The Operator

Knowing he was probably right, she dropped her head and dug in her belt pack for the key. “Do what you want with the store,” she said, pressing it into his hand.

“Peri,” Silas protested, but the peace she’d found here was spoiled.

“Sell it,” she added, refusing to take it back. “Use the money for Carnac’s vet bills. Whatever. I don’t care. You saw the security code, right? Twenty, five—”

“One,” Cam finished softly. “Peri—”

“If I can take care of this, you’ll be fine,” she interrupted. “If I can’t, then Bill won’t have any reason to bother you.”

“Either way, you’re not coming back,” Cam said—and it hurt.

“I’m sorry.” The car rumbled under her, the embodiment of her wish to be gone.

“Don’t worry about it.” Cam tucked the key away and glanced at Silas. “I knew there was no real chance. My psychologist says I only go after the women I can’t have, and I thought I might have broken that, but I guess not.”

“I’m trying to fix this,” Peri said, not liking his sad smile. “Once Bill is gone, I have a chance at something normal.”

“But not with me,” he said, his eyes going back to Silas. “I know when a woman is in love.”

She flushed, her grip on the wheel tightening. Beside her, Silas cleared his throat. “It’s going to be light soon,” he muttered.

“Cam,” she said, not wanting to leave it like this, but he was backing up.

“Do me a favor,” the tall man said, his eyes on the lights of Detroit. “If you come back for Carnac, leave me a note so I don’t waste my time looking for him, okay?”

“Cam!”

He was walking away. “I’ll get the gate for you.”

“Jesus,” she swore, and Silas smirked. “Why is he laying this guilt trip on me? It isn’t as if we did anything together.”

“He seems nice,” Silas said dryly, and she inched forward.

“Not another word,” she warned.

“I was just going to say—”

“Stop,” she demanded, trying to catch Cam’s eye as she carefully drove out of the gate and angled into the alley. But he wouldn’t look at her.

This wasn’t what she had intended, but as Silas settled into his seat as if it were his lounger in front of his TV, shut his eyes, and went to sleep, she realized that it was the calmest, most relaxed she’d been in months.

Maybe, she thought, looking at him.

Maybe not.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

“There is no police report because I didn’t report it,” Bill said, his voice even but temper fraying as he argued with the disaster recovery company. “Get someone out to look at it. Give me a quote so I can write a check. Fix it. What is the difficulty?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but we are required by law to report gun damage.”

Bill pressed his fingertips into his forehead, fighting the urge to pace the floor of the East Coast office that Helen had insisted he use while he was here. He wanted to go home to a house that had no reminders of Michael or his lifeblood spilling from him, but that was looking less and less likely. “Guns didn’t make the holes in my walls. Bullets did. Are you required by law to report bullet damage?”

“You’re talking semantics, sir.”

“Semantics? Someone learn a new word today?” Bill said snidely, then hung up.

“Margo!” he shouted, then remembered Margo was eight hundred miles away. “Sean!” he shouted instead, and the man poked his head in.

“Another coffee, sir?”

Bill eyed the man’s lavender polo shirt and Dockers, imaging the impression the clean-cut man would make if he was in a suit. Sean had been with him for years, able to put five shots in a silver dollar, but not everyone was comfortable with the uglier side of Opti. “No,” he said, looking at the untouched sugar bomb he’d found on his desk this morning. “Get me the handyman you recommended on the phone. I should have listened to you in the first place.”

“Yes, sir.”

He didn’t mind the smugness in Sean’s voice, seeing as he deserved it. “And double what he’s asking if he can be in and out in twenty-four hours!” he added as the door closed.

“Yes, sir” came through the intercom, and then, “Sir, Michael is here to see you.”

Michael? Bill’s gaze shot to the drawer where his Glock was. “Send him in,” he said, unlocking it even as Michael pushed open the door.

“Hello, Bill.”

Bill’s expression froze. Irritation melted into a wary alertness at the self-satisfied tone and insufferable cockiness as Michael rocked to a halt in the center of the room. Wanting to keep the upper hand, Bill checked his motion to rise, pointing to a chair instead. “Just who I wanted to see,” he said, his entire attitude realigning. Something had changed. The little snot thought he had something on him.

Michael grinned to show his teeth. “Liar.” Eyebrows high, he passed the chairs to look out the window at the city’s quaint “skyline” instead. His back was to Bill—another not-so-subtle show of dominance.

Little boy wants to play? he thought, remembering the feel of Michael’s knife slitting his throat. Silent, he waited. It was an old tactic, but effective nonetheless.

“Have you set up a meeting with Helen yet?” Michael asked, his nail rubbing a nonexistent spot on the window.