Wild Justice (Nadia Stafford 3)

"Good."

"But you already knew."

Shit.

"It's a long story," I said. "I can only tell you that I absolutely didn't do it. Jack, either. I'll tell you the rest when I can."

"And when will that be?"

Silence.

"I'd like to see you, Dee."

"I--"

"If you're in any trouble, I can help. You know that."

"I'm not in any trouble."

"I'd still like to see you."

Silence.

"All right," he said, and I could tell he was struggling to restrain himself. "When can I talk to you again?"

"I'm not sure we should--"

"Goddamn it, Dee. I fucked up. I know that. But I miss you. I miss talking to you. Hell, I miss e-mailing you. I know you tried to reach out. I know I ignored you. I was being an ass. I can be. You know that. I would like to see you, but I can tell that's out of the question, so I'd like to talk."

"I--"

"Monday morning. That's forty-eight hours from now. I'll call or you can call, and you can tell me what happened with that suicide, if you want to, but we'll talk then. Can you do that?"

"Yes."

He exhaled. "Good. Thank you. We'll talk Monday."

The conversation left me confused. Confused about what Quinn wanted and, even more, confused about what I wanted. I had only to hear his voice to know that I wasn't over him. But the relationship was over, for me, because I knew that was the right decision. I cared about him too much to selfishly hold on, if that meant holding him back from what he really wanted--a wife and kids and a house in the suburbs.

After breakfast, Jack left with Owen to check on those snowmobiles. I headed out to shoot and clear my head. The lod

ge has a gun range, which is actually what sold me on the property. And, if I was being honest, it's what nearly sent me into bankruptcy, bumping the price far higher than I could really afford. As amenities go, it's not exactly a basketball court. I paid to have it, I paid to stock it, and I paid to run it, all because I wanted it. It was the kind of thing I'd dreamed about the way others might dream of horses or a private golf course. It's probably the only time in my life that I'd treated myself to any kind of luxury, and I don't regret it.

Today I stuck to the indoor range. I have a strip of land for distance, but even though guests are warned to avoid that edge of the property, I get nervous when it's all first-timers, as we had today. And as my bout with Jack in the woods had showed, short-range practice is always helpful.

I left Scout with Emma. She prefers the outdoor range as well, being not so keen on the sound--or smell--of gunfire in enclosed quarters.

I stayed out there for two hours. By the last thirty minutes, admittedly, I was stalling as I waited for Jack. I'd asked Emma to tell him where I'd gone, and I expected he'd join me. But he didn't. So I finished up, cleaned up, and headed up.

I was halfway back to the lodge when the smell of Jack's cigarettes wafted over. I pinpointed the direction and smiled. He was sitting at our old place, the log where we'd talk when he'd first started coming around. That's also where he'd invited me to join the hunt for a hitman-turned-serial-killer.

It'd been so different then. Jack had been different. The mysterious mentor. The guy I'd only ever seen under cover of night. I remember when he picked me up at the airport for that job. He'd been in his biker disguise, and I'd commented on his aging techniques. And then I saw him later without any disguise, and realized it hadn't been makeup. Ouch. But that says a lot about how little I'd known of him--I couldn't even have guessed at his age from our conversations. They'd all been about me. With each passing conversation since then, I'd learned a little more about him. Now I'd learned a lot about him, and while it was hardly his whole life story, it felt monumental.

Some things don't change, though. Jack was back at our log, smoking a cigarette. Doing it there, not from nostalgia, but because it was a secluded place and I didn't allow smoking on the property.

I drew close enough to see him through the trees and slowed for a better read on the situation. He was on our log, feet planted apart, elbows on his knees, leaning forward, cigarette dangling from one hand. It'd been dangling there awhile, the ash ready to drop, but he didn't seem to notice as he stared into the forest. When the ash finally did fall, it hit his shoe, sparks flying. He kicked it off and almost scowled, as if annoyed by the interruption. He ground out the cigarette on the stump. Then he paused, holding the butt. He put it aside and pulled out a fresh one, lit it, and took a long draw.

This wasn't just a smoke break in the woods. Something was wrong.