Isabelle stood at the side of the bed as Andy kicked off her boots and dropped her coat on the couch.
“Are you mad at me?” Isabelle said, her voice a whisper.
“Yes.” Andy sighed as she realized she was lying. Maybe the drive here and the cool night air had helped to clear her head. “No. We cut you off from all communications and then expect you to just be okay. To trust us. I probably would have done the same. I just wished you’d told us earlier about the thing with Horace Gibson and the police.”
“And when exactly should I have done this?”
Andy gave a wry smile. “Yeah. I suppose you’re right.”
“No hard feelings?” Isabelle asked.
“No.” Andy tilted her head. “I’m not sure Caroline feels the same, but I’ll deal with her.”
Isabelle bristled at the mention of Caroline’s name but said nothing. “So, if you’re not mad at me, sleep with me,” she said, her voice gaining a sultry lilt. “Here. In our bed.”
Andy rubbed her chest where the bullets had hit the bulletproof vest. “I’m okay on the couch.”
“I’m not okay with you there. You made me run around the city to make sure I dream and now you want to run away from your responsibility.” Isabelle smoothed down the white bedding. “Besides. It’s my birthday, remember? And I’m pretty sure you didn’t get me anything.”
Andy couldn’t help but smile. “That you had every opportunity to mention.”
“And ruin the emotional blackmail? This beautiful moment?”
The smile turned into a laugh. Andy untucked her shirt. The cops took her gun and knives. She would need to go to the quartermaster to get new weapons in the morning. She glanced at her watch. Later today. It was six already. Kate had demanded to speak to her and Isabelle, but she’d flatly refused. They needed to sleep. Jam and Caroline could fill her in until they were ready to surface.
Arlene Hampton was dead. They failed to save her life. She locked eyes with Isabelle. Her green eyes were already murky with sleep, with the dream that would undoubtedly haunt her as soon as she closed her eyes, perhaps of Marat Sharapov this time.
“Are you okay?” she asked. Losing Hampton must have impacted Isabelle more than anyone else on the team.
“No,” Isabelle said.
She stood up, stripped her black dress from her body, and stood next to the bed in heels and a garter belt and black lace that made Andy’s heart rate pick up a notch, despite the exhaustion. Then she remembered. Isabelle would probably still carry the scent of the woman from the club.
“I messed up,” Isabelle said in a clipped tone. “If I stayed here last night we could have maybe saved Arlene.”
“If we stayed here we would have slept right through the snow and only woken up this morning.” Andy closed the gap between them. She wanted to tell her that it was okay. That dreaming wasn’t a science. It was a hope. A dark road you traveled down with the vague ambition that you could prevent a catastrophe Fate had every intention of carrying out.
Isabelle looked at Andy, her eyes shiny. “Perhaps it’s better if I leave. This is obviously a mistake. I’m not what your mother imagined I’d be.”
“Nobody made a mistake. I’m absolutely certain about that.” Andy stepped closer and took Isabelle in her arms. “And you can’t leave now. We need to see this through. And I sure as hell can’t do it without you. I want to know who murdered Arlene. I need to know.”
Andy knew it would be better for Isabelle to leave, but only in a physical sense, as it would keep her safe. Emotionally and intellectually, she would suffer major harm. If she packed her bags now, she’d end up with some doctor dosing her up to her eyeballs with drugs she didn’t need. Great if you required it, but Isabelle didn’t. It would be a life lost, and it would be Andy’s fault.
Isabelle needed to understand her skill. Trust it. Then make a decision about her future.
Then you better help her, a tiny voice inside her chimed in. Help her like you mean it.
“Take a shower,” Andy said, Isabelle warm against her body, her hair smelling of the ocean and the gentle hint of smoke and musk. “And go to bed. I’ll be right behind you.”
When Andy emerged from the bathroom, Isabelle was fast asleep. Andy watched as she breathed deeply, numbed by the day’s exhaustion. She leaned down and kissed her in the gentle slope below her ear, the elegant, taut muscle of her neck so much less stubborn in sleep.
“What am I going to do with you, Isabelle Templeton,” she murmured. “What on earth am I going to do with you?”