The doorbell rings and I set my glass down. “That will be Lucas or my brother.” I down my wine and stand up. “You need to drink more wine.”
“I need whiskey,” he comments dryly.
He’s not wrong. This isn’t going to be pretty. I walk to the front door and glance through the side window. It’s Andrew. I don’t know why he’s not with Samantha. I’m sure he’ll be doing the naughty with her later, but I’m more pleased than I expected that he’s here. I open the door. Andrew stands there. He’s wearing a red sweater. Asshole is going to make me get emotional. “Damn you,” I murmur.
“What’d I do already?”
“The sweater.”
“Oh,” he says. “Yeah. I know. You too, asshole,” he grumbles.
“She was murdered,” I say. “I want those responsible to pay.”
“As do I.”
“If anyone can help us make that happen, it’s Kane. Don’t forget that over dinner.”
His lips tighten and he shoves a bottle of whiskey at me. “Peace offering. The good stuff.”
I glance at the ridiculously expensive bottle he had to have dipped into his trust to purchase and then back at him. “Excellent choice for a peace offering. Let’s go drink.” I back up so he can enter the hallway and shut the door behind him.
He turns to face me. “You heard?”
“Pig’s blood. Yeah. I already told you that.”
He narrows his baby blues at me. “What does it mean, Lilah?”
“Fuck you,” I say, realizing that’s the one notecard I forget to write out. “It means fuck you.”
“Since this is you I’m talking to,” he says, “I’ll take that literally. Which means this is personal.”
Of course, it’s personal, I think. The jar had my name on it, but it’s Thanksgiving and despite my sisterly duty to tell him when he makes a stupid statement, I reframe. Barely. “It’s fucked up,” I say instead, and turn and head down the hallway, calling over my shoulder, “Lucas is coming!”
He groans and not because he doesn’t like Lucas. Because he knows Kane doesn’t. Today is so much joy it can only be tolerated with whiskey. And strawberry pie.
Kane is in the living room waiting on us, facing the open window, staring out at the snowy beach. “Andrew brought whiskey,” I announce as he turns, and I show him the bottle. “The good stuff. I’ll get us all the drinks we need.” I don’t wait for a reply. I head to the bar area that’s set between the kitchen and the living room.
I’ve filled three glasses and so far, there are no voices in the living room. If my brother chickened out and ran, I’m going to be ashamed of him and I might actually have to take his badge myself. I grab two of the three glasses because I’m just not in the mood to wear the whiskey that should be in my belly. I walk into the living room and Andrew and Kane are just standing there, staring at each other. Kane, at least in my observant view, is cool and at ease, but to anyone else, he’s intense and intimidating. Andrew is stiff, edgy, his mood ping-ponging against the walls and back at us all. But he’s still here. I give him credit where credit is due.
I close the space between me and him and hand him the glass. “Drink.”
He accepts the glass and downs the contents. I hand him the second. I return to the bar and come back with two more glasses. This time I walk to Kane, hand him his glass, and then glance between them. “Okay, so what do normal people talk about at Thanksgiving?” I lift my glass. “I know. Murder.”
Kane’s lips quirk. Andrew scowls.
He motions to the tree. “Your decorator did a good job.”
“Thank you,” I say. “We did, didn’t we?” I smile at Kane.
“You didn’t decorate the damn tree,” Andrew argues. “You didn’t even help when we were kids.”
“Well, people change,” I say. “I’m more delicate and sensitive now.”
Kane laughs and sips his drink.
Andrew tilts his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh before.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever had a conversation with you when you weren’t accusing me of mass murder,” Kane replies dryly.
“Okay then,” I say. “We’re back to murder. Why don’t we just sit down and talk about the case then?”
Andrew eyes me. “Your husband-to-be might not like that.”
“Oddly,” Kane replies dryly, “her obsession with criminals has never bothered me.”
Obviously, he’s egging on Andrew and when Andrew scowls, I laugh. Naomi appears in her red apron with a tray of food. “I have honey garlic shrimp,” she announces and quickly rounds the couches to set the display of food, napkins, and mini plates down on the stone coffee table.
She hurries away and I say, “That’s a sign we should just sit down, stuff our faces, and get along.”
We do. We sit. Andrew is on the couch and Kane and I in an oversized chair beside him. All three of us grab a little cup filled with shrimp. Once our mouths are full, the need for conversation is gone. We’re on little cup number two when Andrew says, “I’m pretty sure hell is groaning, the three of us together, sharing a meal.”