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Julius asked Raven a detailed question about the autopsy that made Quaide grimace. Their generation seemed to be desensitized to things that he’d seen many Marines puke over.
Clay returned, plopping into the leather desk chair with a sigh. “I don’t think this space is working out for Sentry.”
“That’s okay. I’ve got a place for us. When I’m finished here—and Abel’s done checking out the liver of that dead guy—we’ll make the move.”
Clay sat forward, elbows on his knees. “All right—where?”
“My place.”
His brows shot up. “Yourhouse? The one with the shag carpeting?”
“Yeah. You guys can help me rip it out. With all those bedrooms, there’s enough room for everyone and a good-sized office too.”
“Are we running a task force or a construction crew?”
Quaide’s mind faded as he stared harder at the screen.
Clay took a step closer to the screen. “What the hell, Livingston?” His outburst overlapped with a loud “Fuck!” from Quaide.
They both stared at a photo of two blonde women who looked so much alike they could be cousins or…
“Sisters.” Quaide felt the blood drain from his face. Goose bumps rippled across his shoulders and down his spine. “Rain is Dove’s sister.” He rocked back in his seat, gripping his skull. He felt like it had been loaded with explosives.
“This can’t be happening.” It came out as a groan.
“That’s your assistant. Jesus, did you know?” Clay asked.
“Hell no. If I had…” He would have helped her. Rescued her. From whatever shit was going down involving a murder and a hitman.
He jolted to his feet, forcing Clay to step away. Hands fisted, he faced his friend and boss. “I’ve gotta go. Now. They’re not safe.”
“Do you have any idea where to look?”
“No. But I’m good at digging.”
He had no memory of reaching his SUV but suddenly he was sitting behind the wheel, gripping the leather so hard that his fingertips numbed. His breaths were coming hard and fast.
Fuck. Dove. What was she involved in? Was this her reason behind that resignation letter…for avoiding his phone calls?
He didn’t have all the pieces of the puzzle yet, but he’d been in the business long enough to make some educated guesses.
Dove’s sister got herself in trouble with a boyfriend who was doing some bad things. They were close. He loved her enough—fuck, did Quaide ever understand falling for a Priester woman—that he got sappy and wrote her name on his boot like some silly animated movie character.
Whatever dark shit he was involved in got him killed and painted a target on Rain’s back.
And Dove…
God, if something happened to her, Quaide couldn’t live with himself. How could he go on, knowing that he’d dropped the ball and failed to keep the only woman he’d ever loved in his entire life alive?
He stomped on the gas, his mind already halfway down the road to Boulder. He was so zoned out, thinking of what he was walking into, that his phone rang four times before he realized he should answer it.
“Livingston.”
Lark’s voice projected into his ear. “I figured you’d need this address I found for Dove Priester.”
“Give it to me.” His lips felt stiff, wooden. His jaw ached from clamping it so tight.
She recited the address, and an image of the high-rise apartments popped into his head. Now that he knew where Dove lived during that time they were together, he couldn’t quit picturing her there, maybe hanging out on the balcony that each one of the rental units had.
