I know then. I know who attacked me. “They already came for me. They had me raped.”
His eyes flicker with something I cannot name, but rather than the fury I expect to follow, he simply asks, “When?”
“When? When? Right before I left for LA. I was raped. That is what you’re endorsing. People who do bad things to people you love.”
That something in his eyes flares again before his jaw sets hard and his spine straightens. “You don’t know it was them.”
“That’s what you’re going to say to me?” I demand incredulously. “I don’t know it’s them? I just told you I was attacked and raped.”
He steps to me and grabs my arm, pulling me to him. “Rape doesn’t kill you, little girl. That is what you need to understand. These are dangerous people. They will kill you. I’m trying to keep you alive.”
“Like they killed my mother.”
“Your mother died in a plane crash. Don’t start creating conspiracy theories that will get you killed. Shut the damn case and then go back to LA before you piss someone off other than me.” He releases me and starts walking, calling out, “And you owe me a forty-year single malt.”
I owe him a bottle of booze. I told him I was raped, and that’s how he ends this conversation. I watch him settle into his car and drive away. I stand there, watching long after he’s gone, and I can feel myself trembling, a surge of anger just beneath the surface. I whirl around to my mother’s grave and stare at the headstone, her absence in this moment cutting me to the point that I might just bleed. I am about to drop to my knees in front of the plot when the sensation of being watched overcomes me.
My gaze lifts to the cemetery and reaches wide, landing on the road that divides parts of the grassy area to find him: the man with the scar is standing next to a pickup truck. The idea that he is here to support my father and threaten me is a trigger. I snap. I pull my gun and start walking toward him, navigating a path of headstones and graves. He stands there as if he might actually let me confront him for a good sixty seconds before he moves abruptly, gets in his truck, and leaves. I run after the truck, trying to catch a glimpse of the plate, but he’s already too far ahead.
I turn away and start along another path through the sea of dead-and-buried bodies and return to my mother’s grave. I stand above it, thinking about my father’s claim that she knew about the Society. She couldn’t have been a part of this Society. Or maybe she knew and she got in the way, just like me. Everyone in my life is corrupt. Everyone. Even Kane, but at least I knew that, at least I understand who and what he is, unless . . . Oh God. Is Kane a part of it? I shake my head: no. He can’t be. Pocher is his enemy, but I have to know for sure, and when I look into that man’s eyes, I’ll know.
And if he’s betrayed me, too, the snap of moments before will be nothing. Adrenaline surges through me, and I dial Kane. “Where are you?” I demand when he answers.
“At home.”
“I’m coming there,” I say, hanging up and dialing Murphy.
“Agent Love,” he greets.
“You need to know that I’m going to Kane Mendez’s house, and I’m either going to kill him, fuck him, or arrest him. This stands as my confession if I kill him.” He starts laughing, and I snarl back at him, “Are you seriously laughing?”
“Yes,” he says. “I am. For the record, I don’t believe you will kill Kane, I don’t care who you fuck, and don’t arrest him. He’s too big of a resource, which you’ll figure out at some point. Just remember. Your enemy’s enemy is your friend, and everyone is Kane’s enemy but you.”
I have no idea what nonsense this man is spouting. “I’m hanging up on you,” I say, “and I’m only giving you the courtesy of telling you because you’re my boss.” I disconnect and walk to the car, climbing inside before cranking the engine and heading toward Kane’s house.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Within fifteen minutes of leaving the cemetery, I’m at Kane’s house, and before I can key in the gate code, it opens, which tells me that Kane is watching for me. I park in the driveway, and when I get out of the car, I remove my jacket and toss it inside. My gun and my badge stay on my waistband. I walk to the front door, and it opens. Kane is standing there in faded jeans and a black T-shirt, looking like a tall, dark drink of that forty-year whiskey I will never replace for my father and that I could easily get drunk on. Or a tall, dark drink of deception that is going to hurt before this is over. We’re both about to find out which.
I walk toward him, and he backs up to allow me to enter, but I crowd him, pressing my hand to his chest, and he lets me walk him backward to shove him against the wall. I kick the door shut, and my fingers curl around his shirt. “Did you know?” I demand.
“Know what, Lilah?”
“Did you know?”
“Explain what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Because you aren’t going to admit anything you don’t have to admit, right?”
“I don’t lie to you, Lilah. Tell me—”
“The Society,” I bite out. “Did you know about the Society?”
His eyes flicker ever so slightly, and it tells me all I need to know. I pull my gun and
point it at him. “I told you that the next time I pulled this on you I would shoot you, and this is that time.”
“Okay, beautiful. Easy.”
“Easy is like ‘calm down,’ and for a smart man, you are once again proving you’re not so smart. You don’t tell an angry person to calm the fuck down. You betrayed me.”
“No,” he says. “I would not, and have not, betrayed you. I know about the Society. Of course I know about the Society. And yes, I have suspected they were involved in your attack but failed to prove that to be the case.”
“Well, they are. My father is a part of it. He knows who they are. He knows what they are and he doesn’t care.”
“How do you know this, Lilah?”
“He told me, and I told him they raped me, and he said it’s better than killing me.”
“Fuck,” he breathes out, reaching for the gun and covering it with his hand. “Let me have it.”
“No. I will not.” My hand trembles, and Kane uses that sign of weakness to take my gun, but I let him.
And in true Kane form, he doesn’t keep it. He shoves it into my holster, and then cups the back of my head, pulling me to him. “You can shoot me later.”
“But I want to shoot somebody,” I confess.
“I’d prefer it not be me,” he says. “And I’d kiss you right now, but I told you that the next time—”
I push to my toes and press my lips to his, and that is all the encouragement he needs. His mouth slants over mine, his tongue licking against mine, and I moan and sink into the kiss. Let it consume me the way he consumes me. It’s what I need. The escape, the inability to see and feel anything but the moment and this man. I don’t even care if it’s right or wrong. And when he pulls back, breathing with me, I don’t want to breathe. I want that feeling of not being able to breathe, and I press my lips back to his, my hand sliding under his shirt, shoving up his body until his mouth parts mine again and he yanks the shirt over his head. I do the same, pulling the damn pink silk blouse over my head and tossing it, followed by my bra.