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The connection was cut, that deep, serious voice turned off like a lamp at midnight.
“Sonofabitch.”
As she shoved her phone into her pocket, she thought of Spaz and wondered how the shelter was going for him. He would have been assessed by now, and had that stab wound checked out. He’d also have a hot meal in his belly and a clean bed for his body to rest on. She wished there was a way to make him stay in long enough to transition into a long-term care facility that would detox him and get him into a sustainable recovery.
But that wasn’t the way things worked.
Rio watched the couple get into a station wagon. The man helped the woman into the passenger seat; then he went around and got behind the wheel. The headlights flared to life, but the couple didn’t immediately leave. They were talking.
She imagined the husband was worried that the wife was sick to her stomach. Then Rio dubbed in the wife telling him she was fine, no, honestly, she was fine. He would ask if she had enough stuffing left in her to pick up the antibiotics/painkillers/antivirals/whatever at the twenty-four-hour pharmacy at that Hannaford’s on the way home. If she didn’t, he’d take her back first—
I’m fine, honey. Drive on.
Eventually, the station wagon eased forward, crossing the parking lot and hanging a left to hook up with the main road to the complex’s exit.
Rio stayed where she was, next to her car, until she couldn’t see their headlights anymore.
Then she closed her eyes—and, for no good reason, thought of the supplier from back in that alley. He was right. He had saved her life. Twice.
But they weren’t going for a third time.
For so many reasons.
Out far to the west of Caldwell, a farmhouse with a wraparound porch, a big maple in the side yard, and a family under its gabled roof was glowing with light and warmth and laughter. Inside, there was a son who had been found, and a sister who was sunshine at midnight . . . and a male and a female who were united in love. Though the tract of land was isolated, it was hardly lonely on the acreage. And inside, the pantries were full, and family pictures sat upon the mantel, and there was so much to look forward to and celebrate: Birthdays, festival nights, even regular things like a shared First Meal or a homemade dessert for Last Meal or a book well read, a game of gin rummy well played, a practical joke well dealt.
It was a good life. A great life, by all accounts.
And as the male of the family stepped out of the front door and took a deep breath of the rain-saturated air, he lied to the one he held closest in his heart as he propped the heavy weight open with his running shoe.
“Nah, not long,” the Jackal said. “Just maybe ten miles out and back. It’ll take me about two hours?”
Down by the kitchen, his shellan, Nyx, leaned around the doorjamb. “Sounds great. Just watch that ankle of yours.”
For a split second, his mate was all he could see, from her long, black hair to her familiar face, her flashing hazel eyes to her beautiful smile. In the space of no time at all, Nyx had become his world . . . Nyx and his son, Peter, and her sister and her grandfather.
They were his tethers. To the present, to the good parts of himself . . . to the decency he’d once had, and only recently rediscovered.
“I’ll do that,” he whispered, even though he couldn’t remember exactly what she’d told him to watch out for. “I love you.”
Nyx’s head tilted. And then she came down to him, all loose blue jeans and baggy shirt and devastatingly sexy. She had a damp dish towel in her hand because the farmhouse didn’t have a dishwasher. And actually, one of his favorite things to do was stand with her over the sink, working the sponge, and handing off to her everything he had cleaned. Or sometimes, she washed and he dried.
It was just simple stuff. But it was also the kind of thing that when he’d been in the prison camp, he’d given up on ever having.
As his female halted in front of him, something about the way she stared up into his eyes made him feel like she could read his mind. And he didn’t want her to see inside of him. Not tonight. Not right now.
“I’m glad you like to run,” she said. “And you can run as much as you want. I’m never going to stop you.”
With a subtle lift, she rose up onto her tiptoes. As their lips met, he shook his head.
“I’m just running,” he told her. “Really.”
Because he wished it were true. He wanted it to be true. And yet he knew he was lying to her.
