“Sure it is,” Parker deadpans. “Mere mortals would have died of brain freeze by now.”
Despite the jokes flying between the two of them, obvious rage simmers just under Parker’s skin. “How long is the chief keeping you chained to your desk?”
She drags a fry through a mountain of ketchup. “Until I’ve ‘learned my lesson.’ He says it’s ‘for my own good.’ It’s bullshit. I rearranged his jaw, and he’s never gonna let me forget it.”
“He can’t keep you caged forever. You’re too good at your job,” I say and signal the server to bring me a cup of coffee.
Parker snorts. “Wanna bet?” Another quarter of the milkshake disappears in under five seconds. “I punched him. And I’d do it again in a heartbeat to protect Grace. But my career’s fucked. Once we find the assholes who took her, I’m out.”
“No,” I say, a little too loudly, startling the server enough, a splash of coffee hits the table before she can set my mug down. Once she rushes off, I narrow my eyes at Parker. “I’m not losing you because the chief’s a fucking asshole. If you go, I’m out too.”
Hardison flops back against the cracked vinyl booth. “So the two of you are just gonna abandon me to suffer Harris’s mood swings alone? A sad sack just weeping into all the paperwork I can’t dump on Parker’s desk anymore?”
“No one’s leaving.” I give the coffee a sniff. Motor oil would probably be healthier. “Not while Grace is still in danger. Zephyr’s still workin’ the cult angle. I think the three of us should go back to the beginning. We know why the cult targeted Grace. What we don’t know is how. There have to be hundreds of women in Texas with oleander tattoos.”
“But there can’t be very many who also have a full moon inked on their arm,” Parker says.
“You aren’t seriously suggesting we call every tattoo parlor in Texas, are you?” Hardison asks. “Unlike my favorite MMA fighter, Lieutenant Loose Cannon, and Captain AWOL—aka Captain Clusterfuck—I have a full case load. I’m holding shit together with duct tape and caffeine.”
“I’ll be sure to put that on your promotion paperwork,” I say, suddenly so tired, I try a sip of the sludge this place passes off as coffee.
Parker finally abandons her milkshake long enough to level a gaze at both of us. “Can we stop with the one-liners and try to figure out who put a target on Grace’s back in the first place?”
I glance at my watch. “If we don’t get back to the station, Harris is gonna have all our asses in the same damn sling. Hardison, you’ve gotta stay on the chief’s good side. Work your cases and keep an eye on Marvin. He’s rubbin’ me the wrong way and I don’t know why. Parker? Look for any unsolved kidnapping cases where the victims had tattoos. Especially flowers or full moons.”
“What does that leave for you, Cap?” Hardison asks.
“I’m gonna talk to everyone who was in Grace’s life three years ago. And hope to God she remembers something that might help.”
Standing, I throw a twenty on the table, and Parker slides out of the booth after me. Hardison gets to his feet, glances at the remains of the milkshake, and makes the sign of the cross. “Rest in peace, double-chocolate with extra whip. Your sacrifice won’t be forgotten.”
Chapter Fifty-Nine
AJ
It feels like I’ve been gone a month. How the hell am I supposed to do this—walk out the door and trust that my wife will still be here when I come home? It don’t matter that Jasper and Connor will protect her with their lives. Or that our house is a fucking fortress after Emerald City Security got done with it. She should’ve been safe running the Butler trail too.
Parker simmered like a pressure cooker all day chained to her desk. Hardison was still there when I left, half a dozen files in front of him, and one eye on the chief’s office.
Jasper looks up from one of the living room chairs as I shut the door, his phone cradled in his hand. “Connor just left,” he says as he rises, wincing slightly. “Grace is in the kitchen. I’ll give you two some space. Emi’s off tonight, so we’re gonna grab some takeout and hunker down at home. Call if you need me.”
“Jas.” I grab his arm, holding on until he meets my gaze. “Thanks for bein’ here. For everything.”
“Ain’t no nevermind.”
“It is. You’re puttin’ your life on hold?—”
His eyes turn stormy, and he stands up a little straighter. “Maybe. But if you hadn’t come through when you did, I wouldn’t have a life at all. Neither would Emi. You and Grace are family. There ain’t a damn thing I wouldn’t do to keep you both safe.”
I nod, not trusting my voice, and watch him walk out the door.
The scents of garlic, butter, and poblano waft in from the kitchen. I hang my Stetson and sport coat on the rack, then follow my nose to find my wife standing at the stove, a wooden spoon in her hand, staring at a steaming pot like it might explode on her at any moment.
“Grace? Darlin’, you didn’t have to cook.”
Her cheeks are flushed pink, and she grins. “I wanted to. Connor had to do all the chopping, though. It’s not burned. Yet.”
I drink in the sight of her. Alive. Happy. Home. For three years, I never thought I’d have this again. Crossing the kitchen, I wrap my arm around her waist and kiss her. She melts against me, and what started out soft and tender turns deeper. The rest of the world blurs, and the constant noise in my head—all the worries over her safety, her happiness, her health—fades away.
