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“Tribunal stuff.”
She gave a little huff. Cedes hadn’t been a big fan of vampires before the reveal, and now that they were out in the world adding to her workload, she hadn’t warmed to them any. “I thought we got you out of that life.”
I gave my best Michael Corleone impression. “Just when you think you’re out, they pull you back in.”
She wasn’t laughing.
“It’s not that easy to leave this life,” I told her. “I didn’t become human and then decide to become an interior decorator or, like, Instagram lifestyle blogger, or whatever it is women in their twenties are supposed to aspire to being these days. I started doing this when I was sixteen, Cedes. It’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at, and I plan to keep being good at it.” She looked like she might speak, so I kept going. “And please don’t tell
me you worry about me. I get enough of that from Desmond.”
“Hey, I hear you, I think Owen would love for me to take a permanent desk job. But I do worry, and everyone who loves you is bound to worry. We did it before, and we’re going to keep doing it now. You take a lot of risks you don’t need to, and one of these days it’s going to get you hurt.” Her gaze drifted to the scars on my chest.
“I know.”
“You’re one of the only people I’m aware of where the skeletons in your closet all seem to be literal, and all want to kill you.”
Grinning, I reorganized the photos, hoping to see what I was missing. Nothing jumped out. It was a sad, meaningless murder, and these photos didn’t tell me anything about my missing vampire.
Except…
I held up one of the closeup shots of the bodies. I couldn’t be sure, given that the focus was on the girls, but something on one of the posts behind them gave me pause.
Something vaguely familiar, which nagged at me.
It was probably just graffiti, but at this point I wasn’t about to brush anything off. I’d messed this case up once. I wasn’t going to do it again.
Not with this much on the line.
Chapter Sixteen
I still thought of the Upper West Side apartment as more Desmond’s than mine. Maybe if we had gotten our own place after we got married, then it would have felt like ours. But I had owned so little, and he had such an incredibly nice place, it seemed silly to buy anything new.
He’d hung my picture of sunflowers over the fireplace, and we’d painted the kitchen a warm buttery yellow, my favorite color. Bit by bit we were making the place mine too.
Guiltily, I knew if I were here more, I would be better able to put my fingerprints on it.
My small bungalow in L.A. was all mine. It was made up of brightly lit rooms and vintage, secondhand furniture. This apartment felt so new and clean by comparison. I liked my life a little messier, more worn in.
It was almost nine by the time I got there, a bag full of bagels in tow, and a big coffee from the place on the corner he loved. My white cat, Rio, greeted me at the door, and I pushed her out of the way with my foot so I could lock up.
“Baby?” I set my carb-filled bounty on the counter and gave Rio a vigorous rub down. “I come bearing gifts.”
Back when he’d maintained a normal day job—he’d been an architect in a former life—he would have been long gone to the office by now. The way things were presently, being the King of the East took up all his time and then some.
We also weren’t hurting for money after Lucas died and left everything to Desmond. Even now that he was alive, he didn’t seem too keen to take any of it. I assumed we’d return the upstate mansion to him at some point, but that was more a pack house than a place anyone could live.
Before he’d died, he had lived in one of his hotels. Desmond and I also owned those, and I suspected when Lucas finally returned for good, we could find a place for him at the Columbia, or somewhere he’d be comfortable long term.
If he ever came back.
I moved through the dimly lit apartment, past our big bedroom, where the king-sized bed was neatly made and my robe was hanging from the bathroom door, as if he’d hung it there, knowing I was coming.
I found Desmond in his office, the warm light of morning filling the room. His back was to the window, and his attention was focused on the laptop in front of him.
Of all the rooms in the house, his office was my favorite. It had an old leather couch along one wall from his first apartment in the city, and he’d told me it had been the first expensive thing he’d ever bought himself. It was as worn in as an ancient baseball glove, and sometimes when he was busy with pack work, I would come in here and fall asleep on it just to be closer to him.
It was a very comfy couch.
