Текст книги "Surviving Ice "

Автор книги: K. A. Tucker

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

TWENTY

ICE

This is not a coincidence.

Ivy’s home has been trashed, the flat-screen smashed instead of taken, the heating vents ripped from the walls, drawers pulled out and overturned, the couch torn apart and emptied.

Someone was searching for something.

I slide my piece out of my boot and flick off the safety. Standing in the living room, I simply breathe and listen. For creaks, for windows sliding, for anything that might indicate the person is still here.

Or people. Because what I see here suggests more than one person.

Whoever it was, we missed them by only minutes. I can still smell their sweat in the air. I’m now sure that the guy at the club tailed her all the way there from here and was tasked with being on lookout while whoever he is working with ransacked her place.

Was this on Bentley’s orders?

My adrenaline courses through my veins as I slink from room to room, expecting that someone might be waiting in a closet or behind a curtain.

They’ve been through the entire house.

I check my watch. It’s only twelve thirty. Ivy would have left to meet me just before eleven. That gave them less than two hours to do this much damage.

Sirens sound in the distance. They could be for anyone, but I know they’re not.

Ivy must have called the cops. Fuck.

This entire house will be canvassed for prints. I quickly dart into Ivy’s room, intent on wiping down the perfume bottle—the one thing I touched without a glove in this house—only to find the glass smashed, the alluring scent now too potent as it seeps into the carpet.

Careful not to touch the walls, I run down the stairs, bending over to slide my Beretta back into my boot when I reach the bottom.

When I stand, I find Ivy in the living room, aluminum baseball bat gripped in her small, talented hands, ready to take a swing. Watching me.

“The house is empty, but they were upstairs.”

She twists her mouth, glancing down at my boot—wondering, I’m sure, why I’m carrying a gun when I’m “off duty”—but she doesn’t ask about that. “I called the cops.”

“I can hear that. You also didn’t take my car, like I asked you to.” I should have known she wouldn’t listen.

She relaxes her arms, tossing the bat to the floor. “I’ll need their report to file any insurance claims,” she says, ignoring my chastising. She gazes around the main floor, her attention not really grabbing onto anything for more than a second. “Why would someone do this? There’s nothing of value to steal in here.”

I know exactly why, but I can’t tell her.

I shouldn’t be here. I should leave right now.

I close the distance and rope an arm around her as the screams of sirens approach.

Ivy flips through her sketchbook, the sheets half torn from the spiral spine and dangling. “Seriously? Even my sketchbook?” She whips it across the dash of my car in a fit of rage, blinking repeatedly to stave off the tears that coat her eyes.

I pull up to the curb in front of a simple green California bungalow in the Haight, an artsy neighborhood that my mom used to like to drive through on hot summer days, to look at the brightly painted Victorian houses. My parents actually aren’t far from this quiet side street, no more than a ten-minute drive.

Reaching over, I silently retrieve the book from my dashboard and shift the pages as best I can to fit within the cardboard cover. A man’s profile fills the page in front of me.

“The police sketch artist did a shitty job. I’ve been trying to get it right,” she mumbles. “Haven’t, yet.”

Probably a good thing. I don’t want to give Bentley’s guys any more reason to consider her a risk.

I say nothing, continuing to tidy the pages. The last one before a stack of blanks is a sketch of me. A highly accurate depiction, which I can’t say I’d want ever handed to law enforcement.

When she sees me studying it, she reaches over and yanks the book out of my hand. “I like to draw people I meet,” she explains simply, holding her ruined sketches close to her chest, her arms roped around the book. If she’s blushing, it’s too dark to tell.

But I know she’s shaken up by the entire experience tonight, whether she’ll admit it or not.

The cops let her collect a few overnight things before sending us out so they can finish their evidence collection. I lean over to grab the handles of her duffel bag in my backseat, taking in the scent of her as I get close. She doesn’t make a move, and I’m not about to try anything on her now. “Whose place did you say this is?” I ask.

She glances toward the house, where a porch light is now on. “My friend Dakota, from Oregon.”

“Okay, well, you’ll be safe here. I’m sure of it.” I know because I watched my mirrors for a tail the entire drive over.

Silence hangs inside my car for a few long breaths. “How’s your side?”

“Don’t even feel it,” I lie. It’s not too bad, but it’s definitely noticeable.

“You’ll need to take the wrap off soon.” She pauses. “If you come inside, I could do that for you.”

I glance at the shadow watching from the window. “You’ve already woken your friend up in the middle of the night. You don’t think she’ll mind you bringing a stranger in with you?”

“Dakota?” She snorts. “She’ll love it. She invites strangers over all the time.”

“That doesn’t sound safe,” I joke. It’d be so easy to say yes, but I have things I need to deal with. “I’ll be fine. But thanks.”

She chews the inside of her mouth, but she doesn’t say anything. She’s probably wondering why I didn’t offer to bring her back to my place for the rest of the night. I considered it, because I’d rather not let her out of my sight after what happened, but I don’t think even someone as open-minded as Ivy can look past the motel with hourly rates and hookers hanging off the streets outside. “Thanks for sticking around and helping me deal with the cops,” she finally says. “And driving me here.”

As far as the police know, Gregory White accompanied Ivy home from the club. Luckily she wasn’t around when I was giving them that information. They’ll run it through, I’m sure, and they’ll find the dummy profile that Bentley had set up—a thirty-one-year-old truck driver—as a precaution. And hopefully, that’s where that’ll end.

“When you want to go and get your car, give me a call and I’ll take you.”

She slips her duffel bag out of my grasp. “That’s not necessary.” The cool, I-don’t-need-help-from-anyone Ivy is slipping back.

“Yeah, it is. You heard the cops. These people ransacked your place. Given your uncle was killed two weeks ago, it’s suspicious. I don’t want you going to that shop again without me, either.”

Rare amusement dancing in her eyes. “Is this you going all badass bodyguard on me?”

I smirk. “Something like that.”

“Well, don’t think I’m gonna pay you. I have no money for protection.”

“I seem to remember handing you fourteen hundred bucks today.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She gives me a sly smile, but then all amusement fades from her face. “Do you always carry a gun, even when you’re not working?”

I figured that would come up, eventually. “Yeah.” I hesitate but ask, “Does it bother you?”

She shakes her head and then dismisses the topic entirely. “Well, I’m going to the shop at nine in the morning to let the painters in. That’s”—she glances at the clock—“only five hours away.” She looks from the house back to me. I can’t tell if she’s just pointing out the obvious or fishing for me to stay. I don’t even think it’s about getting laid anymore. By the way she seemed to gravitate to my side for the past few hours, dealing with the cops, I think she just feels safer having me around. And that is why I’d love to say yes to her right now.

Pulling out my burner phone—idiot move but it’s the only phone I have on me—I demand, “Give me your number.”

She recites her number and then pushes open the door and climbs out.

I briefly consider grabbing her arm, pulling her back in to taste the last of the whiskey and Coke in her mouth, but I resist because I know where that’ll lead and I do need to go. “Get some sleep. I’ll come back in the morning,” I call out, watching her saunter up to the house with her duffel bag slung over her shoulder. The door opens and a pretty woman with long dark hair and tan skin appears in nothing but a nightshirt. She’s smiling wide, like she’s not at all bothered by the late arrival.

I wait until the door is closed, send her a quick generic “sleep well” text so she has my number, and then pull away.

Bentley answers the phone with a gruff, “Yeah?”

“You sent those fuckers into her house!”

There’s a pause and then I hear rustling on the other end, followed by a muffled, “It’s not even five in the morning, John. Who’s calling?”

“It’s okay. It’s work.”

“What phone is that? That’s not your iPhone, is it?”

“Go back to sleep, Tuuli.” He heaves a sigh. Footfalls sound, and I can picture him trudging down the long hall to his office. Not until a door shuts does he speak again. “I warned you, didn’t I?”

“You said tomorrow, and you didn’t say anything about going into her house.”

“I changed my mind and had them go in to do a final sweep tonight. Figured we had to be sure.”

“That wasn’t a sweep, John. They ransacked it.”

“So the police will file a report and she’ll claim insurance. Not a big deal.”

I grit my teeth against the urge to yell. “You also said they’d stay away from me. One of those assholes was ten feet away from me tonight. He followed her to the club.”

“Did he approach you?”

“No, but—”

“Then he followed orders and there’s nothing to discuss here, so stand down!” Bentley doesn’t like being questioned, and he’s not used to it coming from me.

“Don’t you think turning over a recently murdered man’s house will raise suspicions?”

“Maybe, but no one will have anything to go on and it’ll die down soon enough. It’s worth it, if it means finding that tape.”

“And did they?” I already know the answer, because I already searched the fucking house!

A long pause. “No.”

“Keep them away from me. And her. If she has the tape, she doesn’t know.”

“How do you—”

“Because I’m good at what I do. I can read people, and I know that she had no fucking clue why anyone would want to bust into her place tonight. If she were hiding a tape that got her uncle killed, she’d be freaking out and running. And now the cops have turned their attention to her, and they’re already starting to ask questions that tie back to her uncle.”

A quiet “shit” slips out of Bentley’s mouth.

Seriously, what did he think was going to happen when he told those guys to tail us? They’d already acted beyond the scope of his orders before. Stupid amateur move, Bentley.

“Just . . .” He sighs. “Keep an eye on her. You’re right. We don’t want her turning up dead right now.”

“Or ever.”

“Right.”

“And your guys?”

“They’ll stay away from you.” He’s awful quick to say that.

“If I see them again—”

“Just find that fucking video and everyone will be happy and safe,” Bentley snaps.

The phone line goes dead. I toss it aside and stretch out on my bed. The center caves under my weight, but I barely give it any thought, my mind reeling over tonight’s developments, which veered in a much less enjoyable direction than they were supposed to.

As long as that videotape is out there, Ivy’s not safe, that much is clear. Tonight, Bentley’s other guys trashed her house for no good reason. I already searched that place top to bottom and told Bentley as much. He must be under a lot of stress here, to undermine me like that, to not trust me after bringing me here explicitly because I’m the only one he trusts. He’s not thinking rationally. Which means that tomorrow . . . who’s to stop him from telling these guys to go straight to Ivy?

They’re not getting their hands on her. I won’t allow that.

I need to find this goddamn tape.

The willow tree that my mom planted when I was fourteen is gone, replaced by a generic young maple. I wonder if the willow died. There’s no way my mom decided to cut it down—she loved it and all its messy tendrils.

Everything else about the house is exactly the same, except the new windows. The stucco is the same pale yellow, the front door the same stark white that my dad paints every spring to erase the scuffs. The property is still manicured to perfection.

I haven’t laid eyes on my family’s home in five years, and now I sit parked across the street, with a coffee in hand, a necessity after only two hours of sleep. Something compelled me to take the long way around and see my parents’ home this morning. Maybe to see them.

It’s seven twenty-five and the daily newspaper still rests on the stoop. I expect the door to open any moment, and for Captain George Riker to step out and collect his morning reading. He’ll sit at the kitchen table with a glass of orange juice and read it from cover to cover, even if it takes him all morning.

Unless, maybe, he’s changed. Maybe enough years have passed after retiring from a thirty-year career in the navy that he’s learned to relax a bit. Maybe he doesn’t polish his shoes every day and make my mom iron his golf shirts. Maybe he doesn’t still get together with his guys on Tuesday nights for poker.

Maybe he wouldn’t look at his son through the eyes of a disappointed father.

At exactly eight a.m., the door creaks open and my father steps out in his pressed golf shirt and pressed khaki shorts, his hair still cropped short but nearly all white now. He was thirty-five and halfway done with his career before he met my mother. I inhale sharply, both wistfulness and resigned sadness swelling inside my chest at the sight of him. I used to idolize him, standing tall and proud in his uniform.

He takes a leisurely glance around the neighborhood, waves at Mr. Shaw two doors over, who’s watering his flowers, and then stoops to collect the paper on the welcome mat and disappears inside.

No . . . He’s still the same hard-nosed man.

Before I can think too much about it, I crank the engine and pull away, determined to find that damning video evidence today.

TWENTY-ONE

IVY

I snort into my coffee mug, my eyes still glued to the single text Sebastian sent me last night. I responded, “You too,” but he never answered. “Are you kidding? He’s not coming back.”

“Of course he is,” Dakota says in that mellow, singsong voice of hers. She’s the same from the moment she wakes up until the moment she goes to bed. If I didn’t like her so much, I’d find it highly irritating. “Here. Have a breakfast bar. I just baked them.” She holds a plate of squares out in front of me.

I eye them warily from my wicker chair. Pistachios, sunflower seeds, raisins . . . they look safe.

“Oh, relax.” She rolls her eyes. “I made them for the people at the shelter.”

I smirk, helping myself to one. Dakota’s unconventional, but even she wouldn’t drug homeless people with hash.

My gaze shifts around her rustic greenhouse, an attachment that runs along the back of the home she rents. It’s a simple frame of wooden timbers and hard plastic above and glass windows that make the sides and back. Beneath my feet are flagstones. And all around are plants. Vibrant purple orchids and blooming cacti, lemon trees with fat, yellow fruits hanging from them, even though I don’t think lemons are in season right now. Dozens of colorful planters rest on the floor and on tiered shelves. Giant trees form a canopy in the corners, vines climbing up the walls. It’s a secluded jungle in the heart of San Francisco, decorated with Christmas lights and countless chimes dangling from the beams of the ceiling.

And off to the side, hidden by innocent, floppy tropical green leaves, is her little marijuana grow-op.

“It’s really nice in here. Peaceful,” I offer.

“Isn’t it?” She beams, her almond-shaped eyes rolling over the space in wonder as she tightens her afghan to her shoulders and curls up in the wicker chair opposite me with her own coffee. Dakota has always been a natural beauty—she has Native American roots, with thick black hair that she keeps long, dark olive skin, and slender but supple curves to prove it. She wears very little makeup, if any, and in all the years I’ve known her I don’t think I’ve seen a single pimple mar her complexion. “So, what do you have planned for today?”

“Well . . .” I sigh. “I have to let the painters into the shop and call the insurance company about the house.”

“After all that you’ve been through, now this.” She offers me a sympathetic smile. “Is it beginning to sink in yet?”

I nod, avoiding an answer with another sip of coffee.

Helping herself to a square, she offers, “You can stay for as long as you need to. You know I don’t mind. And I’d rather you did. That area your house is in isn’t the safest. Clearly. I don’t like that you’re alone over there.”

I wasn’t alone. Not last night. Had those jerks not ransacked my house, I would probably be tangled up in the sheets with Sebastian right now. “Thanks. I may take you up on that.” That house isn’t fit for living in at the moment, anyway, even if I did want to stay there. “I’m going to get my things, and my car.” I glance at my phone. It’s eight fifteen. Sebastian will be here soon. If he’s coming.

He’s not coming.

“So, how did you meet this guy, anyway?”

Leave it to Dakota to change topics from grieving my murdered uncle to the guy I picked up with one sentence. “Someone referred him. He showed up three days ago, wanting a piece done on his rib cage. ” I chuckle, remembering the afternoon, how angry I was. “I turned him down at first, but then he helped me with a rusted bolt, and I felt guilty.”

“Hmm . . . So you gave him what he wanted?” There’s the mischievous twinkle in her eye that I saw that first day I met her back in Sisters. I was a high school sophomore and she was a junior, and both of us were skipping class to enjoy a sunny fall day on the grassy hill behind the school with our sketchbooks.

I smirk. “I did his ink for him, yeah. It took seven hours.”

She casually asks through a sip of coffee, “His design or yours?” The look on my face makes her laugh. “Have you ever actually finished someone else’s design without modifying it?”

I shrug. “It’s called creative license. Anyone going under my needle is warned. Even that hummingbird you sketched for Alex has a few Ivy-inspired adjustments.”

A normal person might get annoyed hearing that. Not Dakota. She sighs. “I miss Alex. She’s such a kind, strong soul.”

“I know. So do I.” Dakota is actually the reason I met our friend Alex. She sent her to the Bend shop that I was working in at the time, sketch in hand, bright ocher eyes filled with nervousness and excitement. She’s also now practically married to the only boy I’ve ever loved, Amber’s brother.

But I’ll never admit that to any of them.

The shrill of my phone’s ring disturbs our morning peace. Normally I wouldn’t even bother looking at it, but the ringtone tells me that Ian got my text about the house.

“Sorry. Gotta get this.” I answer with, “Good times, yo.” I sound like Fez.

“Jesus, Ivy.”

I love the way he says “Jesus,” in his weird Irish-American blended accent. “I know, right? Fucking crazy.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Luckily I wasn’t alone when I got home.”

There’s a moment of pause; I can almost hear Ian rolling his eyes. He’s the kind of guy who dates girls before sleeping with them, and he doesn’t date girls unless he can carry on an in-depth conversation about politics with them, using words like “banal” and “hegemony.”

So he doesn’t date a lot.

“How bad is it?”

“It’s totally wrecked. It’s gonna cost thousands to fix.”

He heaves a sigh. “I’m going to start looking for a flight back.”

Yes! Come back and help me deal with this! I scream inside my head. “No, I’ll handle it. You have school and shit.” Commitments that I don’t have. “I’ll give the insurance company a call as soon as I get to the house this morning.”

Ian heaves a second sigh. “That’s part of the problem . . .”

I can already tell by his tone that I’m not going to like this.

“I was going through some of Ned’s unopened mail. His homeowner’s insurance lapsed two months ago. I called them to see about getting it renewed, and they said it’s not that simple, seeing as he’s deceased. I’m sorry that I forgot to mention it to you earlier.”

My stomach pinches with anxiety. “What does that mean?”

“That we don’t have insurance to cover the damages.”

“Oh my God.” I stare blankly at Dakota as she watches. “We’re fucked!”

“No, we’re not. It just means that we’ll take a hit on the sale price.”

“A huge, enormous hit, Ian. You don’t realize how bad it is.” I blow a strand of hair out of my eyes. “I guess I better go get my broom and start cleaning.”

“Okay. I’m coming back.”

“No. Don’t. There’s nowhere for you to stay anyway.”

“He can stay here,” Dakota mouths.

“No he can’t,” I mouth back. He can’t throw away his PhD for this.

“Send me some pictures, will ya?”

“Sure,” I lie. Maybe I shouldn’t have told him in the first place.

“And call that detective we talked to. Make sure he knows about this. I don’t trust those police departments to talk to each other.”

“Do you really think there’s a connection?”

“Honestly, with Ned . . . yeah. Listen, I gotta run to my next class. Let me know if you need something, Ivy. Please.”

I hang up with my cousin and toss the phone to the table, troubled by what this “connection” may be.

“So, you did his seven-hour tattoo, and then . . .” Dakota prods, pulling us back to the topic of Sebastian.

I sigh. Sebastian is a more pleasant topic, and I can’t tackle the insurance problem right now. “And then he asked me out for a drink. I told him to meet me in the VIP lounge of Daredevils. I went home to shower and change.” That was at around ten thirty. Were they already in the house when I was there? Hiding in the closet, watching me change? No, they broke down the door, so they couldn’t have been. Still, just the thought sends chills down my spine and I hug my blanket tighter to me. “We were at the club for a little over an hour and then he drove me home. I didn’t know that someone had broken in until we were at my front door. He ran in to check things out and I called the cops.”

Sebastian ran to check things out with a gun in his hand. A gun that he had tucked in his boot at the bar, and possibly all day while I worked on him. It startled me to see him with it. But I really don’t know anything about him, other than that he was a soldier and now he’s a bodyguard.

“Thank God he was there with you.” That’s what I love most about Dakota. It’s pretty obvious to anyone who knows me—and people who don’t—why I was bringing Sebastian, a guy I’d just met, home with me. But there isn’t a judgmental bone in Dakota’s body. It could be her spiritual inclinations, or her relaxed nature, but she has always been like that. And she’s always lived life with the expectation that no one should judge her, either. People do, because people are critical assholes, by and large—but the thing is, she doesn’t care, and she’s enjoyed life more because of it.

“Yeah. He was there with me last night. I’m not dumb enough to be counting on him to be there today, though,” I mutter.

My words end with a doorbell and Dakota’s know-it-all smile.

“Shit. He’s early.” I look down at myself, still in my boxers and tank top, my teeth not even brushed. “I need ten minutes. Can you stall him?”

She nods eagerly.

Okay, maybe unleashing Dakota on Sebastian at eight fifteen isn’t the best idea. He may still run. “But don’t start talking about all that weird aura stuff. You’ll freak him out. He’s . . . different. Very reserved.” I dart past her and toward the spare room that I slept in last night, slamming the door shut behind me. I don’t have a lot of choice in clothes—I can’t wear the corset dress I had on last night. All I managed to grab in the chaos were leggings and . . . I rifle through my bag and realize that I didn’t grab a shirt. I don’t have a shirt to wear.

I heave an annoyed sigh at myself. I’ll have to borrow something of Dakota’s.

She’s at least six inches taller than me, so this should be interesting.

I pass through the joint bathroom that connects the two bedrooms and walk directly into her closet. She wears a lot of maxi dresses that would drag around my feet, and likely not stay up to begin with, so my options are limited. Very limited. I manage to root out a rose-pink shirt—just about the last color I’d ever choose to wear in my life. It fits well enough, though its cropped length leaves nothing to the imagination thanks to my leggings.

Maybe Sebastian’s imagination needs help anyway.

I shift into the bathroom to do a quick makeover. Dakota’s bathroom is old and cramped, with original tile and poor lighting. I’d never rent this place but I know why she does. It’s charming and quirky, just like her.

And I’ve left her out there with Sebastian.

I throw on daytime makeup and run a brush through my hair. The sides are beginning to grow in. I haven’t decided if I want to shave them again or grow my hair out. Or just lop all my hair off. For now, I leave it down and brush the morning nastiness from my mouth.

When I reemerge, I can hear Dakota’s voice carrying from the greenhouse. I round the bend to find her holding up Sebastian’s T-shirt—charcoal gray, today—as she examines his work. “. . . Yes, the crows circling around her head, that very much signifies the sudden loss of her uncle, and the guilt that haunts her.”

I don’t know where she comes up with this shit. She didn’t even smoke a joint this morning.

“Hey!” I exclaim too loudly. Sebastian peers over his shoulder, his arm raised in the air to accommodate Dakota’s intrusion. He has a strange look on his face—part amusement, part annoyance, part unreadable. When his gaze drifts over my outfit, his expression warms a little.

And it warms my body along with it. It’s impossible for me not to react to this man’s attention. We were so close to ending up in my bed last night. As if falling asleep hasn’t been impossible already, add a break-in and complete trashing of the house, and I’m not entirely certain that I was ever fully unconscious last night.

Leaving me plenty of time to think about Sebastian.

He looks like he got about as much sleep as I did, his eyes tarnished with heavy circles. That he still showed up here to help me speaks volumes. It must be in his protective nature. Or he’s still hoping to get laid.

Maybe I’m too cynical.

Regardless, I wonder how long I have him for today, before he leaves.

I direct my focus to Dakota, though I can still feel Sebastian’s eyes on me. “I borrowed your shirt, just until I can get my clothes out of Ned’s. Hope that’s okay.”

Dakota merely winks, and I know it has nothing to do with borrowing her clothes.

“This is really nice work, Ivy. You should be so proud of yourself.”

As awkward as this is, I should probably check on Sebastian’s tattoo. “Did you follow my instructions?” I ask, moving in closer to inspect the swollen lines and pink skin around it. As expected only twelve hours later. But I can tell that he’s already washed off the ointment and coated it with fresh moisturizer.

“It took a while,” he says, lowering his arm. “We should probably get going so we get to your shop for nine, right?”

Dakota and I now seem to be ogling him without shame. I clear my throat. “Yeah. I don’t want the painters taking off.”

Dakota, who still has his shirt hiked up and bunched in her fist, lets it fall. She pats him on the shoulder. “Grab the spare key hanging by the door on your way out.”

I assume that instruction was for me, but who knows with her? “Will you be here later?”

“I’m heading into work soon, but I’ll be back before dinner.” Dakota opened a little store five minutes away, basically replicating the same one that her aunt owned in Sisters, which sold an eclectic collection of art and jewelry made of recycled and natural materials. As far as I can tell, it’s doing quite well, but that would make sense given this is California, and everyone’s about the environment and art.

“Oh, don’t let me forget, I want you to look at a design I did. I’m thinking of having you do one here.” She trails her fingertip down the top of her right shoulder.

I’ve done all of Dakota’s work, save for her first. “All right. I’ll make sure to bring my kit with me when I come back tonight.” To Sebastian, I ask, “Ready?”

He nods, taking quick steps to get in front of me and out the door, as if he’s eager to get away from Dakota as fast as possible.

“I thought you said you knew how to tell time?”

“I said I’m never late.”

“Thirty minutes early is almost as bad as being late.”

“That shirt looks nice on you,” he responds, ignoring my selfish complaint completely.

“Then enjoy it, because it’ll be the last time you see me in anything that resembles bubble gum,” I grumble, opening his passenger-side door. “Can you drop me off at my house after so I can get out of it?”

“Yeah. But I’ll be coming with you. You’re not going in there alone.”

“Is that so?” I roll my eyes, but I can’t ignore the small thrill that zips through my body. God, I think I’m attracted to this dominating side of him, and I hate it when guys try to tell me what to do. But when Sebastian does it, I don’t mind. It makes me feel safe. Maybe that’s because, for the first time in my life, I truly am not safe. “Do you think the burglary might not have been random?”

With his hand on the ignition, he pauses. “Can you think of any reason why someone might want to break into your dead uncle’s house?”

“No.” Same answer I gave to the cops last night. “But there must be a reason.”

“Did he say anything to you recently, about coming into money or needing money?”

“You think this was about money?”

“Everything’s about money,” he says under his breath.

I sigh. “Ned liked to gamble but . . .” I tell Sebastian about the hundred thousand against the building and his empty accounts. “Do you think that’s what it’s about?”

“Could be. Or something he knew about that he shouldn’t. Did he say anything about any of his clients lately? Maybe someone told him something that they shouldn’t have?”

I frown. “No. Nothing he mentioned to me, at least. I told you, he wasn’t exactly the warmest guy. I have a hard time imagining someone spilling their deep, dark secrets to him.”