Page 17 of Bram

The light hummed. The blood pooled wider.

The back door swung slightly open, letting in a little desert cold. It smelled like dust and iron.

I poured myself a whiskey and sat with her.

Neither of us said another word.

eight

Julie

Istood at my kitchen counter in a robe that still smelled like the package it came in: silk, black, one size smaller than advertised. My hair was damp and starting to frizz at the edges. Both hands cupped a mug, the kind you get as a Christmas gag, and the coffee inside was past cold—room temp, slightly bitter, perfect for a postmortem. I hadn’t moved in several minutes. The rest of the house was pristine. Dish towel folded into thirds on the oven. Succulent on the windowsill, three leaves, one scarred from a dropped bowl. Case files were stacked by the table, arranged in color order, red on top for urgent, yellow for pending, blue for show.

Both the body and its blood were gone. Not a single trace. Mom had left shortly after midnight, mumbling about how she would get them back. She was always trying to get them back.

Now, the only thing out of place was me.

I heard the first knock before it landed. The second was softer, maybe a courtesy tap. I wrapped my right hand tighter around the mug, set it down on the counter, and wiped my palm along the silk before heading for the door. I considered the Glock in my purse but had a feeling about the knock and who it might be.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want him here. When a man saves your life, your entire view of him changes, especially when you start to compare him to the other men around you.

He was standing on the porch, the silhouette familiar and impossible, stitched together out of things I didn’t want to see up close. Bram Jackson, in full daylight, looked more like a statue than a man. The club cut was thrown over a long-sleeve shirt, the left hem stained a pale rust where blood had wicked through the night. His face was paler than I’d ever seen it, like he’d drawn the color straight from the wound and left the rest empty. Even so, he was upright. He made sure I saw that.

“Morning,” he said.

I didn’t answer. I braced the frame with one hand and blocked half the door with my body. “You shouldn’t be here.” A lie.

He didn’t blink. “I need a word.”

“About what?”

He rolled his left shoulder, winced, pretending it was nothing. “The Scorpion at your mother’s place. Was he working solo?”

How the fuck? “Does it matter?” I kept my voice low. “He’s dead. Ruiz handled it. Nobody’s coming for my mom, not now.”

He shook his head as if that could make the conversation last longer than I wanted it to. “That’s not how this works. There’s always a replacement.”

He waited for me to fill the space. I let silence do the work.

“Why are you really here?” I said.

He looked past me, at the corners of the house, at the windows, and then the street. “You were at the bar last night.”

“You noticed,” I said.

“Yeah, and I believe I saved you.” He shifted his weight, a slight adjustment but enough to make his boots creak on the concrete. “Don’t go back.”

I almost laughed. “That a threat or a favor?”

“It’s a request.” His eyes were steady, pale gray, and locked to mine. “You’re on a list, Julie. You always have been. That bar’s not safe, and neither is your office, not until this shakes out.”

“Let me guess.” I crossed my arms. “You’re offering club protection, free of charge.”

“No,” he said. “I’m telling you to keep your head down. It’s the only thing that keeps people alive.”

I chewed on that and watched the way he kept his bad side away from the railing. “You should be in bed,” I said, a little softer. “You lost a lot of blood.”

He shrugged again. “I’m fine.”