Page 70 of No Lies No Promises

When Mace opens up, I ask, “She asleep?”

Before he can answer, Buddy jumps off the fridge onto the table. Purring, he nudges my hand, no doubt hoping to be fed. As I pet his furry head, I wish like hell it was a couple of weeks ago. I could use a do-over.

“You should talk to her.” Mace scowls, but what the hell does he know?

“And say what? Sorry I let our boss kidnap you? …No can do. I screwed up.”

“For fuck’s sake, she’s miserable. Fix it.”

For a moment, I consider walking down the hallway to take her into my arms. But what happens afterward?

Rather than rehash my pathetic life with a guy I just met, I keep it light. “Did I mention her MMA skills? She can literally break my balls. Anyhow, I only knocked to tell you I’m going to circle the block. Check for anything sus. Be back in a few.”

He punches my shoulder. “Head on a swivel.”

“Copy that.”

As I’m about to trot down the stairs, he calls out, “Wait. Has Rebecca mentioned me… or ah… asked about me?”

Poor guy’s got it bad. I suspect even worse than me.

Turning, I shake my head. “She’s siding with her sister and my grandmother. In their minds, we’re all equally guilty. Sorry.”

It’s probably for the best. Love sucks.

After circling a few times, I return to my spot on the linoleum. My weapon nearby, I keep watch.

The couple next door returns at two a.m. Laughing, they wave at me before staggering into their abode. Around six, a guy in a suit from 3A waves as he leaves. Other than them, there’s no movement.

Soon after, Mason hands me a cup of coffee. While I sip, Daed’s voice rumbles in my comms. “Morning, happy campers.”

I grunt. “What’s up?”

“The boss wants you in his office. Pronto. Time to interview Pearson. He says take one car. Also, I’m supposed to remind you. Make up with Lillian.”

If only I knew how. I’m still trying to solve the mystery, aka Lillian Boyle, when she steps out of her bedroom.

My chest constricts. I should’ve slept beside her last night, made love, apologized, done whatever it took to help her understand how much I care.

Wearing her go-to comfort clothes—black leggings, a long T-shirt, and sneakers—she ignores me, making a beeline for the coffee. When the cat lands on the table with a thud, begging for breakfast, I wait for her eyes to lift to mine. They don’t.

“Gotcha, pal.” She pats his furry head, so full of love… damned if I’m not jealous of the feline.

Hating the ache in my gut, I grab the keys. “I’ll bring the car around.”

A short drive later, I park in Dante’s underground garage in Williamsburg, then join Mace and Lil standing next to Dante.

“This way.” Our boss strides toward the back wall, enters a code beside a gray door, and opens it.

A mildew-infused breeze dampens our faces as we follow him under the string of bare bulbs. The harsh lights brighten the turn-of-the-century brick tunnel. A huge rat casts an even longer shadow before he scuttles into a hole. Underground for another twelve feet, we enter what must’ve been a speakeasy.

Against the far wall, Jeff Pearson sits on the floor, arms behind him, ankles tie-wrapped. His eyes narrow into slits as we pass broken bar furniture.

When we circle him, he smirks. “How sweet. It’s Detective Barbie and her GI Joe boy toys.”

Dante scowls. “You said you wanted to talk, so talk.”

Our prisoner shifts his weight with a glint in his eyes. I know the look, well. He thinks he has the upper hand.