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Could she have fought harder? Had she suffered enough for letting him go? Did she deserve this bit of joy on seeing Tyler?
Stop, Gracie. These questions have no answers.
She might not deserve these glimpses, but since losing her brother Tony in Mexico, Gracie was in too much pain to deny herself this joy.
The image of Tony’s body lying on the floor of Walid’s villa, with Justice crying over him, snapped into her brain as lethal and piercing as a gunshot. God.
What kind of life had Tony had? One with unrequited love and devotion. She didn’t want to die like that.
Or like her biological mother, who’d reached out to her only after she’d gotten terminal cancer. They’d connected but had had so little time together.
She wanted a different life. She wanted to find a way to get back into Tyler’s life. Not as a mother, that was Ellen’s role, but in some small way. Problem. John would never allow any contact if he knew she still did operations for the League.
Putting aside his guitar, Tyler stood and rested his elbows on the railing. His gaze fell directly on her. She paused with the spoon to her mouth. Her shoulders drew down. Her adrenaline spiked.
He wasn’t looking at her.
He couldn’t be.
She was just some stranger on the street. She never wore the same thing here. She never uncovered her hair. Heck, sometimes she took a page from Momma and wore a niqab, the Muslim veil that covered hair and face.
But he was. Tyler was staring at her. He waved. Her heart ballooned like it had been filled with helium. It rose and rose and popped, then dropped into her acid-thick stomach.
Danger.
Danger.
Danger.
She turned away, flicked down her visor, tossed her cup into the closest can, and walked back toward her bike.
What had she done? Selfish. The League’s rules were firm. What would Momma say if she knew Gracie had broken her side of the deal? The deal where Momma promised never to hurt John or take his memory as long as Gracie could assure his silence. The deal that kept John quiet. Gracie agreed not to fight for custody of Tyler, to stay away, if John never spoke a word about the League.
The deal that let everyone continue with their lives—everyone but her.
She peeked again as she mounted her bike. Tyler was still watching her. Why had she parked here? Stupid. John came out and stood on the balcony next to Tyler.
Tyler pointed her out to him. He pointed her out.
A log of fear dammed her throat, blocking her breath. She’d gotten careless. Desperate and careless. John knew she rode low, customized bikes—sucked to be short—knew her petite frame.
Her heart accelerated as she drove off, adjusted and checked her rearview. John’s wife had come onto the balcony.
Ellen, El, with the blond hair, who sang like a lark and worked at a popular satellite radio station. John put his arm around her waist, whispered something into her ear. She nodded.
Gracie’s chest ached with a longing so sharp and hot she swore blood poured from the wound.
God, she was tired of the tension in her shoulders and the walls around her heart. She wanted a life with kittens and saucers, and sweet moments, and hot moments. Yes. That.
Taking the corner, she looked one last time. And saw the man she loved, the one she’d let go in order to save his life, and the woman he now loved, turn and go back into their home.
Chapter 7
Standing on a crowded street in Manayunk, Dusty wasn’t sure what he’d just witnessed. Something was up.
The usually unflappable Gracie Parish had just spooked.
Hell, he’d seen less reaction from her in the middle of a firefight in Mexico. Why had she torn out of here after the weird exchange with balcony boy?
Lifting his cell, he checked the photo he’d taken of the kid, expanded it. A little blurry, but did the kid have green eyes like Gracie’s? Could they be related?
Maybe. But in what way? Her file said she’d never given birth. Still, that kid meant something to her. And what of the guy, the one who looked to be the kid’s father?
Dusty wished he’d seen more. Parking being what it was here, he’d only caught the ending. The kid had waved to Gracie. In response, she’d hightailed it out of there.
If that hadn’t been enough to raise his suspicions, the indirect way she’d come here would’ve been. After she’d dropped her car off at a garage, she’d walked two blocks to another garage, then had come out dressed in leather and riding a bike.
He’d nearly missed her. Might have, if he hadn’t recognized the boots. She’d been wearing the knee-high, lace-up black leather boots with a sun dress when she’d gotten in her car at the club. He’d thought that was odd. Hot but odd.
Fact was, she’d gone out of her way to make sure she wasn’t followed here.
She did have a decent surveillance-detection route, proving she had training and had come here more than once. She had situational awareness but had probably grown a little complacent in her life as a club owner. She was good. He was FBI.
All that effort, she sure hadn’t come for the sweet ice. Or what he’d thought would be some secret meeting.
She’d come to see the kid.
Striding through the crosswalk, Dusty went to the brownstone. It had a list of names. Pressing the button on his sunglasses, he snapped a photo.
A moment later, a girl passed him and hit the buzzer that read “John, Ellen, Henry, Tyler True.”
A soft woman’s voice answered. “Come on up, Lil. Ty is waiting.”
The girl pulled the door open, hung far back, gazed upward, and blew balcony boy a kiss.
Huh. The boy, Ty, caught it, sat back down. Chances were the girl would join him on the balcony.
Dusty took out his listening device. He hooked it over his ear, angled it upward. It was already paired to his phone. He pretended to talk to someone while he listened.
No one could do a fake conversation like him. Every so often he’d “Yeah, honey, but…” Pause, and then “Describe where you are again…”
The door to the balcony slid open. The girl and boy embraced. She sat on his lap. They talked. A lot. Kid stuff.
This might be a waste of time. He reached for the disconnect and heard the kid say, “She came back again. That woman who keeps showing up.”
Dusty lowered his hand.
“You sure it’s the same woman, Ty?”
“Yeah, I told you. She’s really short.”
“Short,” the girl huffed. “You’re, like, six foot. You think I’m short.”
“It’s her. Seen her at least twice before.”
He had? Bet he’d missed her a lot more times, but Dusty was surprised the kid was so observant. And smart enough not to take the bait on that short line.
“My dad’s freaked. Finally convinced my mom we need security. He’s putting up cameras.”
“So, what, she’s a stalker? Am I going to have to take her down?”
He laughed and snuggled her neck. They began to make out. Loudly. Well, loudly to the perv holding the microphone up to them. He lowered the volume until he heard the boy come up for air.
“Want to go to my room?”
“Your parents.”
“They don’t care.”
She paused. “Are you sure?”
Okay, no way this conversation was going back to Gracie. He turned the device off and maneuvered through the sidewalk of people and back toward his car.
So the kid had recognized Gracie, but not who she was. That didn’t rule out a family connection. Gracie had been adopted, so maybe she’d discovered a relation here and had blown it up in her mind.
Or this could have something to do with her family’s vigilantism. Could she be after the father? Could she be following the kid to get a bead on the dad?
He’d find out.
* * *
