“I want credit for changing the subject and not responding like a teenager right now.”
“Depends on what you’re going to change it to. I might prefer prurient comments about my lack of relationship with Helia.”
Mantis chuckled. “I was going to make a taco comment, actually. All joking aside, how is seeing her again? She and her family were good to you. They were a big part of your life before you left. But the good mixes with the bad sometimes.”
Monk considered his answer. In truth, he hadn’t really let himself think too deeply about slipping back into her life. Or what, if anything, it might mean to reconnect with the Shaw family. Maybe he should, or maybe it wasn’t worth overthinking.
“It’s not hard,” he replied truthfully. “I’m not reading anything into that, though. Only that it’s easy and they aren’tbringing back any of the bad memories. They’re still the good people I knew; we just look older now.”
“And have more years—more experience—under our belts.”
“That, too.”
Mantis paused. “Okay, Lovell is on his way. He’ll pick Dulcie up and be there in three hours or so. Call if you need anything more.”
He promised he would, then rattled off the gate code and ended the call. Glancing at the fireplace, he considered making a fire, then ixnayed the idea. It wasn’t all that cold, and he’d have to let it die out before heading to the taco truck with Helia. Maybe he’d light it before bed.
Setting his phone on the side table, his gaze lingered on the gun from his father’s closet. Pistol, if he cared to be precise. A pocket Ruger—powerful enough to pack a punch but easy to conceal and carry. He’d never seen Roger carry a weapon or even shoot one.
Picking it up, he turned it over in his hand, his gaze lingering on the serial number. On a whim, he grabbed his phone and texted the string of digits to Leo, asking him to run it through their system. When the message was delivered, he set the device down and held the weapon in his palm, testing its weight. With a frown, he checked the magazine. Why the hell did Roger have a fully loaded weapon in the house?
There could be dozens of answers to that question. He hadn’t seen his father in years. And Roger wasn’t exactly a bastion of good behavior. Who the hell knew what he’d been up to.
His phone dinged, a message from Leo confirming he’d look into it. Not knowing what more he could do or learn about it, Monk set the pistol on the side table and focused on more productive things—finding the right place to donate his father’s clothing and shoes.
Two hours later, he’d made arrangements with a second-chance program that helped formerly incarcerated men find employment, including providing them with interview-appropriate clothing. He’d have to drive to San Francisco to drop it off, but the city wasn’t that far.
Leaning back in the chair, he closed his eyes and contemplated a nap. He had an hour or so before Lovell and Dulcie arrived and another hour after that before meeting Helia.
The heavy weight of sleep danced on the fringes of his mind when a scraping sound yanked him from Morpheus’s embrace. Keeping his eyes closed, he dialed his hearing in.
Another scrape, a shuffle, then the low mumble of a voice, more a vibration than a distinct sound.
In silence, he palmed the pistol. Maybe Helia had come early. If so, she didn’t need to see it.
That thought—as tenuous as it was—fled when he heard the security code being entered.
Living behind a gate and down a half-mile drive had lulled him into forgetting a very basic security practice. As the door swung open, he added changing the code, and locks as well, to his to-do list. And while he was at it, he’d install security cameras, too. Having footage of his visitor’s arrival—and pending retreat—could have come in handy.
“It’s his fucking memorial today,” a voice rumbled. It didn’t sound familiar, but Monk hadn’t expected it to. Napa had changed a lot in the years he’d been gone, and there were too many newcomers to assume he’d recognize someone.
A quiet response followed. He didn’t catch the words, but the intense vibe of the reply had him hooking his finger around the trigger.
“I don’t know who’s truck that is, but no one will be here, not even Alessio,” the first voice said, looking over his shoulder as he stepped into Monk’s line of sight.
“You got that wrong,” Monk said.
The first man leaped three feet, bounced off the wall, and spun. Dressed in a black windbreaker, black ball cap, and a scarf wrapped around his face, all Monk could catalog were the basics: a hair shy of six feet, lanky build, bordering on thin, dark eyes, and a nervous energy. Monk considered asking why he concealed his appearance if he didn’t think anyone was there, but maybe he thought the tasting room had cameras. Most did these days, so not an unreasonable assumption.
“What the fuck?” the burglar shouted.
The second man stepped into view, dressed in the same type of hat and scarf but with a black hoodie. Monk couldn’t see his face, but his build seemed familiar.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” Man One said, his voice rising in what Monk assumed was supposed to be a threatening manner.
“And yet here I am. I could say the same for you.”
“We have the code. That means we have permission to enter.”
