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“You don’t get to do that anymore.” Smug, like I somehow win our argument, I flatten my lips. “You have Mia, which means you don’t get to stay in the rack.”
“I have a nanny who has been briefed on the situation, and a little girl who would rather her daddy captured a cop killer before he became a victim of the cop killer. Go,” he taps my shoulder and shoves me in the direction I have to leave. “Deal with your wife, then come back here and keep working the case.”
“Don’t leave the station till I’m done with her.” I walk backwards, stepping around desks blindly, and able to do so because I’ve spent a quarter of my lifetime in this very room. “Order food in. If you catch a break and think you should run out there all cowboy style and deal with things on your own, reconsider. Then park your ass at your desk and wait for me.”
He grins, shaking his head. But there’s a nod in there, too. An acknowledgment. “I promise not to be a cowboy. But I’m expecting you back in an hour.” He brings his hand up and makes a show of setting a timer on his watch. “If you’re not back by then, I’m gonna wonder if our dude found you while you were out. If you need longer, check in and tell me. Otherwise, be here at noon and I’ll have burritos waiting for us.”
I draw a heady breath and reject the idea of walking away. But then again, I’m not all that keen on plopping Minka’s ass on a plane either. My options, on every side, suck. And ultimately, I wish I could simply lock everyone I love into one room and close the world out.
“Go!” Fletch snaps, drawing eyes and forcing me to turn. “We’re on the clock, Malone. I’m gonna start eating when my food is delivered and hot. I’m not waiting for you.”
He lies, but his eyes soften when I glance over my shoulder to catch one last peek. We’re hunting a killer, and I’m sending my wife to the other side of the country.
Neither of us has to be happy about it. But we both know how to push on, regardless.
Accepting my fate, I bring my focus around and drop my head as I take off at a jog. Because I told Minka I’d be at her office ten minutes ago. Already, I’m breaking the promises I made that would stop her from worrying.
Running onto the escalator, then jogging down, careful not to trip and tumble the rest of the way, I burst off the end and dig a hand into my pocket to snag the key to a car I already signed out in preparation for this trip. Making a beeline for the precinct’s front doors, I press my hand to the steel bar that, when under siege, would provide a secure shield to keep intruders at bay. I quickly scan the street outside—because maybe our perp has come to oh-so-helpfully confess—but instead of seeing a fucker in a black hoodie and holding a gun, I find Minka instead.
Her briefcase in one hand, and my black duffel bag in the other. Her eyes fire with a wrath that rests on the knowledge I was supposed to come to her, but I shove the door open so the tinted glass moves aside and her eyes swing to mine.
Instantly, rage turns to relief.
“I’m sorry.” I sweep in and take her bags, tossing the duffel over my shoulder the way I have a million other times in the years prior to ever meeting her.
This is the bag I keep money, guns, and passports inside. It’s my safety net, but for this trip, I suppose, it’s become hers.
“I’m assuming you moved the old stuff out of this bag and put them away securely before leaving the apartment.”
She purses her lips and links her arm with mine, falling into step as I start toward the cruiser at the curb. “No, Archer. I left all that stuff in there. Then I figured I could walk into a police station and get noisy. Why are you late?”
“Procrastination, mostly.” I turn my head and press a kiss to her temple. Already, I feel the tension in her body. The worry in her veins. She doesn’t want to leave any more than I want her to go. But we don’t have a choice this week—for the first time since we met, we’re being forced into directions neither of us consent to. “Fletch and I were just in a meeting with the squad. He called me out on my shit too and sent me on my way.”
“Made me walk all the way here worried about you,” she grumbles under her breath. But when we reach the car, she glances up and holds my eyes. “Archer…”
“I’m sorry I fucked up. On the first test,” I admit sheepishly, “I said I’d check in and not stress you out. Then I didn’t turn up where I said I would be, at the time I said I’d be there. That was shitty of me.”
Thoughtful, she looks between my eyes. “I hate this too, ya know? I hate this so much, it’s making me sick.”
“Come on.” I take her hand and open the passenger side door. “Let’s get off this street. That would be step one in not making each other anxious.”
She rolls her eyes and lowers into the car, but then she watches me with an eagle-like intensity as I dart around to set her things in the backseat on my side. I’m careful with her bags, because she’ll have Factor packs in there. Little glass bottles that quite literally save her life. Closing the door again, I open mine and slide in beside her, glancing across and stopping only when I meet her gaze. “I feel like we’re gonna argue the whole way to the airport. Because that’s how we deal with stress; we shout at each other and say mean things, because fighting feels better than worrying.”
Finally, her scowl makes way for a smile, and a bubbling snicker rolls along her throat. “Lucky for you, the drive is reasonably short. Less opportunity for me to say unkind things.”
“Mmhmm.” I set my foot on the brake and slip the key into the ignition, and all the while, I scan my surroundings. I check my peripherals and catalog every face as people walk past. Women and children. Men, too. Some in groups, and others on their own. Summer is gone, which means most everyone who wanders past is in a hoodie. Or a coat. Fabric that distorts body shapes and, in some cases, shields faces completely.
“What is your most treasured childhood memory that obviously doesn’t include Timothy Malone the Second? Since, evidently, he was a source of trauma for you. Not treasure.”
Stunned, I set the car into reverse and pull away from the curb with a fast, smooth move that pisses off other commuters. “What?” Humored by her question, I put the car into drive and bring us into crawling traffic. “What do you mean?”
“I mean what I said.” Nervous, she turns and leans against the window, folding one leg over the other and nibbling on her thumbnail. “Most treasured childhood memory. I’m aware that those were probably rare, considering you were living in hell. But you have four brothers you love very much. Your father was busy running his business, so I imagine there were times it was just the five of you hanging out.”
“Four of us.” I hit the indicator and merge into a faster moving lane. “Cato didn’t come along till the end.” Settling into traffic, I reach across and rest my hand on her thigh. When she places hers over top of mine, our fingers twine and finally, the angst burning in my belly dissipates. “He tried to fuck us up and pit us against each other a lot. Like he was running a dog fighting ring.”
“But you didn’t fall for it.” She rests her head against the glass and warmsthe side of my face with her stare. “He tried to divide and conquer, but his sons were always smarter than he ever was.”
“Maybestubbornis a more accurate word.” I catch the airport signs leading out of the city and follow those. Though I know the way to go, I’d prefer to dedicate my time and energy to focusing on my wife. “He punished us when we wouldn’t hurt each other. He attempted to make us hate each other, but in the end, we only hated him.”
