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I rested my head against his shoulder and closed my eyes.
He was.
The smile plastered across my face felt like it would be there forever. I knew permanence was an illusion, but for now, I’d let myself enjoy being downright smitten.
A short time later, Keegan parked the Range Rover in front of the Flynn mansion. It was the first time either Lucifer or I had visited the scene since the day of the fire. I knew this because Lucifer had refused to leave my side when I’d been a guest at Beth Israel.
The Flynn Syndicate had continued to function in Lucifer’s physical absence. Their boss was resourceful, and he’d surrounded himself with trustworthy people whom he could rely on.
Keegan exited the vehicle first. He did a sweep of the area, including the chapel and outbuildings, then returned to Lucifer’s door and opened it. Lucifer stepped out, offering me his hand. He held mine extra tight and pulled me into his side the second I was on my feet.
He ghosted his lips across my temple. “Tell me if you want to leave.”
“Okay . . .”
The spring thaw greeted us with dead grass, soggy soil, and a deceptive amount of sunshine. Keegan gave us privacy as Lucifer and I explored the grounds, keeping a safe distance from the main house. The investigative teams had cleared out, but the salvage crews hadn’t even begun their work. It would be months before the mansion was habitable again.
My mental health welcomed the reprieve.
Crime scene tape flapped in the harsh wind. I shivered under the canopy of Lucifer’s arm.
“What is it?” he asked. His tone was gentle, supportive.
“Nothing . . . new . . .”
Lucifer tensed. He carried guilt for what had happened to me. A weight that wasn’t his to bear but was impossible for him to ignore.
Our feet dragged to a stop after we’d circled the mansion for the third time.
I’d once believed that the Flynns lived in a palace and that Lachlan Flynn was a king or a sultan. Now I saw it for what it really was: the source of my husband’s lifelong memories—the good, the bad, and the really fucking terrible.
Would it have been the worst thing in the world if it had burned to the ground?
Only Lucifer could answer that question.
He tucked my hair behind my ear. “Tell me again. I may have missed something.”
I stared into his tired eyes. My husband didn’t miss a thing. But if it would help him sleep a little easier at night, I would repeat my story every bloody day.
I cleared my throat, then recounted how the feds had arrived almost as soon as Lucifer had left for his meeting. How I’d realized the prostitute from The Dot was really an undercover federal agent and that I’d been alarmed by what she’d said—or rather, didn’t say—about Pier 19. I explained how I’d tried to break into the catacombs so I could ask Raphael if he knew about the pier, and how I’d foolishly thought that Finn had caved to my charm and unlocked the door.
I scowled at my own naivete. “I’m a fucking idiot ...” I mumbled. Something similar slipped out every time I’d reached this milestone in my narrative.
Lucifer’s arms tightened around me. “Go on.”
I omitted the part about how I’d found out that Lucifer had been beating the shit out of his brother because of my nightmares. It wasn’t that I thought Lucifer would have regrets if he dwelled on that, but Raphael felt like a delicate subject.
Yet I didn’t hesitate to point out that Raphael had been unhelpful regarding the pier—which I’d since learned from Lucifer was Albanian territory—and that was when we were interrupted by Grifin and Cillian.
Grifin was a rat for the Brennans.
I wasn’t the savvy assassin I thought I was. The Brennans knew I’d killed Tiernan—and how. They wanted revenge for his death and had been biding their time for months, collecting power and privileges along the way.
The tale had a familiar ring to it.
Grifin had attacked me, but Raphael had been the one to kill him.
Cillian? That was me.
