“I have no idea. You think your father has something to do with this?”
“I think there are a lot of people connected in this town,” I say, not about to go down the rabbit hole that is my father with him, at least not now. “I need anything on Emma and the men in her life you can get me.”
“You need a lot of things,” he says dryly.
“Yes, Lucas, I do. I also need to know about Danica Day, the new medical examiner. And Officer North, who just transferred from the city to work for Andrew.”
“You want me to hack the government, Lilah?”
“Yes. You have my permission. I’ll protect you.”
“Fuck, Lilah. Who protects you?”
“Me, and I’m damn good at it.”
“What do I get out of this?”
“My love and devotion,” I say sweetly. Yes, I can do sweet. People would be surprised how well and those people include me.
“Which would be enough,” he says, “but we both know that was never going to happen.”
“Obviously,” I say, “we aren’t talking about the same kind of love and devotion.”
“Nope,” he agrees. “What do I get out of this?”
“Steak prepared by a master chef for Thanksgiving dinner.”
“No shit? You got a chef off the TV show?”
“Hell no,” I quip. “I don’t do TV show bullshit. He’s a real master. And yes, there will be mac ‘n’ cheese made three ways.”
“I think I’d better leave my inappropriately basic diner-made coconut cake at home.”
“If you do, you won’t be let in the door.”
“Well, if Kane has his way I won’t be let in anyway.”
“True,” I concur. “But he does like all things coconut.” I firm my tone. “Get to work. I need to know everything you can find out tonight.” I’m about to hang up when I hesitate and say, “Look for connections to me, Lucas.”
“You? What the hell, Lilah? Are you in danger?”
“No, but you are if you don’t hurry up and get to work.” I hang up.
And I lied before I did. I am in danger. I have to go home and tell Kane that Lucas is coming to dinner.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
On the drive home in the snow, an old Rolling Stones song, “Beast of Burden,” plays on my radio. My mom loved it and her loss has always been my beast of burden. Her murder is my motivation, among others, to hate my father and destroy Pocher. The snow, too, has decided to be its own kind of beast of burden.
It pounds down on the windshield in a blinding ferocity that forces me to drive like a grandma who’s grabbed grandpa’s glasses instead of her own, and thus cannot see the road. Patience isn’t one of my virtues, and it’s utilized only when forced upon me. To make matters worse, I’m at the “Ol’ Betsy stoplight” as the locals call her, the one that takes ten years to change.
My fingers thrum the steering wheel while Kane’s words come back to me: There’s a reason Murphy doesn’t even deny wanting us together. He believes together we’re dangerous to the Society. So does the Society.
And what, I think, has the Society proven to do when someone is dangerous to them?
They kill them.
But do they taunt them first? Is that what this—tonight—was supposed to be?
My cellphone buzzes with a text message and I glance down to find a message from Andrew: Jamie’s number is an unregistered number. It’s a throwaway.
I reply with: Of course it is.
Ol’ Betsy turns and my mind is forced back to the road.
By the time I’m in the garage at the house, Kane is waiting for me at the door. He studies me with intensity, intensely unreadable. He’s assessing, questioning, but not talking. God love him and his understanding of how I operate.
I’m in my head.
I need to stay there right now.
He backs up to allow me to enter the back hallway and I’m quick to do just that. Once we’re both inside the warm house, I strip off my wet boots and he takes my coat before I follow him to the kitchen. I settle onto a barstool in front of the marbled island, while he prepares, and then hands me a hot Bailey’s coffee with whipped cream. Yes, the dark, dangerous Kane Mendez put whipped cream on my coffee. And still, we haven’t spoken a word.
He joins me, claiming the spot next to me while I sip my coffee, the warm, sweet liquid sliding down my throat and helping me come down about two notches.
Ready now, for more than my own mental ping-ponging of thoughts, I grab my phone, thumbing through photos until I find the image of the jar of blood. I set it in front of Kane.
“That was left for me in the refrigerator of the crime scene.”
He glances at it and then me, arching his dark brow. “The victim’s blood?”