And concern that his brother’s boss might’ve had something to do with Viktor’s murder only jacked up the amount of acid in Jason’s stomach.
“But you tried,” Emma said sadly. Pointing to the spot next to him, she asked, “Do you mind?”
At his head shake, she sat on the step and plunked down her large brown bag between them. She smelled faintly like a piña colada. The fruity part, not the rum. Her scent rekindled memories of their short-lived romance, of the days when he’d been eager just to see her smile, hear her voice, hold her close.
Beautiful and smart, she had earned his admiration while interviewing him for the university newspaper, and they’d been inseparable for three months until he blew it in the worst fucking way. Why was she even willing to talk to him right now?
“Jason.”
“Yeah?” He continued to scrub at his hands, but the dried blood under his fingernails was as stubborn as his halmuhni—his grandmother. What he wouldn’t give for soap and water right now.
Emma put her hand on his forearm, warm and gentle. The kind of touch he’d never expected to get from her again.
“You did everything you could.” A tear slid down her cheek. “He wasn’t alone at the end, and that’s something.” She swiped at her face with the heel of her hand. “Thank you.”
“Did you know him?” Jason didn’t, but he’d been following the man. It was hard to imagine Viktor’s death was random, but then who the hell had shot him? His brother Byron would never authorize that, and it seemed like overkill when they could just fire the guy, maybe call in the police if he was leaking company secrets.
Emma swallowed, blinked, shook her head. “No, but…” Her hands twined in her lap. “No one should die alone. I’m glad you were there for him.”
“So were you.”
She nodded, her gaze zeroed in on the spot where the covered body still lay, caught in death like the lion immortalized in granite above him.
They sat in silence for several minutes, watching the buzz of activity as the police began ushering people in small groups out of the sunken square to the main street.
A cool breeze made Emma’s hair dance around her face and kept the warm July day from becoming stifling. The tree-sifted sun painted her in an ever-changing play of abstract shapes, and he realized he’d been staring, still struggling to believe she was here.
He cleared his throat. He wanted to apologize for doubting her in college, for hurting her and ruining the best relationship he’d ever had, but he didn’t know where to start. Was it better to let it go? She was talking to him, sitting next to him. What more could he ask for?
“You called yourself a paramedic. Are you still in the Air Force?” she asked, giving him a reprieve from coming up with the right words.
“No.” He shifted, trying to find a comfortable position for his still-healing leg. For most of his life, he’d been able to put up with nearly any kind of discomfort, but maybe the cost for all the punishment he’d meted out to his body over thirty-six years was finally coming due. “It’s been a while since I got out, but I worked on a civilian crew briefly, and I’ve kept up my training.”
“Oh.” She smoothed her hands over the legs of her white capris, which were covered in dirt, much like his own knees. “What do you do now, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I work in security.” The prideful part of him couldn’t let her think he was a mall cop or a building guard, even though there was nothing wrong with either of those. “Personal protection and corporate threat analysis.”
“Like a bodyguard?”
“Sometimes.” Ironic, really, given how thoroughly he’d failed to protect her once. “These days I mostly evaluate companies or residences for vulnerabilities, make recommendations for fixing them, help people find qualified staff, that kind of thing.”
“Ah,” she said, as if his job explained something she hadn’t asked. She turned so that she partially faced him. “Are you here for work or vacation?”
He noticed a smear of dried blood on his tan shorts and wiped absently at it. “Work, ultimately.” He’d come as a favor to Byron, ostensibly to run a team working extra security during Renfro Warner’s negotiations with a company he wanted to buy. But he was covertly working a corporate espionage angle under the guise of playing tourist on his downtime. “You?”
“Vacation.” She sighed. “My friend wasn’t feeling up to more walking today, but—” she waved a hand around vaguely “—it’sLucerne. How could I not make the most of being here?”
He nodded. “Right? I managed to take a boat across the lake for a funicular ride up Mt. Stanserhorn the day before my client’s group arrived. The views were phenomenal.”
Her gaze flickered to the lifeless body and she frowned, her expression darkening.
“Did you end up getting your poli sci degree?” he asked, suddenly desperate to offer a distraction.
She nodded, looking a little startled. Had she expected him to forget?
“What’d you do with it?” He’d been too busy—and too devastated—to keep tabs on her career progress during his years of pararescue training. Afterward, once he’d realized his mistake, he’d been too full of shame and regret, and had tried to forget about her.
“I worked as an investigative journalist until a few years ago, but I…burned out, I guess.” Her lips twisted. “Now I freelance the occasional light piece, and have a pretty solid copywriting business.”
