I wake to the buzzing of my phone, my lashes lifting, disorientation coming fast and hard and then fading. I’m in bed, on my back, and the room is dark, which may or may not be compliments of the blackout blinds. Kane is draped partially across me. I decide right then that he’s a much better bedmate than my shotgun Cujo, which I’ve favored since moving back to New York. But then, Cujo was lost when my mother’s house burned down. I forcefully shove aside the decision to rebuild as I have for weeks. So much so that I shut my eyes again, holding onto the moment. My phone has stopped ringing. Good. This mattress, with Kane’s body as a blanket, are the best. The very best. Maybe even better than chocolate. My phone starts ringing again. I groan and reach for it, glancing at the caller ID to find my boss calling. It’s also eight in the morning.
I answer the line. “Director Murphy.” I glance at Kane, who tilts his face skyward and groans softly before throwing away the blanket on his side. “Isn’t this your day off?” I ask, refocusing on the call.
“Why did I hear about your new case from someone else, Special Agent Love?”
“It’s Thanksgiving,” I reply, fighting the tartness that wants to slide into my tone. “I was going to call you tomorrow on my way to the autopsy.”
“Let me get this straight,” he says, his tone sharp enough to have me throwing away my blanket too while steeling myself for what comes next. “Our friend,” he adds–that’s his way of discreetly referencing Pocher—because he’s a paranoid bastard who thinks everyone is always listening in—“our friend,” he continues, “is alive, you’re engaged to Kane, which by the way I had to find out on my own, and the victim of a murder last night was wearing a wedding dress. And let us not forget that there was a jar of blood with your name on it left at the crime scene. What part of that said wait to call Director Murphy?”
At this point, I’m sitting on the edge of the bed and Kane’s crossed the room to disappear inside the bathroom. “I’ve been working on being more thoughtful, Director,” I comment. “Please. Thank you. Waiting until after Thanksgiving.”
Kane leans back into the room and mouths, “and fuck you, please” before he disappears again.
I’d smile, but Murphy snips that away real quick with a reply of, “What you’re working on is pissing me off all over again. Don’t patronize me.”
“First you’re my boss. That would be a stupid move. And surely you know by now that I don’t patronize. That’s not my thing.”
“Stop talking, Agent Love, unless you plan to say something of consequence.”
“Okay,” I say, angling for a reason. “I’m not solid on what I’m about to say yet, but I have a strong belief that this could be an Umbrella Man copycat or protégé of Roger’s. Not our friend.”
He’s silent three beats before he asks, “Why?”
I don’t immediately answer and not because the line may not be safe. Because every answer I give him, he could counter. Yes, this whole case feels beneath Pocher, and it feels like him asking for trouble he doesn’t need, but with the morning light, I’m clear on one fact: that doesn’t mean he’s innocent. There could be a motivation I’m missing. A distraction he’s creating to keep me and/or Kane from seeing something else. And he could just be driven by his grief to be careless. This entire crime could be driven by grief and anger that I cannot dismiss as a human reaction—yes, even Pocher is human. Maybe. Or a demon. I’m not into that shit, but if I were, he’d be on my demon list. And so, I say quite professionally, “Because my job is to look at all possibilities.”
“There are no coincidences, Agent Love,” he reminds me. “Isn’t that what you always tell me?”
I grind my teeth. Truly, I’m getting sick of everyone repeating my own words but I roll with it. “That’s true,” I counter, “but I’m also not stupid enough to believe the obvious.”
“Good answer. Dig deeper. Call me tomorrow after the autopsy.”
“Wait,” I say when I’m sure he’s going to disconnect.
“Yes, Agent Love?”
“Danica Day and Officer North. I don’t like them.”
“I’ve come to know you don’t like many people.”
“That’s true, but in this case, it’s about agendas. Perhaps the wrong ones. Do you know anything about either of them?”
“I don’t, but I’ll look into them. Call me tomorrow,” he adds again, and when he would hang up, he adds, “And Happy Thanksgiving, Agent Love.” He disconnects.
I groan and set my phone down. Kane appears in the bathroom doorway. He’s still naked from the waist up, his shoulder resting on the frame. “Problem?” he asks.
Isn’t there always? I think as I stand and Kane crosses to stand in front of me. “I was wrong.”
In other words, he was listening to my conversation therefore I know exactly what he means. “We’re back to Pocher, right?”
“We can’t rule out the fact that he’s still human, no matter the monster we know he is. He could be operating on grief. He could be distracting me, and us, while he plots something bigger. I need to go and see him. And I need leverage when I do.”
He catches my hips and walks me to him. “Give me time to hear back from my people.”
“How long?”
“It’s Thanksgiving. I need a few days. And as for the leverage. I’m it. He knows my uncle wants to rule the world and if not for me, he’d have already started wars that would disrupt the goals of the Society.”
“And yet, you don’t run the cartel,” I say tightly.
His eyes darken. “Is that a question? Again? Because no matter who I am, or am not, if you think I won’t use it to protect you, then we have a problem.”
“You didn’t think that was enough in the past,” I say, which is exactly why at one point, he set it up to look like a rival gang kidnapped Pocher’s brother and Kane saved him. In exchange for my safety of course. “What changed?” I ask.
“It changed, Lilah,” is all he says.
“Then I need to know why,” I argue.
“The more you know, the more you’re compromised. Don’t push, Lilah. You won’t like the answer.”
“Don’t push,” I repeat, and it’s not a question. I demand. In other words, he’s telling me I was right earlier. We’re back to secrets. I don’t like it. And so, I do push. I push away from him. “I can’t run in this weather. I’m going downstairs to workout,” I add, referencing the gym and sparring area he had installed years back, even before my attack. I try to move past him to get to the closet where I can get dressed.
He catches me to him and rotates to press his back to the doorframe and hold me in front of him. “We’ll spar together.” His voice is dark, his eyes darker. “I’ll help you change.”
“No,” I say, my hand firmly on his bare chest, and the thunder of his heart beneath my palm defies his cool, calm, fuck-me-into-submission attitude that he knows won’t work. But I guess he has to try. He isn’t tattooed up like his father before him, I think rather randomly, though it’s really not that random at all. Kane doesn’t need ink on his skin to tell the story of who he is and what he does. The world knows when he walks into a room that he’s a leader. But he’s not my leader. He still doesn’t seem to get that.
“Lilah,” he says softly, and in that moment, he’s all kinds of dark and wrong for me. And yet, I’m just as dark and wrong, and I still want him. I still want his ring on my finger. But he promised me no more secrets.
“I need to workout,” I say, pushing out of his arms, and this time, he lets me go.