Page 365 of Devil’s Disciples

“Huh?” I shifted my eyes away from her twat. “Do what?”

Slack-jawed, she stared. “All the flowers and stuff?”

I gazed at my accomplishment. A newly-constructed wooden deck gave the once flat roof various levels of depth. Other than a seating area and a walk path, the entire roof was taken up by a potted array of reds, oranges, blues, and yellows.

A sense of pride filled me. “I sure did.”

She looked around. “This is obviously a hobby of yours. One you truly enjoy.”

I carefully grazed one of the California Poppies with my palm. “Not really. It’s more like therapy. It calms me. Keeps my head right.”

The occupants of the roof deck, in their entirety, were reliant upon me for survival. In my absence, they would wither and die. With my care, they would flourish and thrive, providing years of pleasure in return.

Caring for them—from seed to maturity—was therapeutic. In the end, they were an oblation for my sins.

Seeing someone else enjoy my work provided a rare sense of accomplishment.

I gestured to a concrete bench that overlooked the beach. “Have a seat. There’s beer, a bottle of wine, and a few other things in the coolers.”

Side by side, we took a seat on the bench.

She peered beyond the roof, toward the ocean. “I could get used to sitting up here. This is awesome. It’s like the ocean’s yours.”

“This was Ghost’s—Porter’s place. He left it to me in the will.” I looked at her. “You know about his fiancé, right?”

“Uhhm. I don’t know. Maybe.” She opened the cooler and looked inside. “What are you meaning?”

“Well, this place was hers. She left it to him when she died, which was only two months before he died. When he died, he left it to me.”

“I didn’t know all that.” She glanced around. “I’m guessing he knew of your love for flowers and such?”

“He did.”

“I’m sure he thought you’d enjoy it. Put your touches on it and stuff.”

I grinned. “I’m sure you’re right.”

“I’m not feeling wine tonight,” she said. “Do you want a beer?”

“I’ll have one.”

She handed me a can of beer. “There’s no bottles in there. I thought you hated cans?”

“They were on sale,” I said, even though they weren’t. “It was simple matter of economics.”

She opened the beer. “I have a few questions.”

“I’ll do my best...”

She took a sip. “Why are you single?”

“You said when we met that you were a thief,” I said. “Are you?”

Her brows went together. “Why would you ask me that? Why now, when I’m trying to ask you about being single? Why change the subject, again?”

I wanted to be able to tell her the truth. How a relationship couldn’t coincide with the secrecy required in the club. How I’d tried it once, and that it—and I—had failed.

It came to me that Baker’s Ol’ Lady, Andy, was present when the cop was killed. Her knowledge of that particular crime could be far more harmful to the club than any other crime we’d committed. I wondered how much Baker told Andy, and promptly decided he told her everything.