With me, he’s willing, he has. He really does.
He molds me close and I press even closer, our bodies swaying, and that dark part of us, the intense, wild part of us, is in control now. He tugs my hair. I tug his right back. He bites my lip and I bite his shoulder. There is no holding back between us. I touch him. He touches me. I kiss him. He kisses me. With Kane, I am lost and found. It’s wrong and somehow so very right.
I tangle my fingers in his hair and say, “Don’t you get it? The only time I can be me is with you.”
“But at what cost, Lilah? Isn’t that what you’ve always asked?”
“You haven’t lied to me, but I lied to you.”
He pulls back to look at me, his voice steel. “What does that mean, Lilah?”
“I was miserable without you. I lied every time I said I didn’t need you.”
“Oh fuck, woman,” he murmurs, and then he’s pulling my mouth to his, and the kiss devours me. He devours me. And some secret part of me has always needed these moments with Kane where I don’t have to hold back anything. And I don’t. I don’t hold back. And neither does he.
When it’s over, when we’re wild and free, and then exhausted in the best of ways, I collapse on top of him, my head buried in his neck until I can breathe again. Then and only then do I push off his shoulders to stare down at him, a realization coming to me. “We’re good together. We’re lethal together. We are dangerous to the Society. We know it. They know it. And I—” I pause, pieces of tonight, and my investigation, punching at my mind. “And I need—”
“You need to be in Purgatory, your so-named thinking room because you just thought of something related to your case.” He laughs, that low, accented laugh of his, and says, “I know, beautiful. And that I can live with for the rest of my life. Go. Be the badass FBI agent I know you are.”
I smile and kiss him, pushing off of him and grabbing my clothes before rushing to the hallway bathroom. I need to be dressed. And yes, I need to be in Purgatory thinking right now.
I’ve just gotten dressed when Kane, also dressed, steps into the doorway. “What did you figure out?”
“When I was driving home, I thought: what does the Society do to those they see as dangerous?”
“Kill them, or ruin them if they can. But you know, I’m sheltered by the power of the cartel, no matter my role, or lack thereof, and therefore we’re sheltered.”
“Right. I do. They do, too. And what good does it do for them to try to fuck with my head? I mean, they have to know by now that doesn’t work on me. Lord help me for giving him any credit, but I don’t feel on the fence about what I’m dealing with anymore. Pocher is many things but not stupid.”
“You really think this is a copycat Umbrella Man.” It’s not a question.
“I don’t think he’s copying him. I think he thinks he’s better than him.”
“Then why the blood in the jar?”
“It got my attention. It assured I’d be called to the scene. It said ‘game on and you’re the one I want to play with.’”
“And the wedding dress? There are no coincidences, right?”
“Andrew is still fucking Samantha. She didn’t leave town, which I’m sure you know.”
He arches a brow. “Why would I know about Samantha, Lilah?”
“Oh, come on. You’re you, Kane. You knew. You always know. And since it involves my brother, tell me next time. I’m not jealous of that witch.”
“Fair enough. And before you invite someone to Thanksgiving dinner, you talk to me. It’s our dinner.”
“Fair enough. Okay. I’m sorry.”
His brow shoots up. “Sorry? Did you just say sorry, Lilah Love?”
“Why do you say that like I never say I’m sorry?”
“You don’t.”
“Neither do you,” I counter.
“I guess we both need to work on that.”
“Yes,” I agree. “We should. And as per your comment. Bottom line. I’m sure Andrew told Samantha we’re engaged, so the whole damn town knows by now.”
“Then you’re dealing with a serial killer,” he says simply.
“Technically he’s only killed one person that we know of. That’s not a serial killer. But he’s not done. And neither am I. He wants my attention. He’s got it.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I stop by the kitchen for a few essentials and then head to my workspace.
Purgatory.
Neither heaven nor hell, where there is no rest for the wicked or the righteous.
That’s where I feel every victim lives until their killer is brought to justice. That’s why my workspace is my version of Purgatory until I solve each murder I take on as my own to offer justice.
Purgatory here in the Hamptons is a workroom off the bedroom that Kane built for me before we ever got back together. That’s how certain he was I’d come back, and while I don’t like being predictable, I don’t believe I was as predictable as much as he was stubborn. And I ended up where I belong. The room, almost identical to the one off of our bedroom in our New York apartment, is complete with a heavy wooden desk framed by walls of w
hiteboards and pinboards. It’s well-stocked with notecards, chocolate, ink pens, and push pins. There are also two leather chairs against a wall, one for me and one for Kane. No one else is allowed in my workspace.
Inside my Purgatory.
Or my personal hell, which is an entirely other story.
For now, Kane lags behind, but I have no doubt he’ll join me soon. A few minutes later, I’m already printing photos and the documents Lucas sent me when Kane proves me right. He enters Purgatory with two more steaming Bailey’s coffees in hand. He then does what he does, settling into one of the two leather chairs against the wall with his MacBook. And then he gets to work while I do the same. For me, that includes a lot of pacing, mumbling, and cursing, which is mostly kept to myself for a reason. For Kane, there is a lot of heavy-handed typing that I know equals frustration, as he’s got his own work to be frustrated over—at present, negotiations on a big oil drilling contract. That’s another thing people don’t get about my trust in Kane when they should. He really does run an oil empire of his own creation. A job that is demanding, and at times, all-consuming. The cartel is not present in his everyday life. He rejects them when he can, but not at the expense of bloodshed. At times, he’s played peacekeeper between rivals such as the mob, in a way his father did and his uncle has failed to do. I know this because only last month I lived through his tormented decision to step into a dispute and do so despite the exposure and risk to himself and even me. And with him involved, lives were saved.
Settling behind my desk, which won’t last long with my current state of unrest over this case, I stuff a strawberry into my mouth and then break open the bag of chocolate. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. Junk food is allowed. Actually, it’s always allowed when I’m involved in a fresh homicide. Most people don’t know I’m pretty healthy the rest of the time. I run when the weather allows—it helps me think. I don’t order the whipped cream on my coffee and yes, I eat egg whites.
But fuck egg whites when someone has been murdered. Just like fuck egg whites at Thanksgiving.
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