My eyes drifted down from the statue to the graves themselves. My father, Tristan's, tombstone was the most weather-worn. He'd died when I'd been a child. I barely recalled his gray eyes, much less what he'd been like. But the others-I remembered them in vivid detail. Eira, my mother. Annabella, my older sister. And Bria, the baby of the family. Runes marked their tombstones. A snowflake, an ivy vine, and a primrose, just like the three drawings I'd done.
I walked past their graves until I came to the fifth one on the end of the row.
Genevieve Snow. Beloved Daughter and Sister . That's what the tombstone said, along with the dates of my birth and supposed death. A rune had also been carved into the stone. A small circle with eight thin rays radiating out of it.
A spider rune-identical to the scars on my palms.
I'd thought I'd feel something staring at my own tombstone, my own cold grave, but I didn't. Just ... emptiness at everything I'd lost. First my family, now Fletcher. Not much left for me to hold on to.
"A friend of yours?" a low voice called out behind me. I turned to stare at Donovan Caine.
The detective stood a few feet away. He wore a black funeral suit that outlined the lean strength of his body. Caine moved to stand beside me. As always, he walked with that loose, easy confidence I found so attractive. But the detective looked a little thinner than I remembered. A little more haggard, and the lines on his face cut a little deeper into his bronze skin, as though something was haunting him. Something he just couldn't quite shake. I wondered if it was me. I'd certainly thought about him often enough in the week since the incident at the rock quarry.
Donovan's eyes met mine. Emotions flashed in the hazel depths, the way they always did. Weariness, resolve, curiosity. Caine's gaze slid down my body, taking in my black pants suit and low pumps, before flicking back to my hair. A chocolate brown color now, with caramel highlights. As close as Jo-Jo had been able to dye it to my natural color. Letting that grow in would take time. It always did. Like so many other things.
His golden gaze read the tombstone. "A friend? Or was this someone you killed?" I thought of the happy, innocent little girl I'd been and the night everything had changed. The night my mother and sister had been murdered. "You might say that. What are you doing here?"
Donovan jerked his chin at the mourners below. "I came to pay my respects." "How did you find out about Fletcher?" I asked.
He shrugged. "People are a lot more willing to do me favors these days. I asked one of the rookies to pull all the deaths that happened the night Gordon Giles died. There was only one that matched the cell phone picture you showed me."
"I see."
Donovan hesitated. "I'm-I'm sorry about him, Gin. I know he was Finn's father, that he was important to you." I gave him a wry smile. "Thank you, detective." We stood on the hill watching people drift away to their cars. Respects had been paid, and the appropriate words had been said. Now it was time to go back to the land of the living. Something Fletcher wasn't a part of anymore.
"I saw you on television the other day," I said. "Nice medal the mayor gave you for solving the Gordon Giles case. Very big and shiny."
Donovan shifted on his feet. "It's going into a drawer, with all the rest of them." More silence.
"Why did you really come here, detective?" I asked. "Last time we saw each other, you came within a hair's breadth of trying to kill me for murdering your partner." He rubbed his hand through his short, black hair and barked out a laugh. "Fuck if I know." "Maybe it's because of this."
I grabbed his tie, pulled him close, and kissed him. Donovan stiffened, momentarily shocked by my boldness. But then, the heat flared between us, as bright and strong as ever. A flame, a fire that wouldn't die. Donovan growled, wound his hand in my hair, and pulled me closer, until I was flush against him. I breathed in, letting his sharp, clean scent fill my nose. His tongue met mine, and we melted into each other, pouring our feelings, our frustrations, our desires, into one perfect kiss.
All too soon it ended.
I dropped my hands from the detective's tie. Donovan Caine backed away. Our gazes met, gray on gold. Then the detective turned on his heel and walked away. I waited a minute before following him at a slower pace.
Donovan Caine went over and said something to Finn, who looked surprised by the detective's sudden appearance. Finn hesitated a moment, and the two of them shook hands. Then Caine left, walking past Fletcher's casket. He didn't look back.
I strolled over to Finn, who was staring at the detective's retreating form with a confused look on his face. "I never thought he'd show up here," Finn said.
"Well, he did. But he's gone now. I don't think we'll be seeing the detective for a while."
Not until Donovan Caine could come to terms with whatever he felt for me. Not until he could reconcile wanting me, the woman who'd killed his partner, with the guilt he felt about not avenging Ingles's death. Not until he could accept all the dark things I'd done, all the people I'd killed-if he ever could.
There was nothing I could do to change how the detective felt or hurry him along.
But I was the Spider. I was patient enough to wait him out.
I reached into my purse, pulled out a pair of black sunglasses, and slid them over my eyes. "I'll see you in two weeks. Try not to get into too much trouble while I'm gone.
I'd hate to have to interrupt my vacation to bail your ass out of a jam."
"Where are you going?" Finn asked.
"Key West," I replied. "I hear the cabana boys are particularly oily this time of year."
Chapter Thirty-Three
I got on a plane that afternoon. By midnight, I was listening to the sound of the ocean from the balcony of my hotel room. The wind whipped my hair around my face and blew the tang of salt up to me. The moon overhead painted everything a dull silver.
I raised my latest round of gin to the frothy ocean waves. Ice tinkled against the side of the glass. "Here's to you, Fletcher."
Only the ocean waves answered me, so I knocked back the liquor, closed the balcony door, and stumbled off to bed.
Over the next few days, I did all the things a tourist would normally do in Key West.
Watched the sun set over Mallory Square. Visited Hemingway's home. Stared at the cats with too many toes. Took a couple of scuba diving tours. Bought myself some cheap shell jewelry and some real key limes. Drank tropical drinks until I never wanted to look at another pineapple or mango again.
Once I'd exhausted the tourist traps, I lounged by the ocean, reading books and admiring the hard bodies of the lifeguards and cabana boys. Fletcher was right. There were lots to choose from. I struck up a conversation with one of them, Renaldo, who was putting himself through school by working at my hotel. Renaldo made it clear he was more than willing to engage in a few hours of hot, sweaty, meaningless sex-and that he wouldn't even expect a tip afterward.
But his eyes were brown, not gold, and I sent him away.
I also spent a lot of time staring out at the horizon, sipping boat drinks, and thinking about what I wanted to do when I returned to Ashland. Because I didn't want to go back to being an assassin. I knew my strengths, my skills, my weaknesses. As the Spider, there was nothing left to prove to myself or anyone else. And it just wouldn't be the same without Fletcher. No one would be waiting at the Pork Pit late at night for me. No one would ask if I'd been hurt or how things had gone.
No one would care.
More importantly, the old man had wanted me to retire. That had been his final wish, and I was going to honor it, even though I had no clue what I was going to do with myself. But it was time to use my skills for something else. What that something else was, I didn't know yet.
But I found myself strangely eager to find out.
I returned to Ashland two weeks later, feeling refreshed, rejuvenated, and still slightly sunburned and hung over from all the fruity boat drinks I'd had. I went straight to the Pork Pit, where the others had decided to wait to welcome me home.
It was late, and night had already fallen over Ashland. Blackness cloaked the street, except for the neon pig gleaming its bright blues and pinks over the front door of the Pork Pit. I stood outside in the inky shadows and looked in through the window. Finn, Jo-Jo, and Sophia had already gathered inside the storefront. Finn sipped a cup of chicory coffee at the counter. I could smell the warm, comforting fumes even out here on the street. Sophia pushed a mop back and forth across the floor. Jo-Jo fluttered back and forth, refilling Finn's cup, wiping down tables, checking on her sister.
Not the family I'd originally started out with, but a family nonetheless. One that I'd do anything to protect. I pulled open the front door. The bell chimed, and I walked through.
Everyone's head swiveled in my direction, and a moment later, I was bombarded with hugs, back slaps, and questions about my trip. Sophia, in particular, hugged me so hard she cracked my back. Felt good, though.
While the others chattered at me, my eyes swept over the interior of the restaurant.
The door, the cash register, the stools. Everything that had been broken the night Fletcher died had been replaced. A dim shape beside the cash register caught my eye, and I realized what it was-the old man's copy of Where the Red Fern Grows. Sophia must have rescued it from the mess. Still, the Pit felt smaller without Fletcher here, emptier than it had been before, despite the others' presence. I wondered if it would always feel this way to me now.
But this was not the time to be melancholy, so I pushed my dark thoughts away and told the others all about my long-awaited vacation. Jo-Jo, in particular, was interested in my tales of oily cabana boys. Eventually, the four of us settled around one of the tables in the middle of the restaurant.
"I brought you all something," I said, reaching into the cheap straw tote bag I'd picked up in Key West.
Finn's green eyes lit up. He loved presents. "What is it? Money? Expensive liquor? Long-lost pirate treasure? Doubloons?"
I dumped a plastic bag of key limes onto his lap. Finn's face fell faster than a lopsided cake. "Cheer up," I said. "If you're a good boy, I'll make you a key lime pie."
"I'd rather have some margaritas," he whined. "You're getting a pie, so suck it up." Finn stuck his lip out in a mock pout.
I reached back into my bag and pulled out a small glass bottle shaped like a seashell.
"And for you, Jo-Jo, I have this fine bottle of perfume."
She pulled off the stopper and sniffed. "Smells fresh and salty, like the ocean. I like it."
"And finally, for Sophia, there's this lovely item."
I pulled a pale pink leather collar out of the bottom of the bag. Tiny, mother-of-pearl sand dollars dangled from it. The dwarf took it from me. She stared at it a moment, then shook it once. The sand dollars clacked together like wind chimes. Sophia's lips curved up into a small smile. Happiest I'd ever seen her.
"And there you have it," I said. "The sum total of my vacation."
I didn't tell them that I was permanently on vacation from being an assassin. That I'd retired from being the
Spider. There would be time enough to do that later.
Finn pushed his bag of limes to one side of the table. "Well, I've got something for you too. Several things, actually."
I raised an eyebrow. "Like what?"
Finn cleared his throat. "Dad's estate was settled today. The will was read. Besides a boatload of cash, he left you something else."
"Really? What?"
Finn opened his hands wide and smiled. "Ta-da."
I wasn't easily surprised, but my mouth dropped open. All thought fled. It took me a moment to form coherent words. "Fletcher left me the Pork Pit? Why would he do that? It's not like I need the money-or the headache."
"Because he knew how much you love the restaurant," Jo-Jo said. "Love it," Sophia rasped her agreement.
My eyes traced over the booths, the tables, the cash register, the bloody book sitting beside it. I did love the restaurant, just as much as I'd loved the old man. They'd always been one and the same in my mind. And now it was mine. A comforting warmth filled my chest that I hadn't felt since before the night Fletcher died.
"Dad also wanted you to have this." Finn handed me a small envelope.
Gin . My name was scrawled across the front in Fletcher's tight, controlled handwriting. Fletcher. I missed the old man.
But that didn't keep me from tearing open the envelope. An index card lay inside. On the front was a note that read: Don't ever think it was your fault. Whatever it was, however it happened, you couldn't have stopped it. Do us both a favor and don't stay in the business too long. Live in the daylight, kid. Love, Fletcher.
My eyes misted over just a bit, but I turned the card over and read the rest of the writing. It took a moment for the words to register, but when they did, I shook my head and smiled.
"Cumin. That's the secret ingredient in his barbecue sauce. Of course. Cumin." I waved the index card at Finn. "Fletcher finally told me his secret ingredient. After he died. The old bastard."
Finn smiled and raised his coffee in a silent toast to his father. The bright green of his eyes reminded me of the old man.
"Are you sure you're okay with this?" I asked. "Me taking over the restaurant?
Fletcher should have left it to you. He was your father."
"Are you kidding?" Finn asked. "Barbecue stains are hell on silk shirts. Believe me, I'm okay with you having the restaurant. Besides, he was your father, too." Once again, I thought of the night Fletcher had taken me in. How he'd saved me from selling my body on the streets. How he'd taught me to be strong and to always survive. Fletcher Lane might be gone, but I'd never forget what he'd given me.