"A solution." He leaned closer, and I could feel the heat of him. "One that hums Brahms while she works."
The space between us crackled with possibility. I could kiss him. Could kill him. Could do both and see which impulse won. Instead, I ducked under his arm, needing distance to think clearly.
"Tuesday," I said. "Dimitri's supposed to arrive at 11 PM."
"I'll be there."
"Nathan." I paused at the stairs. "What happened? Your crisis, I mean. What broke your moral absolutism?"
He was quiet for so long I thought he wouldn't answer. Then: "I found a pattern. One that led to people in power who couldn't be touched by legal means. Watched them destroy lives while I filed reports that went nowhere." His smile was sharp as my blades. "So I stopped filing reports."
"And started what?"
"Solving problems." He gestured at the now-clean room. "Apparently, I'm not the only one who found that solution."
I nodded, understanding passing between us. Two broken things recognizing their sharp edges could fit together.
"Clean shirt in your car?" I asked. "Can't go back to your clients covered in blood."
"Always prepared." He headed for the stairs, pausing beside me. "Same time tomorrow?"
"3:17," I confirmed. "Don't be early again."
"Wouldn't dream of it." He touched my cheek, thumb tracing where the blood had been. "Patterns matter, after all."
I watched him leave, then returned to check the basement one more time. Everything clean, everything proper. Just an empty room with industrial drains and faint chemical smell. Tomorrow I'd serve drinks and smile. Tuesday I'd hunt Dimitri Volkov.
But today, Nathan Cross had seen me paint in blood and offered to help hide the canvas.
I hummed my lullaby as I locked up, wondering if Gabriel would be proud or horrified at what his broken doll had become. Wondering if it mattered anymore.
Wondering why Nathan's approval suddenly felt more important than a dead man's ghost.
7
Truth
The click of a hammer being pulled back stopped me dead in my doorway.
I didn't need to turn around to know Nathan had followed me up from the bar. His presence filled the narrow hallway like smoke, and the cold press of metal against the base of my skull was almost gentle. Professional.
"Hands where I can see them," he said quietly.
My own weapon was already in my hand, had been since I'd heard his footsteps on the stairs. I raised both arms slowly, letting him see the Glock 19 dangling from my right hand.
"You going to shoot me in my own home, Nathan?" I kept my voice light, conversational. "That's terribly rude. We just bonded over body disposal."
"Turn around. Slowly."
I complied, pivoting to face him in the cramped hallway. His Sig Sauer pointed steady at my chest, but my raised gun armhad naturally aligned my weapon with his head. We stood there, caught in the world's most intimate Mexican standoff.
"Your tactical positioning is excellent," I observed. "But you should have waited until I was inside. Better backdrop for blood splatter."
His lips twitched. "I'll remember that for next time."
"FBI?" I guessed, studying his stance. "No, wait. Former FBI. Current FBI wouldn't have helped with Carter."
"Very good." He hadn't lowered his weapon, but something in his posture relaxed fractionally. "Eight years with the Bureau. Left three years ago."
