“Don’t you have a watch for that?” Strike dances back, readying another punch.
“Fuck off,” I grunt, meeting his jab with one of my own. I wonder if I’ve ever had a conversation with Strike in which I haven’t told him at least once to fuck off. He’s having a laugh at my expense. He doesn’t know about my weekend with Josie at Shimmy Beach for She’s the One and how I came back changed, raw. But the depth of my connection with her—the fire of what’s happening inside me—is none of his business.
Since I handed over the project details to my team, I’ve beenthisclose to yanking them back. Every time I immerse myself in the spreadsheets and replay the audio from that night, I want to punch the wall. How did I let the best night of my life get reduced to data points and file transfers for a bunch of coders? Even if Josie herself has been nothing but professional about it, I just can’t sort it out right in my head. Should I text her again? Nah, I need things to settle, especially with the app’s upcoming beta launch.
“So, I’ve been thinking we let von Graf go all in financially first, making his estate contractually obligated,” I propose, trying to keep my mind on our plans.
“Nice.” Strike nods, pausing as we both catch our breath. “AndI’ll take point after Honor’s art show. She’ll be nervous, and I want to be fully there for her, no distractions.”
“Right, then,” I agree, though a part of me wants to scoff at his pussy-whipped status. But what’s wrong with prioritizing someone you care about? My own inability to do the same is eating me alive.
We touch gloves, dive back into the rhythm. As we weave and bob, the ring becomes our whole world.
“What else about von Graf? Found anything new?” Strike asks as we dance around each other, each move calculated. “Anything else on his childhood? His background? My best guys can’t dig up shit.”
“Aye, he’s a ghost. He was born in Kansas and, at some point, totally reinvented himself. Covered his tracks well, especially with the money,” I say, throwing a punch that Strike counters with ease. Men like von Graf tend to cut all ties, assume new identities, especially if they’ve got priors.
But von Graf’s done an especially fine job of burying his past and hiding his dirty cash. Gotta hand it to him, the bastard’s clever. Shame he didn’t use that brain for curing cancer instead.
Strike lowers his voice, his expression turning serious. “We’re also getting rumblings that Petrov’s old lady is on the warpath. She’s not going to let go of what we did quietly.”
The news hits like a solid cross punch to the gut, and it fills me with adrenaline and dread. “Yeah, suppose we’ll need to watch that closely,” I mutter.
We exchange a dark look. Strike knows full well how dangerous Veronica Petrov can be. We both figured that after we took out her man, the missus would lie low, let us focus on von Graf. Clearly we misjudged her. If her late husband was loud and brutal, Veronica’s the opposite. Calm, clever, all charity galas andglossy magazines—but beneath it, she’s a dagger in a velvet sheath.
We’ve got a rule: no more than one active target at a time.
But it turns out you can’t underestimate the wife of a sociopath. Broken always finds broken, and odds are fair that she’s cut from exactly the same cloth.
Forty-Two
Josie
For the first time in my life, I use the Find My iPhone tracker on my mom. She linked our accounts a while back, and I never gave it a second thought. Suddenly, everything clicks into place. Like why she hasn’t been bugging me for my new address. She must already have it. How she knew to find me at the farmers market with Axe that day.
The fact that she could always track me down never felt sinister until right now. Suddenly, it feels downright terrifying.
What else has she been lying about?
I follow the little blue dot and see she’s at the Keystone Hotel. Weird.
I hop in Gertrude and speed across town, kicking myself for not taking the Mini. I would’ve been there way faster if the engine hadn’t shorted out three times on the way. Normally, I don’t yell at Gertrude—she’s been through everything with me—but today, I’msodone.
“Goddammit, you have one job, Gertie! One job!” I bang the steering wheel and accidentally knock my turn signal, which somehow falls off into my hand. This morning’s card—the Fiveof Wands—predicted mayhem, but I hoped it’d be the zany variety. Like maybe I’d notice my dress was on inside out, or a butterfly would land in my hair.
I’m starting to get mighty sick of my own baseless optimism. This day has been one big shit sandwich, start to finish.
—
I pull up to the valet parking at the Keystone and throw my keys at the attendant. He looks at my car, and though he doesn’t say it, I see it written all over his face:Are you sure you’re at the right hotel, lady?
At my dark look, he decides against saying anything.
I’ve never stepped foot inside this place before. It’s a world apart from the rest of Shelton. The lobby is cavernous, its ceiling soaring at least three stories high, supported by white marble columns that gleam under the chandelier’s soft light. Low blue velvet couches are arranged with precise symmetry, like something out of a design magazine. Do people even sit here, or is it all just for show?
At the back of the lobby, I spot a sleek rectangular bar, its shelves artfully arranged with glass bottles that seem more decorative than practical, each one placed like an exhibit in a museum. I scan the area but don’t see my mother.
Oh shit, could Mom be holed up in one of these guest rooms? Is she cheating on Alan? I mean, I’m not exactly Team Alan, but still, I kind of assumed they were blissfully boring together. I always figured Mom was the faithful type.
