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When we met three years ago, she knocked me flat on my ass with those big blue eyes. When she isn’t singing, she’s the sweetest little lamb, so shy and quiet. But as soon as she opens that mouth, she turns into a siren, alluring and confident. The combination fascinates me. But she’s Brantley’s kid, so I’ve spent the last three years avoiding the hell out of her. I thought eventually I’d forget about her. That never happened. But I managed to keep from occupying the same space as her for three fucking years. I managed to keep my hands to myself.
Right up until Brant died.
As soon as I picked her up from the airport, I hugged her, and it was over for me. I didn’t leave her side the whole time she was here for the funeral. I couldn’t. The guilt tore me apart. Seeing her so fucking sad broke my heart. She deserves answers about what happened to her father, but I have none to give her. None that won’t tear her world apart, anyway. She idolized her dad. Knowing what I know won’t help her sleep easy. All it’ll do is destroy the image she has of the man who worshipped the ground she walked on.
My gaze drifts to the file spread across my kitchen table, my mind working through the facts for the thousandth time. None of it makes sense, yet it’s all there in black and white. I have more questions than answers, and the deeper I look, the more I wish I’d left it the fuck alone.
Brantley Calloway was in bed with the mob. His money was dirty. His company was dirty. He was dirty.
And his pregnant wife killed him.
“Rhys!” Cassia cries. “Are you even listening to me?”
“Yes, I’m listening to you,” I say, shaking my head to clear it.
“Then what did I say?” she demands to know.
I didn’t hear a word she said, but Cassia is easy to figure out. “You’re bitching at me about threatening to kill your man,” I say, ticking each point off on my fingers. “He’s the love of your life and my new brother-in-law. I need to stop threatening to kill him all the time. It makes you sad. You want the world to be full of rainbows and butterflies and everyone you love to hold hands and sing kumbaya around the campfire.”
“I did not say that,” she says, laughing. “You are so full of it.”
“I was paraphrasing. And you know it’s true anyway.”
“Whatever,” she huffs. “I do not want you to hold hands with Cord.” Her soft laughter floats down the line again. “But maybe you can stop threatening to kill him so much? You’ve made your point already. He’s not going anywhere.”
“I deal with drunk tourists who like to fight all day long, Cassia. Threatening him is the only joy left in my life.”
“You mean since your friend died.”
I growl at her, my brows pulling together in a deep scowl even though she can’t see me. “We aren’t talking about that.”
“Why not?”
“Cassia.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Don’t you have a husband to terrorize? Or a book to write? Or a runaway bull to hunt down?”
“No. I mean, yes, probably. But you never talk about your stuff,” she complains. “You just act all ‘me man, me feel no pain’ about it. It’s lame. You can talk to me, you know.”
“Me man, me feel no pain?” I repeat, chuckling despite myself. I love my sister. She’s completely crazy, and Cord will have his hands full for the rest of his life, but she’s also the best person I know. Our mother put her through hell growing up, but she never let it stop her from being her. She’s wild and messy and has no filter. But she loves fiercely and never apologizes for it.
“You know what I mean. You just keep it all to yourself and never talk about it. I worry about you, Rhys,” she says, her voice soft. “Especially with you out on the island by yourself.”
“I’m fine, Cassia. I’m dealing with it.”
“How?”
“By dealing with it.”
She growls at me.
“I’m not talking to you about my job. You don’t need to know anything about murders and murderers or any of the fucked-up shit that goes on in this world,” I say, my tone firm as I pace around the kitchen. The whole back wall of the house looks out over the water, flooding the house with natural light when it’s sunny out. Thanks to the storm, shadows overtake the kitchen now, creeping into the corners. They fit my mood. “You need to write your books and keep pouring light into the world. I’ll deal with the dark.”
“You’re working his case?”
There is no case to work. Seattle PD is chasing a carefully crafted lie.
“Not officially.”
“But you’re working it.”
