Sonata (North Security 3)

He glances at the case, not looking particularly grateful. “Thank you.”

I throw myself onto an armchair, wincing a little at how it creaks. Damn antique furniture isn’t made to hold a man and his six-pack. “I should have brought it to her, so I could at least enjoy the way she freaks out and starts petting it like it’s a kitten.”

Liam looks out the window some more.

Suspicion makes me sit up straighter. More creaking. Goddamn. “Unless you think she won’t be happy to see the violin? It’s weird she didn’t mind it more, not being able to play.”

“She’s a violinist.”

That’s what he said in that tiny town near Nantes. The more he says it, the more I wonder if something has changed. That girl was all about her violin. When he first adopted her, I barely heard her speak, but she could damn well play. All night. All day. I ended up moving my bedroom across the compound so I could actually sleep. “She better be, considering there are two thousand rich-ass French people lining up to watch her play next week.”

He doesn’t respond, which probably means he’s really worried.

I study his profile, wondering when the hell he turned into an old man. I suppose if he’s old then I am, too. “How old are you, now? Thirty-six? Thirty-seven?”

“Thirty-five.”

“You act like a monk.”

He snorts, which probably alludes to his bad, bad thoughts about sweet little Samantha. Real monks probably have worse thoughts. And walk around with erections all day. Why else wear a robe? “They’re going to make a move on her during the concert.”

“Of course they are. That’s the whole point.”

“I need you to be careful.”

That makes me pause. The plan is that he’ll provide close cover to Samantha. Because, let’s face it, it’s not like he could leave her side anyway. I’ll be the one leading the team to capture whoever’s in the audience. We have men placed strategically throughout the theatre. It took some negotiating to place that number, considering how many euros each seat is going for. They’ll probably send more than one person this time. It’s my job to take them down. I wouldn’t expect Liam to worry about me. “You know I can take care of myself,” I say lightly.

His expression darkens. “I know. You’ve been doing it long enough.”

The reference hangs in the air between us, the past real enough I can smell the sweet grass and rotting garbage. “I don’t blame you for leaving. Hell, I’d have happily left you behind if I could have.”

“No,” he says thoughtfully. “I don’t think so. You were always the most loyal.”

That makes me laugh. “Jesus. Does she have your brain fucked up from all the sex?”

“Don’t talk about her that way.”

“It was a bad scene.” That’s really an understatement. Our father had been a crazy fucker who thought his children were the devil, spawn of the wife who left him. He was the hardest on Liam. “If I blame anyone it was the adults who could have stopped it.”

“There was the teacher who tried.”

“Those trash bags filled with our dirty shit.” I shake my head. We had been moved to a temporary foster home, three boys who barely took baths or knew how to communicate without our fists. The foster mother had been horrified. The foster father had been disgusted.

“And then dear old dad killed her cat. It was only a matter of time after that.”

“Is that what happened? I didn’t remember.”

Liam looks at me, pain in his dark green eyes. “Probably because you were busy being traumatized at the bottom of that goddamn well.”

I shift, uncomfortable that he’s brought it up after all this time. Our dad had dropped me down there. At least I’d been old enough to land on my feet. When he’d tossed Elijah down after me, it was pure fucking luck that I managed to catch him. Then I held him up until my arms were shaking, made of jelly, trying to keep him out of the sick water, trying to ignore the things that slithered in it. “What brought this up?” I ask, standing to get rid of the memories—slick, damp, cold. “Some things are better left in the past.”

“Most things are. The past has a way of catching up.”

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nbsp; “Very poetic.”

“Just take care of yourself, okay? I couldn’t protect you then. I failed you then, but I don’t want to see you die. Not even for Samantha.”