Twisted Fate (Dark Heart 2)

She takes my hands and kisses them, gives them a squeeze. “Take care, you promise?”

“You too,” I rasp.

I hug her so fucking tight. We’re both staring at each other the whole time as I walk to the cabin’s door and out onto the porch. She drifts into the doorway as I push the screen door open. Down a stair, and one more look back. Then I’m really walking away. I don’t let myself look back again.22EliseI spend the next week listening to the recordings from the device I planted in my cooler. Also, verifying everything he told me. My new assistant, Leonard, is running like a hamster on a wheel, taking up my slack with normal work tasks. He’s such a good sport, I request a raise for him on Wednesday morning. By five o’clock, it’s been approved—powers of the big, black chair, which is how I’ve come to think of the D.A.’s office.

Thursday afternoon, Team Houdini gathers for another meeting, but I rain check. I send one of the building’s gophers to get me a matcha green tea latte from the café down the street. While I drink it, I check one of the last things on my list: his parents’ obituaries. But it’s obituary, because there’s not one for his father. I think of why and feel sick to my stomach. I think of Luca seeing that and I can’t—truly can’t—see him as anything besides a victim in what happened in the day or two after.

Next, I look up his friends Leo and Alesso. I have files on them both, because they work with him now. Of the two, only Alessandro had a brother. A missing person report was filed for him the month after our graduation.

Whoa.

I stare at a picture of the guy—grainy and gray, from a newspaper archive. It’s just…weird to see him. I’m surprised when tears sting my eyes.

I reach out and turn my computer’s screen off, and then I rest my face in my hands.

Everything he told me—that I can verify—seems true. Is true. I don’t think he lied to me. Not ever. I just…know it in my soul.

I drag a breath in through my nose and blink at my black monitor. Then I finish off my latte, pack my things, and head home half an hour early.I step inside and look around my living room, so much the opposite of Dani’s. I like color: teal, clay red, pale blue, lime green. I set my bags on a table by the back door and slump onto the couch, pulling a blanket over myself as I look at the ceiling.

Jace is coming over later. I don’t know what we’ll do. Probably watch TV. Normally, I’m thrilled to see him, so I cook or pick out wine and linger in the living room. Tonight, I end up in bed with a book. I’m half asleep when he strides into my room, wearing navy dress pants and a pale pink button-up, his sleeves rolled up and collar open.

“In the bed! It’s seven-thirty.” His brown eyes narrow as he sits by the footboard. “What’re you reading?”

I hold up my copy of A Thousand Mornings.

“Mary Oliver. That’s good stuff.”

I nod, rapidly realizing I’m not going to be able to fool Jace. He tilts his head a little. “You going to cut to the chase or make me dig around a little while?”

He gives me his soothing Jace smile, plus expressive eyes that always make me feel seen. I realize that the only other person who’s ever made me feel that way is Luca.

“Um”—I pick at a thread on my duvet—“maybe make you dig around.” I give him an apologetic smile.

“Damn, that look’s one of your serious faces. Something from work?”

I shrug.

“Dare I even ask?”

I sit up. “I think you just did, Jacey Baby.”

He stretches out on his back beside me, folding his hands behind his head, and I’m reminded of another man in that same pose, on another bed inside a little cabin. It makes my heart ache.

“How was your day?” I evade.

He gives me a weak smile. “I’m going to make you dig, too.”

I scoot over closer to him, so I’m kind of curled toward him but the two of us aren’t touching.

“Something with work?”

He waggles his brows.

“Are we having the same bad day?”

He gives me a sad smile, and my stomach slow rolls.

“Should we open some wine?” he asks.

“That bad?”

He lifts his brows.

“Oh no. I’ll go get something. What’re you in the mood for?”

“Anything.” His voice sounds dark. Jace is picky—much, much pickier than me—so just the lack of request is odd in itself.

I pick a merlot I know he likes and return with two glasses. Jace is sitting on “his” side of my bed with his legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles, thumbing through a copy of The New Yorker. I smile at his gold and pale blue paisley dress socks.