Page 115 of Ruthless Enforcer

Behind us, Hendricks is already doing whatever Hendricks does when there's a dead former gubernatorial candidate on the floor.

I don't ask.

Mandy catches my eye.

I nod once.

So does she. Nothing else needs saying.

Beyond the fire doors, the quartet is still playing. People are laughing. Glasses clink.

Clara's paintings are hanging on the walls. Her night is still waiting for her.

I take her hand. “Come on, Duchess.”

She looks toward the gallery, then back at Turner's body.

“We're going back?”

“Damn right we are.” I bring her knuckles to my mouth. “I'm not letting that asshole ruin your opening twice.”

78

CLARA

The drive back to the Oregon Coast takes thirteen hours.

Gabriel doesn't speak much. Neither do I. We're both still processing the fact that Cole Turner is actually, finally, irrevocably dead—that the threat that has shaped our entire marriage is gone.

The snow turns to rain somewhere before Portland, and by the time we pull into the gravel driveway of the beach house, the storm has settled into a steady, rhythmic downpour that drums against the roof of the SUV.

Gabriel kills the engine and sits there for a moment, his hands still gripping the steering wheel, staring out at the dark ocean beyond the windows.

"You okay?" I ask quietly.

He turns his head to look at me, and something in his expression makes my chest ache. Relief. Exhaustion. Something deeper that he's not ready to name yet.

"Yeah," he says finally. "I'm better than okay."

He gets out, comes around to my side, and opens the door. I take his hand and let him pull me out into the rain. We don't run. We walk slowly up the wooden steps to the front door, letting the cold water soak through our clothes, washing away the last remnants of the gallery and the loading dock and the explosion and everything that came before.

Inside, the house is warm and quiet. Gabriel locks the door behind us, sets the alarm, and turns to face me.

"You need anything?" he asks. "Food? Shower? Sleep?"

I shake my head. "I need to show you something. Go to the bedroom and wait in the closet."

“The closet?” His brow lifts. “Are we playing hide and seek? Because I have somewhere else I’d rather bury myself.”

My cheeks warm. “Just go. I’ll be right there.”

Smirking knowingly, he goes upstairs to his bedroom—our bedroom, I correct myself silently.

And I go to the solarium.

The painting is leaning against the wall beside the closet, right where I left it three days ago. It's large—four feet by five feet—and still tacky to the touch. I carry it carefully to the bedroom and set it down propped against the dresser. Then I go to peek into the closet.

Gabriel stands with his arms crossed, waiting with an unreadable expression he gets when he's trying to figure out what I'm thinking.