Page 100 of Flint’s Strike

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Two days after the Aldrich fire, I started noticing the tail. A dark gray sedan, always three or four cars back on the freeway, closer on the surface streets.

Sometimes, it would park across the street from my office. Others, it’d roll by my house, barely doing ten miles an hour.

He wanted me to see it. To know he could get to me. To remind me of my place.

I picked the Rutherford Lane building for what it was. I knew the Rangers would make the connection quickly. It was too obvious to ignore. What I didn’t know was how long it would take them to get to him. I hoped they’d put it all together before he ran out of patience. Before he decided I was a liability.

I was still pretending to be loyal. Mostly, anyway. Even apologized for telling him to fuck off. Blamed it on a bad night’s sleep. I don’t think he bought it.

When he ordered me to interfere with the case, to direct attention elsewhere, I agreed. Even explained what I’d do. But in the end…I couldn’t go through with it.

I knew I was going to lose everything. I just didn’t know who else would go down with me.

Chapter Forty

Parker

The stench of smoke follows me from my front door to the bathroom. It clings to every stitch of clothing, coats my hair, and has probably worked its way into my boots.

I strip, carefully peel the bandage off my thigh, and tug the hair tie from my braid.

The hot water washes away the soot, but not the memory of watching Eliot suit up and walk into a building still smoking from half a dozen places. From every blown-out window to the missing roof tiles to the back wall of the building where the firefighters cut through a metal roll-up door to knock down the final flames.

I know he’s fine. He was a firefighter for more than ten years, and he’s worked arson cases for the past seven. Getting burned at the Aldrich scene was a one-off.

It doesn’t stop me from worrying.

I’m lathering my hair for the second time when I realize what a goddamn hypocrite I’m being. I walked into that alley this afternoon madder than a whole mess of hornets, and it didn’t even occur to me that I’m asking a man to date me knowing full well it’s my job to put myself between criminals and the public.

“I might not be as fit as you are, but I ain’t dead.”

Well, shit. He isn’t wrong.

I wrench the faucet harder than I need to, and a spark of pain runs from my palm halfway up my arm. Leave-in conditioner, eye cream, moisturizer, a ridiculously expensive anti-aging cream Emi turned me onto, and enough body lotion to drown a small child, and I change into a pair of yoga pants and Eliot’s t-shirt I can’t convince myself to give back.

My evening routine usually takes fifteen minutes, but tonight, I stretch it out to almost thirty. Because once I’m on the couch with a bowl of carne guisada, I have to text Eliot and apologize.

I ladle some of the leftover carne guisada into a pot, then set it to reheat on the stove. Mom would haunt me from the afterlife if I even thought about putting it in the microwave.

Sitting at the counter, I work the exercises Karen—the physical therapist who helped Grace after her first craniotomy—gave me to strengthen my fingers.

“Fifteen minutes every other day, Parker. At the minimum.”

It’s a good thing I’m not spending every day at Grace and AJ’s anymore. Karen would chew me up and spit me out if she learned I barely manage one session a week.

When my fifteen minutes are up, I fold the exercise band carefully, slide it into my junk drawer, and pour the stew into a bowl.

The couch is more comfortable than my kitchen chair, and I need the comfort of noise from the television so I don’t keep kicking myself for what I said to Eliot. Channel Ten is already running a story on the fire, but the reporter can’t pronounce Rutherford Lane to save her life. “Emi ain’t that sloppy,” I mutter to no one.

None of today’s canvassing gave us anything—yet. A car repair place across the street from the empty single-story building might have security camera footage that shows the alley, but the only guy who can access the software won’t be available until tomorrow morning.

I flip through channels until I find an episode of This Old House. With any luck, Eliot’s watching the same one. Even if he isn’t, this gives me something to text him that doesn’t make me feel like I’m about to step on a landmine.

After a couple of spoonfuls, I set the bowl on the coffee table and pick up my phone.

They’re gutting a 1920s Craftsman. This could be very good or very bad.