- CHAPTER EIGHTEEN -
SCOTCH
I pushed the back door open, leading him into the chilly, snow-covered yard. There was a huge tree nearby, a busted wooden fence that was mostly hidden by white frost, and a doghouse that had stood empty for years.
We moved deep into the yard, having silently agreed to keep away from the windows so no one could spy on us. “How could you do this to me?” he snapped.
“Do what?”
“This!” He threw his arm out at the side of my mother’s house. “You brought me right into a den of filthy cops!”
Clenching my fists at my hips, I said, “Those filthy cops are my family.”
Costello came at me, a wolf ready to tear me to shreds. It took all I had not to shrink away. “Exactly. Why didn’t you tell me you were . . . were . . .”
“What? A cop’s niece? An ex-cop’s daughter?” My eyes tracked to his scar, my voice softening. “Because you told me so many times you didn’t trust the police. I stayed quiet at first because it wasn’t important. By the time it mattered, you . . . I couldn’t handle the idea of you hating me the way you hate them.”
I dropped my eyes to the snow. For a heavy minute we were both quiet. Costello’s shoes entered my vision; I was determined not to look at his face. But when he tilted my chin up, I forgot why. “You’re not a cop. I couldn’t ever hate you.”
Sourness entered my veins. It came out in my response. “So that’s the catch. As long as I’m not one of them, I’m okay.” His eyebrows slid into crinkled shapes. “I’ll tell you something you might find funny. Growing up, I admired my uncle. He told me I had a natural gift for solving mysteries. I had every intention of joining the force like him.”
Costello released me, his hand drifting to his side.
“Yeah,” I chuckled bitterly. “Nothing to say to that, huh? You don’t even want to touch me now.” I turned and headed for the back door. The snow made me slower; I didn’t get far.
“Wait.”
I shot a withering glare over my shoulder. “Why, so you can tell me some more about how awful my family is? People who were willing to feed you, people you barely know?”
His shadow was long across the white ground. It mixed with the one cast by the giant oak tree that I’d spent so many summers climbing. “You said you were going to become a cop.”
“That’s right.”
Costello lifted his eyes, freezing me in place. “Why didn’t you?”
I faltered, turning around so quickly that snow tumbled into my shoes. It chilled me through my socks.
He took another step. “I saw how good you were with a gun. Your senses are in tune to danger, too. You’ve got so much potential. What stopped you? No . . . who?”
Old memories twisted up inside me. I was worried he’d read them through my skull and misinterpret all of it. “It’s not like that.” My lips were chapped, no matter how much I tried to wet them. “She didn’t mean to stop me, she didn’t even know she was.”
He’d gotten too close; I hadn’t realized until he was just a foot away. “Gina,” he whispered, and he did it with so much certainty. Was I that transparent? “There were photos of you two all over that house,” he said, nodding at it. “You’ve been friends a long time.”
Burying my hands in my jeans pockets, I wished I had my coat. My jaw ached from my teeth chattering. Kicking the loose snow away from me, I made a deep, curling shape with the toe of my shoe. “She’s my best friend. I had to make sure nothing happened to her.”
His breath was steam in the air. “She doesn’t know you stayed with her in the club just to watch over her, does she?”
“Stop that,” I snapped. “Stop guessing at everything. You don’t know my past, Costello. You barely know me.”
He cringed; it was brief, but I saw it. “That’s not true. I know plenty about you.”
“Like what?” I laughed, waving my arms in the air. “That I’m an idiot for ever thinking you’d be okay with my family?”
Firm hands grabbed my shoulders. I tried to back away; his touch was unbreakable. “I know your favorite color is pink. Not just pink, but rose pink. I know flying makes you nervous; I could see your hands trembling on the flight, and it wasn’t because you were angry with me. I know you asked me to dance at the wedding not because of my mother watching us, but because you secretly wanted to.” He was already holding me; somehow he pressed even closer. “I know you’ll do anything to help the people close to you. That you believe in what’s right.” He filled his lungs. “And I know you love roller coasters.”
Our breaths mixed in the winter chill. His escaped him in short bursts, like his heart was rapidly firing. Mine sure was. I searched his eyes, trying to find any hint that he was playing me. But if he was . . . why? He had nothing to gain by doing so. Flaring my nostrils, I dug deep until I had enough courage to ask what I really wanted to. “Tell me why you hate cops. Exactly why.”
His silence hung like raindrops from a rusty pipe. I kept waiting for him to speak, and the longer he didn’t, the more my heart deflated. This was it. My final push to understand Costello had failed.
Ice crunched under his heel. “Are you sure?” he asked, glancing at the house behind me. Whatever he was about to say, he seemed worried that my family would overhear. Or was it possible he was concerned that he’d create a divide between myself and them?
The idea had me quaking, but still I said, “I’m sure. I need to understand you, Costello.”
Pain. That was the only word for the emotion on his placid face.
Then he opened his mouth . . .
And he told me his story.