Chapter Twenty
“ARE YOUsure?” the contractor asked. He scratched the back of his head as he leaned back on his heels and took in the stained walls and sagged roof of the old house. “This place has been here for a long time.”
Bass put his hands in his back pockets and stared at the house he’d grown up in. He tried to feel sentimental, but any good memories he had under that roof had been overwritten by that one awful night on the stairs.
“I’m sure,” he said. “It’s been a weight around my neck for years. Just do your worst and bill me when you’re done.”
The contractor, Danny Lloyd, a stocky Welshman with a ponytail that had shrunk back from his forehead enough that it was noticeable, sucked his teeth.
“Not going to be a small job,” he warned. “Done right.”
“Whatever you need,” Bass said. “I just want it done.”
That made Lloyd nod. He chewed at a tag of skin on the side of his nail as he thought about it. “I’ll start it tomorrow,” he said finally. “If you want, I can get some real estate agents around to give you a quote?”
“That won’t be necessary,” he said. “I have someone in mind.”
It turned out Tancredi’s mother was a local realtor. Despite the issues with the property, and Bass, she’d agreed to take it on.
“I’ll be back in a few days to check on your progress,” Bass said. “Any problems, you have my number.”
It was new. His old phone had been handed over to the FBI, where analysts would keep an eye on the text messages and DMs and generate appropriate responses. It was like a timeshare in him—his phone, his identity, even the words he used, and how he used them.
That probably should have bothered him, but it almost felt like a clean slate. And at least he knew Tag hadn’t blocked this number.
Yet.
“Do you want to—” Lloyd trailed off and waved his hand at the dead square of lawn and broken windows. “Say goodbye to the old place or go in, get some sort of keepsake? Before we start work, I mean.”
Bass gave the house that Shepherd bought one last look. For years he’d let it sit here and fester, so that every time he was sent a bill or a complaint, he’d remember he was angry. Now he’d gotten his revenge—Ville was in jail, Shepherd had been shipped to a prison hospital in Oregon for his recovery, and his dad had been dead for years—and it was time to let it go. He didn’t think he’d ever muster forgiveness, although he’d tried, but he could maybe forget. Some of it.
“I already took what I needed,” he said. “Thanks, though.”
He left Lloyd to it and headed back to the car. Bass missed the bike, last seen on its way into the sheriff’s department garage, but the cherry-red Mustang was a fair substitute. He ran his hand over the roof in an appreciative caress. The paintwork was smooth now that he’d buffed out the rust bubbles and repainted.
It turned out Tag had been right. He had stolen the Mustang a bit.
THE ONLYcolor about Kieran was his shock of red hair. He was nearly the same color as the sheets on the bed, as the bulky bandages over his chest and shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” Tag said. He shifted uncomfortably in the molded plastic chair, his ribs still tender under his shirt. “This wouldn’t have happened if I’d listened to you.”
Kieran swallowed carefully and reached for the glass of water by the bedside.
“Itoldyou not to get involved with that biker,” he agreed. His voice sounded sticky, and he paused to take a drink. “I stand by that, and you should have listened to me. Maybe it would have been different if you hadn’t gotten involved in that world.”
“Maybe,” Tag admitted stiffly, his throat thick as he choked back the urge to argue.
Kieran took the unusual step of not gloating. He touched his shoulder.
“But this? This happened because a child trafficker was angry that you’d helped a sick baby. We might not have ended things on a great note between us, and I feel no need to litigate whose fault that was, but I’m a doctor too. Do you really think I’d have told you to leave a child to suffer? Even if I knew I was going to get shot? I was never that much of a dick, was I?”
Tag laughed in surprise at the question and how relieved he was at being cut loose from the responsibility for this. He sat back and lied, “No, you weren’t. But I don’t think Freddie agrees that it wasn’t my fault.”
“Well,hecan be a dick,” Kieran said. His smile was tired but still had an edge of wonder about it. “He loves me, is all, and… he isn’t going to go away, Tag, and you need to get used to that. We both made mistakes. We were both… careless. I cheated on you, and you got me shot. After this, I think whoever was to blame originally, we’re even. Agreed?”
That didn’t exactly sound fair.
Old habits made Tag bristle, ready to defend his status as the wronged party. Except it turned out it mattered less to Tag than he expected. It was over with Kieran. It would have been nice if they’d ended better. Maybe then they could have been friends or something. Now the best Tag could imagine was somewhere between polite and indifferent. It didn’t really matter now, though.
