“I can’t. They set everything up and took the boxes. Lucky, what’ll I do?”
What indeed. “I’ll be there in a few.” He ended the call and texted Bo. “I need to talk to you.”
“I’m in a meeting. Give me about twenty minutes,” Bo texted back.
Twenty minutes. An eternity. When Bo was still an agent, he’d been easier to track down. Oh, who was Lucky fooling? There were days and weeks he’d gone without seeing or talking to his man. And taking over Walter’s job meant Bo came home at night and wasn’t in much danger of getting shot, so he’d never regret Bo’s change in status.
The new job also meant Bo dressing up for work. The man looked damned good in a suit.
Lisa poked her head into his cube. “Mr. Harrison? This came for you a little while ago.” She gave him a soft smile.
He took the FedEx mailer from her hand. “Thanks.”
She grinned and traipsed down the hall.
Now who’d be sending him something via FedEx? No return address. What? Didn’t FedEx require that? He ripped the envelope open and pulled out a single piece of paper, covered with hand-written scrawl:Only the best for Alejandro Harrison-Schollenberger.
The note was signedV and N.
“Fuck my life.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
No thumping music pounded through the floors, which might mean Ty wasn’t home, or maybe he’d taken to wearing headphones. Even so, if he didn’t learn volume control, he’d lose hearing before he started college.
Lucky tapped twice on Ty’s room door. There. He’d knocked. Without waiting for an answer, he opened the door. He would not tear the place apart looking for pills. He wouldn’t.
If Ty left something in plain sight, however…
Checking out the nursery additions would have to wait. Opportunities for a private heart-to-heart with his nephew didn’t come along every day.
What the fuck? Lucky froze.
Ty sat on the edge of his single bed, head in his hands. “Ty?” Rumpled covers spoke of not having been made up lately. Band posters hung from the walls, as well as posters from some of his favorite soccer teams.
Clothes and shoes lay in piles on the floor, along with books, papers, and a video game controller. A lonely sock draped over the bed’s footboard. No telling what Lucky might find under the bed.
Essence of gym-locker funk hung in the air. Next time Ty went to school, the two windows on the far wall were coming open.
A grease-stained paper plate lay two feet from the trashcan. Good thing Ty’s sport wasn’t basketball.
At least the place didn’t reek of air freshener, the way Lucky’s used to when he’d hidden smoking in the house during his own teenaged years. Poor kid didn’t stand a chance. Wasn’t much he could dream up the Lucklighter kids hadn’t thought of first.
Meaning, of course, Lucky. With a touch of Daytona thrown in for good measure. But whatever illicit substances Lucky might have experimented with, he’d never scored from a teacher.
Lucky opened his mouth to speak—and promptly shut up.
Misery peeked out of the eyes peering above Ty’s fingertips. He didn’t recoil, complain about Lucky more or less barging into his room, or anything else. In fact, he looked—relieved?
Fuck. Lucky dropped down beside his nephew on the bed. “Tell me. What happened?” The misery hadn’t taken up residence on Ty’s face all by itself. Ty’s silence hinted at a fuckup of epic proportions.
“Something bad happened to Greg.”
Greg? “Who’s Greg?” Surely Lucky hadn’t missed Ty suddenly befriending a kid by that name. “A friend of yours.”
“Not… not really.” Ty sniffed. “He’s a guy on the team. Didn’t show up to school today. Some of the other guys say he OD’d.”
Chills danced their way up Lucky’s spine. “OD’d on what?” The squirming in the pit of his gut said he already knew.
