“Wouldn’t be here if he didn’t.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because he asked if we wanted it, and he knows that if I call my sister and tell her he’s breaking into museums for no good reason, he’ll disappear for a while.”
Sloane turns the growl on me.
And it takes me a minute of breathing through the need to pop another boner to remember something critical about this situation.
She’s missing a piece of this puzzle. “John here—a guy most of us call Uncle Guido—got fired from the company my sister works for.”
“What company?”
“The CIA, darl—Darlilah. I missed your name. You said it was Darlilah, right?”
“Darlilah isnota name you would suspect me of having.”
“Why not? You never know someone’s history. If you want to throw something else at me because you think I was going to call you a name you don’t want to be called, you should know I have fast reflexes when I’m paying attention, and I’m happy to take a lighter to this diary that I picked—arrggghhhh!”
Sloane screams again but cuts herself short.
Probably because she’s recognized that it’s Chuck currently trapping Uncle Guido in a chokehold, and only Uncle Guido is in danger.
“How the fuck did you get in here too?” Sloane says.
I take a step back.
Break the rules.
All of the rules.
And I slip my hand into hers and squeeze. “Uncle Guido—I mean, John’s harmless. Especially with you and Chuck on the job.”
“Why does he have two names and why is one of them Uncle Guido and how do you know him? Andthe CIA?Are you for fucking real right now? Do you work for the CIA too?”
“Vanessa does. I do not. His real name’s supposedly John. John Smith. Hence the supposedly. What I can tell you for certain is that he’s Lila’s honorary uncle.”
“Lila, the owner of the Fireballs? Tripp’s wife? That Lila?”
“That Lila. Hence I hope you like the Fireballs because Tripp will love that you maimed Uncle Guido.”
She’s squeezing my hand back hard enough to cut off circulation. “How did he get in here?”
“I hid in the bathroom when they were closing up,” he squeaks out.
Sloane’s eyes cross.
I jerk my head toward the door. “Get him out,” I tell Chuck.
“You want the diary?” Uncle Guido says.
“This diary?” Chuck holds up a very old book with his free hand, and my pulse leaps at the visual confirmation that Uncle Guido wasn’t lying.
He fucking stole Thorny Rock’s diary from Pop Rock.
He tries to twist and grab it. “How’d you—shit. I’m getting soft.”
“Time to retire from retirement,” I tell him.
