Feral cats showed more kindness to stray dogs than Cole showed my fellow officers, his words full of hiss and spit, but he had sheathed his claws for me. For now. Oddly proud of myself, I felt as though I had tamed a tiger to eat from my palm. Cole gave a concise statement to Officer Landry, one of Dad’s fishing buddies, and if the older cop objected to Cole rubbing his thumb over my knuckles like worry stones, he didn’t let on.
Oh yeah. He was so tattling on me once he got out of here.
The reporter, Moses Franke, shivered like a Chihuahua while giving his account and chose not to press charges. Had I been in his shoes, with Cole sitting three feet away, I wouldn’t have had the balls to cry foul either. I wasn’t as forgiving. Accidental public urination wasn’t enough of an apology for me. Charges, they were getting pressed.
“Mr. Hannigan is not one of your admirers.” Free at last, Cole eased open the froyo shop’s front door and scanned the sidewalk while using his body as a shield against whatever had caused his forehead to pucker. “Four eye-witness accounts, and he still attempted to shift the blame onto you.”
“He’s never liked me much.” Yet another reason why I rarely came here and never alone. “I had a gum-chewing problem as a teen, a nervous habit. He blamed me for what he called the ‘slobber graffiti’ under his tabletops.” The funny thing about Mr. Hannigan was he seemed like an okay guy on the surface, but he never forgot I had crawled out of the swamp, and he never let me forget around him either. “This is the latest in a long string of attempts at banning me from his establishment for life.”
Having a cop for a dad, even as a grown woman, served as one heck of a deterrent against discriminatory shenanigans. Mr. Hannigan wanted the law on his side before he made a move, and this latest incident might actually give that to him.
“You should have told me.” Cole glanced down at me. “I wouldn’t have paid him.”
Cole had arranged for a wire transfer to cover the exorbitant “estimated” cost of repairs, tacking on extra to cover Mr. Hannigan’s mental anguish caused by the destruction of a beloved keepsake—the framed dollar bill.
“You and your bank account made quite the impression on him.” I attempted to peer around Cole. He shifted to make that impossible. Since I didn’t have any rock climbing gear handy, I couldn’t very well scale him to discover what held his attention. “He’d probably be thrilled if you became a regular.”
“That won’t ever happen,” he murmured.
I chose to view his declaration as one of annoyance and not of solidarity. I was no less suspicious of him, no less annoyed with him, but I’ll admit I was flattered. The guy had defended my honor. Who did that? No one these days. Certainly not for me. Never for me.
“Can we get out of here?” The stares on my back were starting to make my skin prickle.
“Channel 8 News is out there.” He angled his face in my direction. “Their van boxed-in your Bronco. The reporter is practically oiled up and sliding across your hood.” A steady rumble moved through his chest, and this time I did place my hand on his back to feel the vibrations, to prove I wasn’t crazy. “We’ll take my SUV to the hospital. I can give your keys to one of the crew, and they can drive your Bronco home. That work for you?”
“Let me notify Rixton.” Rixton, who had informed Landry he would be taking his wife home, and if he wanted their statements, he could come get them. “He’ll worry if he spots the Bronco, but I’m not here.”
“You’re smart to tell him where you’re going and with who.” Amusement tugged at his lips. “I wouldn’t trust me either if I were you.”
“Sure you won’t reconsider telling me who hired you to protect Jane?” I folded my arms and waited. “That would go a long way toward earning my trust.”
“Trust will come in time.” He made it sound like a foregone conclusion. “Do you have everything you need?”
“Yeah.” I checked my top, tucked in the fabric where it had come loose, all the while hating there would be photos of me emerging from Hannigan’s in a ripped shirt after the altercation. That wouldn’t be good for Dad’s blood pressure. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Here.” He gripped the bottom of his polo and tugged it over his head. He wore a plain, black undershirt, but the motion untucked the thin fabric from his pants and exposed a glimpse of ridged scarring over hard muscle. “Put this on.”
“Thanks.” Walking out in Cole’s shirt was adding more fuel to the fire, but I would rather burn than expose my secrets to the masses. I shrugged into the polo and grinned at him. The hem hit right above my knees, and the short sleeves hung past my elbows. I held my chin up when he went to button the black discs he had left undone at his throat with surprisingly nimble fingers. “You’re kind of a beast. You know that, right?”
The sight of me sporting White Horse gear—his gear—had elicited a pleased rumble from him. Typical guy response. I think they came hardwired that way. Now his slow perusal came to a screeching halt as my words registered, and he mashed his lips together. “I know.”
Considering how Valerie had all but called me a cryptid, and how that made me feel like a dirt sandwich, I cringed at the name-calling. Of all the accusations I’d made, this one alone seemed to truly bother him.
“Hey, I meant you’re a big guy.” I gripped his wrists and squeezed to get his attention. “Not literally.”
The tension in his shoulders eased. “Is that a problem?”
“Are you offering to sit on the couch watching football and drinking beer until all this—” I dragged a finger down his defined abs, inviting the warm shiver that followed “—turns to pudge if it is?”
“My body is a weapon,” he admitted, watching me with rapt attention. “I can’t afford to let it go to . . . pudge.”
“Is security work that dangerous?” His expensive taste in toys proved his firm had done well for itself. Landing contracts with people like the Claremonts had to be lucrative. “Or is your appearance a deterrent?”
“Both.” A flicker of motion caught his eye, and a black SUV with a bright White Horse logo pulled up to the curb. “That’s our ride.”
“That’s your SUV.” The odds of two such beasts prowling our streets was slim. “Who’s behind the wheel?”
“Santiago was due for a grocery run, so I got him to drop me off first.” Reaching for my elbow on reflex, he drew back at the last second. “Where am I allowed to touch?”
“My hands.” I didn’t waste breath asking how he knew I was touch-averse. He saw everything with those meltwater eyes. “I avoid contact on my arms and shoulders.”
He took my hand like it was his right and led me into the maelstrom. Channel 8’s cameraman rushed us, and the reporter trailed him shouting my name. Lights flashed. More pictures for me to gather and scrapbook later. More photos for me to scan while I waited for the tug of recognition in my gut that said Hey, that’s me. Had I been alone, I would have ducked my head and ran, but Cole waded in, and I bobbed behind him. Surprise, surprise, no one jostled me. Word traveled fast. They wouldn’t touch me today, a small gift, but their memories were short, relentless hunger driving them, and I would be fair game again tomorrow.
We reached the SUV, and Cole yanked open the door. He placed his hand on my hip and guided me inside before scooting across the bench seat and slamming a barrier between us, the bright lights and raised voices.
“Nice shirt.” Santiago met my gaze in the rearview mirror. “Does that make you an honorary member of the crew?”
“Drive.” Cole punched Santiago’s headrest. “Take us to Madison Memorial.”
Santiago grunted once in his boss’s direction, then glided into traffic.
I let my head fall back against the seat and blew out a sigh. “Thanks for getting me out of there.”
“You’re welcome,” the men said in tandem, and Cole scowled as Santiago tacked on, “Life’s never dull around you, is it?”
“I like dull.” I fastened my seatbelt. “Life just didn’t get the memo.” I felt Cole’s eyes on me and turned my head toward him. “Who’s covering the hospital?”
“Portia Cannon,” Santiago answered for him. “She’s got legs for miles and ain’t picky whose hips she wraps them around. Ain’t that right, boss?”
A heavy silence descended over the backseat. Oh. Oh.
“Thanks for oversharing.” Guess he’d noticed the handholding and decided to put a stop to that. I could have told him not to bother, that I wasn’t interested in climbing Mt. Heaton, but I saved my breath. “You could have given me relevant information—height, weight, hair color—but you do you.”
A mental picture of how Cole’s bedroom might look, outfitted with ropes, harnesses and carabiners popped into my head. The absurdity of it all forced out a snort that had Santiago squinting at me. Pleased to have gotten under his skin, I ignored the surly driver, picked up my phone and started damage control.
I texted Dad and Uncle Harold, skipped Maggie since I still had her phone, then read Rixton’s reply.
He led with an update on Sherry, who was napping, then let the other shoe drop. We were off the Claremont case. The girl’s parents had thrown their weight around and gotten the case reassigned to the FBI office out of nearby Jackson. I didn’t blame them. Their access to superior resources gave them an edge we lacked, and the longer she remained missing, the slimmer the hope of bringing her home alive.
Dad responded with four words—also expected—We need to talk.
Uncle Harold replied with a row of emojis I translated as “smiling while a four-leaf clover and a dog eats cake in a church.” Or maybe he meant he was a lucky dog because he was in church eating cake? A potluck maybe? His grandkids were trying to make him hip to their lingo, but so far all their efforts had accomplished was making me feel old and in need of a translator.
“Here we are.” Santiago pulled under the portico. “You want me to park or circle?”
“Circle,” Cole decided. “Keep an eye out. Make sure we weren’t followed.”
The doorlocks popped, and I exited the vehicle. Cole got out and paced around the vehicle, peeling off the White Horse logos where he found them, then tossed them in the trunk along with several other interchangeable magnetic signs stuck together in clumps. Below those, metal gleamed. License plates.
I fingered a square marked with Tombigbee Electric Power Association logo. “Do I want to know?”
“No.” He closed the hatch then pounded his fist twice against the glass. “It’s best if you don’t.”
Briiiiiiing.
The trill of an old-fashioned rotary phone lifted gooseflesh down my arms, a Pavlovian response that set my pulse sprinting like a thoroughbred through the starting gate at Churchill Downs.
Turning away, oblivious to my near-heart attack, Cole unclipped a thick, black phone from his belt and pressed it against the side of his face. “What did I tell you about dicking around with my ringtone, Santiago?”
The panicked breath trapped in my chest released in a dizzying gust. Get it together, Luce. Millions of people use that ringtone. All things old are new again. You can’t jump out of your skin every time you hear it.
“You’ve been taken off the Claremont case. It’s been reassigned to Special Agent Farhan Kapoor of the FBI.”
“What?” I startled out of my daze. “How can you possibly know that? I found out five minutes ago.”
“Is it my fault?” Cole put away the phone and glowered down at me. “Are you being punished for what happened earlier?”
“No.” I cobbled my stray thoughts into a cohesive whole. “We’re a small department. Rixton and I are good at laying the groundwork. We conduct interviews, track leads, call hospitals and morgues in the surrounding areas and get the ball rolling, but we don’t have their training or access to their resources.” I twitched a shoulder. “I won’t lie. It burns. We get a twenty-fourhour window, if we’re lucky, before these cases dissolve in our hands. We’ve had our turn. It’s time to bring in the big guns.”
He worked his jaw like he wanted to disagree but set about clearing a path through the stragglers camped out in lawn chairs. Slushies from Blue Hippo filled many a drink holder, and the scent of microwave burritos and nachos heavy on the jalapenos peppered the air.
“Gah.” I entered the hospital and tucked my nose against my shoulder when the disinfectant tickled me into a sneezing fit. “Do all hospitals smell the same?” I wiped my watery eyes on my sleeve, at once wishing to return to the bean-and-cheese-scented portico. “Burnt Lean Cuisines and bleach.”
He skirted me and headed for the bank of elevators. “Have a grudge against hospitals?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” I kept it light. No need to explain the months and months of testing I’d undergone while doctors attempted to solve the riddle of my banding. Dad had checked me out against the advice of my doctors when their attempt to remove the one nearest my elbow resulted in eventual regeneration. Metal was not an alloy produced by the human body. I shouldn’t have regrown the missing striation, but I had inside of a week. “It’s got to be one of the more common phobias.”
“She’s on four now.” He ushered me inside the booth when a bell chimed and mashed the button for the fourth floor. “We arranged for a private room, and her medical bills are covered.”
“That’s generous.” My reflection scowled at me from the mirrorlike chrome doors, and for once I agreed with her before smoothing the irritation off my face. “Your client must have deep pockets.”
Faint creases lined the corners of his eyes. “You’d be amazed how deep everyday people can reach when a loved one’s life is on the line.”
“So you’re in security for the money.” The scowl reemerged.
“Yes.” His tone dared me to challenge him. “Why did you become a cop?”
“Not for the paycheck,” I shot back.
“Is that why you still live at home?” He towered over me. Towering was kind of his thing. “Can’t afford your own place?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but Dad had a health scare last year.” I dragged my upper teeth over my bottom lip. “I chose not to renew the lease on my apartment and moved back home so I could keep an eye on him.” I tried not to think about Jane when I said, “He’s all the family I’ve got.”
The doors slid open, and I stepped into the hall before he landed another barb.
“Her room is this way.” His fingers brushed the back of my hand but didn’t latch on. “You brought ID?”
I patted my jeans pocket. “Always.”
We rounded the corner, and my knees threatened to lock. A tall, blonde, dressed in what I was coming to regard as the White Horse uniform, stood with the long legs Santiago had promised crossed at the ankles. A foam cup with a bendy straw sticking out of the top sat at her feet, and someone had drawn flames like you might expect on a muscle car up the sides with a red pen. A Rubik’s Cube whirled in her hand, and she kept her head bent over it, the tip of her tongue peeking out of her mouth while she manipulated the puzzle to completion.
“Portia.” Cole sighed.
“One second.” Three more twists of her wrists, and she took a bow, the finished cube sitting on her open palm. “Ta da!”
He lifted the toy for examination. “Where did you get this?”
“A kid three doors down. His older brother is kind of a dick.” Her lip curled. “Gave it to him and promised if he solved it by the time visitation rolls around tomorrow that the doctors would let him go home.”
“You’re not supposed to interfere,” he murmured, returning the trinket.
“Do as you say, not as you do.” She looked straight at me. “Right?”
“Hi.” I thrust out my hand. “I’m Luce Boudreau. I thought you might want an introduction to the person you’re talking over.”
“I’m Portia.” She curtseyed, and it wasn’t a half-bad effort either. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Luce Boudreau. You’re shorter than I expected.”
“Well, you’re exactly what I expected.” I winced at how that sounded then gestured toward her legs. “Santiago said—”
“Oh, I can just imagine what Santiago told you about me. Let me know if this comes close.” She spun on her heel in a dramatic turn and fainted against Cole, pinning the back of her hand to her forehead. “Oh, Cole, it’s simply been too long since you last ravished me.” She fumbled in her pocket and produced a wrapped spork probably scavenged from the cafeteria. “Here’s a spoon. Eat me up with it.”
With a put-upon sigh, he took one calculated step back, and she hit the floor on her tailbone. “Behave.”
“Do you really think I’d tap that?” she asked me from her seat on the linoleum. “He has no sense of humor, he’s my boss, and he’s larger than some small countries.” She smoothed her hands down her curves. “It’s this body, isn’t it? It’s so hot guys leak brains out of their ears even when I’m in uniform. Or maybe especially when I’m in uniform.” A slight frown plumped her lips. “I’m going to miss that.”
This body. What was that supposed to mean? It sounded almost like something I would say, but clearly Portia was at home in her skin while mine sometimes felt more like a rental. Vanity maybe? I almost asked why she would miss her own body, it’s not like it was going anywhere, but I didn’t have time to pry open that can of worms when I had bigger fish to fry.
“I’m just here to see Jane.” I held up both hands, palms out. “It’s not my business who’s tapping what.”
“Santiago is just pissy because I felt him up one night after a few beers. I got nowhere. Seriously. I’ve held stiffer homemade noodles. Uncooked ones. We’re talking raw dough.” She scoffed. “His revenge is telling anyone who’ll listen that because I made the mistake of wanting him to scratch my itch that one time that I have claws in all the guys.”
“Pretty sure they make a cream for that.” I cringed away from her frankness. “Lucky you, you’re in the right place to get a prescription.”
“You’re so cute with your blushing and your manners.” She mimed pinching my cheeks. “You have no idea how much I’m loving this.” She made a frame with her fingers and squared it up on my face. “Let me savor this moment.”
I took a careful step out of arm’s reach and backed into Cole. “Is weird a résumé requirement for you?”
“You have no idea.” Leaning over Portia, he opened the door to expose Jane resting comfortably under the covers. “Step over her.” He toed Portia’s thigh. “Or on her. I don’t care which.”
“Excuse me.” I stepped over Portia, who was still grinning at me, and approached the bed. Cole was a warm wall at my back as I drank in the sight of her. “There’s more color in her cheeks today. Maybe she’ll feel like talking.”
“Are you hoping she has answers for you?” The heat of him enveloped my spine. “I can promise she has none you’ll want to hear.”
“My whole life people have looked at me and talked about me like I was a prize-winning science fair project. That reporter today? Do you know why he did what he did?” Clenching my fists, I kept them balled at my sides. “He did it because he doesn’t look at me and see a person. I’m a thing to him.” I couldn’t bear to look back at Cole. “You saw me when he . . . you didn’t stare like the others, but you must have seen.” I swept a hand out toward Jane. “Look at her. We’re the same. For the first time . . . ” My shoulders hunched. “Please, don’t smash my hope.”
“I apologize.” He retreated. “Take all the time you need.”
Years of longing for a connection, any connection, to my past tightened my throat when I might have thanked him for wanting to spare me from the razor edge of hope that so often cut those who wielded it.
Cole shut the door behind him, and a muted conversation struck up in the hall.
I soaked in the gentle wave to Jane’s hair, the dark lashes resting on her cheeks, the gauntness of her jaw. I too had been little more than skin and bones when Dad found me. But I had been around ten or eleven, as best as the doctors could tell. Jane was closer to my current age.
“Who are you?” I asked the question of the quiet room. And who does that make me?
Jane didn’t offer me an answer. She didn’t so much as flutter an eyelash.
An itch started under my skin the longer I remained in the room, not the pins-and-needles pain that assaulted me each year on my birthday, but a lesser irritation. Time and time again, I had to wrench my gaze from her bare arms by reminding myself how much I hated when people stared at me.
The better part of two hours slipped past before I started feeling like a creeper and decided it was best if I went home. The reassignment of the Claremont case meant I had no pressing business for the rest of the night. I wondered if Santiago would mind stopping at the local Thai place for carryout so I didn’t have to cook. I wasn’t in the mood, and Dad couldn’t boil an egg. Not unless you wanted it rubbery enough to pass for a bouncy ball.
Leaving Jane behind, I reentered the hall and bumped right into Portia. “Where’s Cole?”
“He went to handle your clearance with hospital security.” She plucked at the front of my shirt. “Tell anyone who asks that you’re consulting for White Horse.”
I readjusted the fit. “I’m not going to lie.”
Laughter exploded from her, and she bent at the waist. “You slay me.”
“Leave her alone.” The quiet order bounced off the blonde, who kept hooting. “Are you ready to go?”
“Yeah.” Nothing about the past two days felt real. The supergator attack, finding Jane and meeting Cole and his peculiar crew, all of it had a dreamlike quality. Tomorrow I might wake up to discover it had all been imagined, that wishes didn’t come true when you blew out candles. “Would you mind making a pit stop before you drop me at home?”
“That reminds me.” He held out his hand. “Keys.” I passed them over, and he tossed them to Portia. “Drop Luce’s Bronco off at her place.”
The mischievous curl of her lip disturbed me. “How does Portia know what my Bronco looks like? Or where I live?”
“It’s black,” he continued on as if I hadn’t interrupted, “and it’ll be the only vehicle parked at Hannigan’s at that time of morning.” After a pointed look at me, he added, “I’ll text the GPS coordinates.”
I anchored my fists at my hips. “You’re almost as good at covering your ass as you are at being an ass.”
Portia launched into peals of laughter again.
Cole only smiled, but its duration made me squirm.
“Newsflash, Cole,” Portia sing-songed behind him, rapping her knuckles on the back of his skull. “Fire is hot.”
The oddness of her statement broke our stalemate. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That people don’t change,” he told me, bitterness a tang on his breath. “That no matter how many times you stick your hand through the flames, you’ll still get burned.”
Unsure what any of that had to do with me, I shrugged. “Pretty sure they make a cream for that too.”
Portia’s belly laugh bounced off the walls and ceiling, and she dabbed her eyes with her shirtsleeve.
Maybe I would invite her in for breakfast when she swung by to drop off the Bronco. We could bond over egg-white omelets with low-fat cheddar cheese, and she could explain why she found everything I said or did hilarious. Sure, I liked to think of myself as funny. Who didn’t? But today I hadn’t been trying. Yet I could barely string two words together before her face split in a grin. Of one thing I had no doubt. She wasn’t laughing with me; she was laughing at me.