29
TOM
“Do you want to talk about it?” Grimm asks from the passenger seat without looking up from his phone.
“Talk about what?”
“Whatever has you trying to rip the steering wheel off the column before we get to the house. I mean, my life insurance is up to date, but this isn’t really how I imagined going out.”
Fuck.
“Sorry,” I grumble, releasing one hand from the wheel at a time to flex my fingers before relaxing back into the leather.
“No need to apologize,” he says as I pull up to the curb and throw the SUV into park. “I don’t care either way. You just look like you’re going to murder someone, and we actually need this woman to talk to us.”
If it were anyone else dressing me down I would have barked at them, but Grimm is for all intents and purposes my second-in-command, and if he thinks I’m fucking up, then I’m definitely fucking up.
“I—” A part of me wants to tell him what happened with Kat.
The couch.
Toeing the line.
Arguing with her before we left even though that hadn’t been my intention at all.
Needing to apologize but not having the chance.
“Yeah, I know,” he says cutting me off before I can actually admit to anything, his eyes widening slightly as he stares at me. “Just glad you know it too.”
He nods at me and then pushes out of the car like that’s the end of it, and maybe it is. Grimm and I aren’t particularly known for sharing almost anything related to our personal lives.
That’s what we have Jace and Ozzy for.
Royce never had anything to share before Kinsley, and now he’ll bore you to death with the team’s stats for the last five years if you stand still long enough. But they’re happy and I’m happy for them.
The thought is enough to snap me out of my mood as Grimm and I make our way up the front walk of the white house with the dark blue shutters and tidy yard. Two flowerpots sit beside a red door that looks like it’s been freshly painted.
“I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling,” a woman in her fifties says, swinging the door open before we’ve even had a chance to knock.
“We’re not selling anything,” Grimm says, his tone gentler than I’m used to hearing from him. “Are you Dahlia Anderson?”
“Who wants to know?”
“We’re security for Kat Harrington. Are you familiar with that name?”
She snorts, leaning her shoulder against the doorjamb and chuffing out a humorless laugh. “Sure, I’m familiarwith her.”
Grimm’s eyes slide to mine. Despite appearing annoyed, Dahlia isn’t portraying any signs of deceit or discomfort.
“Could you describe your relationship with Kat?” I ask, watching her closely as she tilts her face toward the sky and then shakes her head before looking back at me.
“We don’t have one, not anymore.”
“Why is that?” Grimm asks gently.
“Is she in trouble?”
“Why do you ask?” I counter as she raises one eyebrow.
