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He’s not here, and I think my brain’s been listening for him to come home. I think—for about the millionth time this evening—of going through everything, finding a way to contact Fallon, but this is Tizio.
It’s his home, yes, but he’s not about to leave anything lying about for me to find, nothing he doesn’t want me to find, anyway.
And say I find something, he’s not going just to let me go there, not without him. I could call, or send an email, but I don’t know which prison. While I could look that up and dive into the dark web so my tracks are covered, I’m not sure what a call or email will do other than, at the least, piss my brother off or, worse, get him hurt.
I sigh, running my hand over the sheets.
I freeze as the key scrapes in the lock. I should run, go to bed, dive under the covers, but I don’t. He comes and leans in the doorway of his room, his tired amber eyes on me, and there’s blood on the white of his shirt.
“Not mine.”
“Should I feel better about that?”
He half smiles and pulls off his tie, then wraps it around his hands. “Depends how you feel about me, I suppose.”
“The only blood of yours that should ever be spilled,” I say, crossing my arms as I face him, a little too aware I’m in panties with cartoon cats on them and his T-shirt, “is by me.”
“I’ll take that as warned. I’m fine, by the way.” His gaze travels over me, lingering on my legs. “Clearly.”
“Are you going to tell me to go to bed?”
“Will it work?” He sighs, looks at the tie, then at me, and finally uncoils it. He comes in, draping it over the high back chair in the corner, then he adds his jacket, takes off his shirt, and bunches it, throwing it at a laundry basket.
My heart beats fast and wild as he adds his pants, leaving himself in just boxer briefs that show me everything to perfection. That impressive package, the tight buns, those long, muscular legs.
He ruffles my hair and heads out. I follow. Of course, I do. I’m worse than a puppy. I’m addicted and hungry for affection from him, for anything that looks like affection.
He pours a drink in the kitchen, the bourbon, and takes a swallow, leaning back against the sink and closing his eyes.
“Every fucking time I think I’m closer to answers, something else fucking hits me in the face. They warned me to back off, used you.”
The way he says it, eyes shut, carefully, tells me he’s extremely angry, and they didn’t use me. I was threatened.
I lean on the counter between us. “Who?”
“People who tried to rip my boss off. They’re new, mentioned Smith . . .” He breathes out, opens his eyes, and takes another swallow. “There are pieces that seem like they fit, but they don’t.”
“You need a key.”
He frowns.
“In a jigsaw, it helps to get corner and edge pieces, then the ones that are distinct. After that, it’s a matter of finding the right part to slot in to make the picture cohesive.” I run my finger along the edge of the island as I straighten.
“Jigsaw?”
“Yep.” I nod. “Or, like with a cipher or code, you need the one thing that’ll make sense of the seeming mess. A common denominator. With coding, it’s about finding and deleting a piece or just adding something and making it work. The thing that clicks, y’know. So, what do you have?”
“Missing girls. We know of the network there, but it ties into a bigger part we can’t quite fit. Then there are the other pieces. Your brother, going after you, blockades, all the pieces that work but not all together.”
“Find that piece,” I say. “It could be one thing or tiny things you need to fit. Or maybe something you need to eliminate or add.”
He laughs. “The fucking million-dollar question.”
“That’s all I’ve got.”
“Thanks, Karlee. It’s smart. I just want this done without a war.”
“Like mafia?”
