Fuck.
I flip the lock and open the door.
Nate Hardison hunches his shoulders against the biting cold, fat drops of rain pelting the back of his leather jacket. The last time I saw him—shit, was that only a week ago?—he didn’t look this rough around the edges. Then again, neither did I.
For almost three years, I’ve wondered about the man’s past. What happened to put such constant weariness in his gaze? But he’s never opened up to me—or Parker—and we haven’t pressed.
“Cap.” His rough voice always sounds like he’s halfway to a joke he hasn’t decided to tell yet. “It’s Friday night. Want to tell me why my next door neighbor is probably plowing through my FoodDude order right now?”
I step back and motion for him to come in, because hell if I know how to explain the past week.
He runs a hand through his shaggy hair, dislodging a few rain drops, crosses the threshold, and scans the living room like it’s a crime scene.
His eyes find Parker first. And the bag of frozen peas still draped over her knuckles. Concern tightens his lips for a beat, and then he stiffens.
The change is subtle, but we all clock it. The disbelief flickering over his sharp features. A moment of uncertainty. Followed by understanding. Or at least…acceptance.
“Hell,” he says. The weight of that single word settles over all of us. “Guess I should have brought flowers.”
Grace clutches the blanket on her lap so hard, her hands shake. She won’t look at Hardison. She can’t. Fucking hell. I knew she should have taken a Xanax. She won’t even look at me.
Parker sits up straighter, angling her body just enough, Grace can shrink behind her. Hardison clocks that too.
His mouth quirks into a small, humorless smile. “You planning to tell me what’s going on, Cap? Or do I get the fun version where I piece it together myself?”
“You’ll get the version you need,” I say, locking the door behind him.
“That’s what I was afraid of.” He glances at Parker. “So…you couldn’t have waited until I was around to take Harris down a notch? Would’ve loved a front-row seat.”
She chokes on a swallow. “Shit.”
Nate hooks his thumbs into his belt with what looks—to anyone who doesn’t know him—like casual ease. The rest of us know it’s actually coiled anticipation. It’s the stance he takes at every crime scene. The one he uses because he assumes the perp could always be watching.
He knew about Parker’s suspension.
Fuck.
That means the chief got to him before we did. I flick my gaze to my brother for a split second. Jas ambles into the living room and takes up post next to Emi.
“Who called you?” Parker asks.
“You did,” Hardison says, his sharp eyes meeting his partner’s. “But less than a minute later, the chief called. Said ‘Captain Clusterfuck’ had gone off the rails. ‘Lieutenant Loose Cannon’ and her right hook were suspended until further notice. Oh, and he expects me at the station no later than eight a.m.” He snorts, his brows lifting briefly. “I said I was going through a dead zone and hung up on him.”
Parker’s jaw drops for a beat. “You…hung up on him?”
“You decked him,” Nate deadpans. “And tomorrow’s Saturday. I’m off duty.”
I don’t have the patience for this bullshit. “We ain’t here for you and Parker to play ‘whose dick is bigger’,” I snap.
“Nope. We’re here because,” he nods at Grace, “she’s here. But she’s supposed to be…”
“Gone.” Grace’s voice is so quiet, I’m not sure anyone hears it but me. Until Hardison nods.
“Yeah. Gone.” He turns to me, and the boy scout facade cracks. Just a hair. Enough I catch a flicker of something—relief?—before the fracture seals itself up again.
Belle, who’s been watching us this whole time, pads over to the couch and parks herself on my wife’s feet. Grace reaches for her, hand shaking until her fingers tangle in the dog’s wiry fur. She still won’t look up. Won’t lean forward to see around Parker.
Fuck.
