Page 22 of No Merciful Corruption

“No, he doesn’t.” He agrees. “It’s the rookie detective that’s the problem.”

“What do we know about him?”

“Nothing yet. Sasha promised it wouldn’t be a problem but I’m starting to think it might become one.”

A high-profile case like this could make a young detective’s career if he’s smart and ambitious. Earlier this month when the news broke about the Mayor’s Office being investigated for corruption, I thought it was a blessing. Stories about Li’s death and the massacre in Central Park had finally dropped from the public eye but now I wonder if it was the final nail in our coffin. The Police Commissioner and Mayor are close friends—buddies from the early days of their political careers. Commissioner Reagan might be a relative of Rian and Sasha through their mother but he’d be disinclined toward granting his nephews a favor of this magnitude at a time like this. Li Huang was a titan in this city and not only is he dead but it happened under mysterious circumstances.

We’ve stuck as close to the truth as possible at Sasha’s behest. The less you lie, the easier it is to keep track of the story you’re telling. Detectives Wilson and Carson have been on the case since the beginning but in the early days of my recovery, I wasn’t of much use to anyone. Besides, there were several other bodies to account for, Li’s being among them. One would think it’d be easy to find a corpse in a shallow, isolated body of water like the pond under Bow Bridge. Except when Li fell, he broke through the ice and sank to the bottom. This winter has been so cold that the ice froze over again. After we were hit with another storm and several inches of snow, it took law enforcement a week to fish his cadaver out of the water.

Rian was inconsolable that night. I went to visit him in his hospital room but…

Well, we haven’t spoken since. And it hasn’t been from lack of trying. He simply refuses to see me.

But he speaks to Lyss and I know through her that he isn’t starving to death or neglecting his health. At least he’s speaking to one of us…

I finish unpacking what’s left in the bag; a variety of berries, all of which are not going to fit in my fridge. “Did you rob a fruit stand?”

He looks at me.

“You bought enough to feed an entire kindergarten class. Actually, you bought a lot of food.” I reach for a knife and start peeling the skin off an orange. “What are you making tonight?”

He doesn’t respond right away. “I wanted to make sure you had food in the house.”

“Mm.” I murmur around an orange slice.

“In case I have to leave this weekend.”

The knife stills in my hand.

“I know we haven’t spoken much since everything happened⁠—”

“No. We haven’t.”

“I can’t stay here forever. One way or another, I’ll have to go back eventually.”

I set the knife and orange down having suddenly lost my appetite. “I don’t want to talk about this…”

“If not now, then when? It’s been a month.”

My throat closes and my eyes burn. “Not yet.”

“When?”

“I don’t know.”

It’s been so easy between us lately. I can’t remember the last time we were in such a good place. It’s like clockwork. Every day, he stops by to check on me. We have breakfast together and afterward, I clean the kitchen. Then we sit upstairs in the library where I catch up on schoolwork remotely and he types away on his laptop. Sometimes Lyss joins us and we all go out to lunch together. On days where it isn’t snowing we go for walks in the park or take a drive around the city. Alejandro leaves for a few hours in the late afternoon but I never ask about his whereabouts because he’s back in the evening to start on dinner.

Doña Ana sets the table, we eat together, watch a movie or two, and then he leaves. In the aftermath of the shootout at Central Park we’ve fallen into a fragile armistice I’m terrified to break. How much longer can we go without addressing the elephant in the room? My hope is forever.

“Dahlia, I can’t stay here and I’m not asking you to come with me. Not like this.”

Feeling defensive I say, “Why do I have to be the one who moves again? Why can’t you stay here for a while?”

“That would require a more serious conversation,” he answers calmly. “One you refuse to have.”

Damn it. He got me there.

“If you want me to stay in New York, then I will. But you have to ask.”