All I Want

She expressed only contentment with her life, but Parker could only imagine how constricting it was. She had to feel closed in by perimeters of her quiet existence.

He hated that for her, and that more than anything else had him texting her pictures from wherever in the world he was as often as he could.

But it wasn’t Amory on the phone.

It was Kel. “So,” the sheriff said without preamble. “Interested in knowing that Cat’s Paw is suddenly a hot topic around the water cooler?”

“Very,” Parker said. “Although word got back to my boss that I’ve been digging.”

“You up shit creek?”

“Without a paddle,” Parker confirmed. “Tell me you got something concrete to make it worthwhile.”

“I’ve got a buddy in the ATF. He couldn’t confirm for certain, but word’s out that your guy cut some sort of a hush-hush deal.”

Parker had suspected this very thing, but goddamn, that asshole didn’t deserve a deal of any kind. “Anything specific?”

“Nothing,” Kel said. “Whatever’s going on up there, it’s above my pay grade. They still haven’t included any local law enforcement. I’ve got a few feelers out for more intel. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Thanks,” Parker said. “Appreciate it.”

“Stay safe.”

“You, too.” Parker stared at his phone after he disconnected, torn by conflicting urges. He wanted to say fuck everyone and whatever they were waiting on and go in after Carver himself. But that was stupid and selfish, and he tried very hard not to be either of those things.

He needed to play this safe but he wasn’t exactly in tune with his safe side. He looked at the time, and knowing it was two hours ahead in D.C. and that his boss would be up and in the office chewing on the balls of her underlings for breakfast while simultaneously running her world, he called her.

“All I want to hear from you,” Sharon opened with, “is that you’re on a fucking island making your left hand jealous of your right.”

“I have a theory,” Parker said.

“Oh Christ. Is it that you’re a pain in my ass? Because that’s a fact, Parker, not a theory.”

“I think Tripp Carver made a deal,” he said.

Sharon’s silence went glacial.

“I think he’s giving information,” Parker went on, “and in return he’s got his freedom. How am I doing? Am I close?”

“We’re not having this conversation,” she said.

Yeah, he was close.

“Listen to me, Parker,” Sharon said. “You’re not able to see reason on this case because of Ned’s death, and I get it. But I’m trying to protect your job here.”

He blew out a breath and rubbed his still-sore ribs. “I know, and I appreciate that. But I need you to be straight with me on this.”

There was another long silence, during which Parker heard rustling and then a door shutting, as if Sharon was getting herself some privacy.

“What did he have that made it worth keeping him in the wild?”

“I’m not confirming this, Parker.”

But nor was she denying. “Shit,” he said with disgust. “This is insane. To give him his freedom after all he’s done—”

“You need to see the bigger picture here,” she said. “The much bigger picture, which, trust me, makes Carver look like a saint. Something’s going down and if you screw things up, I won’t be able to help you save your career. You have to let this go, Parker. Now repeat that back to me. You’ll let it go.”

He got what she was saying. If he pursued this, he was risking the career he’d so painstakingly built, but Christ it went against the grain. “I want in on the takedown,” he said.

“I can’t promise that. We’re not running the show.”

Yeah, he was getting that loud and clear.

“You know I’ll do what I can,” she said. “But in the meantime, stay the hell out of Idaho because if Carver sees you, he’ll run. He’ll vanish like smoke, and then he really will get away with it.”

“He’s not going to see me.”

“You willing to stake your career on it?” she asked. “Because right now he’s getting comfortable, and that’s right where we all need him to be. Comfortable. Cozy. Lazy.”

Carver was a lot of things, but lazy wasn’t one of them. And yet Sharon was right. He had to let it go.

For now.

He went back to his run, halfway to dead when he stopped two miles later and bent over at the knees, gulping in air like it was his job. He was still there sucking wind when a truck pulled over in front of him on the side of the road.

Wyatt got out. He was in cargo pants, a T-shirt that read VETERINARIAN: Because BADASS isn’t an official job title, and a fading smile as he got a good look at Parker.

“I’m fine,” Parker said, still wheezing.

Wyatt nodded as he came close enough to put his hand to Parker’s shoulder and push.

Parker fell over onto his ass.

“You’re full of shit,” Wyatt said, and offered him a hand to pull him up. “Get in the truck.”

Parker didn’t take orders from very many people. But stick a fork in him, he was done. “Love it when you get all demanding,” he said, keeping his whimpers to himself. “Gives me the shivers. You going to buy me breakfast first?”

“Maybe after,” Wyatt said. “If you’re very good.”

“After what?”

“If you want to kill yourself with physical activity, I’ve got just the way to do it,” Wyatt said.

Fifteen minutes later they entered the Belle Haven Animal Center, where Wyatt worked as a veterinarian. They were greeted by well over a hundred-pounds of Saint Bernard. Gertie threw herself at Wyatt and then shoved her big nose into Parker’s crotch, making him yelp.

Wyatt grinned. “Welcome to the insanity.”

“Help!” screeched a feminine voice. “HELP ME!”

Parker whipped around, automatically reaching for the weapon that he didn’t have at the small of his back because, oh yeah, he was in running gear with no place to hide a weapon.

But there was no woman. Just a huge parrot perched on a printer at the front desk.

“Help!” it squeaked in a shockingly authentic woman’s voice. “I’ve been turned into a parrot!”

“Peanut, play dead,” Wyatt said.

Peanut sighed and tucked her head into her feathers.

“Good parrot.” Wyatt looked at Parker. “She’s a nut.”

“Damn, shit, farts,” the bird muttered beneath her breath, making Parker grin.

Wyatt sighed. “Peanut’s a mimic, and Jade, our office manager, has a bit of a potty mouth.”

“Boner,” Peanut said, head still tucked into her feathers.

“Peanut, dead parrots don’t talk.” Wyatt turned back to Parker. “Follow me.”

Parker did, and found himself working his ass off for the next hour mucking out four horse stalls. It was late June and the day had heated up. He swiped an arm across his sweaty brow. “Why are we doing this again?” he asked Wyatt.

“Because we had to fire the maid,” Wyatt said, swiping his damp brow, too. “And also because each of us here owns a horse and we take turns at this. It was my day and you were looking to punish yourself for God knows what. Just being a friend, man.”