Where are we riding to?
Why do I have to die?
Can we get food on the way?
—MEME
On the way back to the office, I took the long way around and drove past the Fosters’ house. Mrs. Foster was the woman who, since there was really no way to sugarcoat it, abducted Reyes when he was a baby. When they were on the verge of being busted, they basically sold him to the monster that raised him: Earl Walker.
Since I’d been back, I made a point of driving through their neighborhood, checking for Mrs. Foster’s car, making sure they were still in the vicinity. I’d also been keeping tabs on their online activity. They had yet to be charged with not one but two abductions, and I’d need all the ammunition I could get when the time came for me to present my case to Ubie. And now that I was working with an assistant district attorney, I could include him in the fun.
Mrs. Foster was home when I drove by. I’d never actually seen her before, but I made the turn onto her street just as she was walking inside with an armful of groceries. I hated her. Seeing her didn’t change that.
Instead of taking the outside stairs when I finally made it back to the office, I pulled Misery into her carport and walked to Reyes’s restaurant, planning to enter via the back door. A soft rain, almost warm against the crisp day, misted around me and left me damp and a tad frizzy when I strolled inside and made my way Reyes’s office.
He sat behind his desk doing paperwork and didn’t look up when I walked in. So, I took the opportunity to peruse his office. It looked exactly as my father had left it, including all the family photos that lined the shelves and punctuated the other paraphernalia on the walls. Mostly cop stuff. A map here. An award there. A set of old handcuffs that sent my mind reeling in the wrong direction.
I had to get a grip. Either Reyes was affecting me even more than usual, or my fallopian tubes were about to be invaded.
I glanced over my shoulder to make sure Reyes hadn’t noticed me noticing the handcuffs. He was pretty deep in thought, though I had little doubt he not only knew I was there, but also knew where my mind had wandered.
Refocusing on his office, I scanned the photos he still had up. I’d been surprised the first time I walked into it last week after being gone for so long. Everything else in our lives had been upgraded, but the bar and grill he’d left exactly as my father had kept it. Still, it was one thing to leave the restaurant the same. It was another to leave the office the same.
Then I noticed one tiny change. He’d actually removed several of the pictures my dad had scattered here and there. The only ones remaining were the ones with me in them. I didn’t even have to be the focal point of the picture. I could’ve been in the background, as I was in a beach photo we’d taken in SoCal when I was in grade school.
The picture was supposed to be of my sister, Gemma, showing off her lopsided sand castle. But there I was in the background, pulling my mouth as wide as I could with my fingers and sticking out my tongue. Oh, and my eyes were crossed. No photobomb was complete without crossed eyes. Not my best look, but Reyes seemed to like it.
“Come to shower me with ice again?” Reyes asked.
I turned back to him. He was still poring over a stack of papers and hadn’t looked up.
“Shower you with ice?” When he didn’t answer, I asked, “What are you working on?”
“My will.”
I walked around the desk in alarm. “Your will? Why do you need a will?”
He looked up at last. “Surely, you’re joking.”
I started to argue, but he was right. We did lead a rather hazardous life. To deny that would be ludicrous. Then again, ludicrous was my middle name.
“I have a plan,” I said, steering the conversation away from places I was not comfortable going.
“Does it involve my death? If so, you might want to wait another day or so. I need to get this back to our lawyers.”
“We have lawyers?” That was cool. I’d never thought of myself as a lawyer-y type person. “Never mind that. I have a plan to get our daughter back.”
He finally gave me his full attention. He put down the pen he’d been holding and sat back in his chair. The movement was so small, so everyday, and yet it sent a tiny rush of excitement spiraling over my skin.
He’d rolled up his sleeves, exposing his corded forearms. His strong hands. His long, capable fingers.
He noticed me noticing for sure that time, but instead of reaching out to me, instead of inviting me into his personal space, he waited. He simply waited. For me to speak? For me to act? I had no idea which, so I went with the former.
“Yeah, so, for this plan to work, we are going to need a dozen syringes, a case of nitrous oxide, a serial killer, and a tank.”
He didn’t respond, and I stood a little confounded when he didn’t mock my shopping list. He didn’t even question it, so I clarified the last item on my list.
“You know, from the military.”
“Yes,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “I know what a tank is.”
“Right. I just thought you might be leaning toward a fish tank or a septic tank.”
“No, I got it.” His gaze shimmered as he took me in, and I could see the interest sparkling in their dark depths. I wanted to shift, just a little, to straddle the other plane and see him in his supernatural form, but I got the feeling he knew when I did that, so I stopped myself.
“Do you think it’ll work?” I asked.
“Your plan?”
“Yes.”
“I haven’t actually heard it. I’ve only heard the physical requirements for it.”
“Oh, of course.” I tried to shake out of the carnal desire racing through my veins and pooling with zero regard to my sanity in my abdomen. When I failed miserably, I walked to the other side of his desk and sat opposite him. To put some distance between us. And a large piece of wood. It didn’t help. Probably because I knew what he could do to that piece of wood to get to me if he wanted to. Clearly, however, he didn’t want to.
I took a deep breath, but instead of relaying my plan to him, I asked, “Can you tell me what’s bothering you?”
He didn’t move. His expression didn’t change in the least. He simply stared, his long lashes making his irises shimmer all the more in the low light.
“We have company.”
“And that’s bothering you? The little boy in the ceiling?”