Page 50 of Wrecked With You

Chapter Seventeen

“But that’s ridiculous,” Eliza says, as I pace in front of her. If she and Quincy had carpeting, I would have worn a path in it by now. As it is, I’m doing a good job of polishing their hardwood floor with my bare feet. “There’s no way that Tony could believe you were working with either The Serpent or this Dailey guy.”

“Really? Because he seemed pretty damn ready to believe.” And why wouldn’t he? The Serpent knew about the Cane mission. And how the hell would he know that if I wasn’t somehow working with him or his handler. “Fuck,” I say, then repeat it three more times just because it feels good.

“But if you—”

“Dammit,” I say, as I once again reach the wall unit full of books, a stereo system, and old LPs. “This place is too damn small.” This is why I have the bungalow. I have a condo, too—it was the first place I bought when I had a bit of money, but I turned it into a rental right away. The bungalow has room to move. Small spaces leave me feeling trapped and antsy. Maybe they remind me of our utility room, I don’t know. But I had to move back into the condo a few months ago while I was having some work done on the bungalow, and I couldn’t believe Eliza and I had lived there for over a year back in the day. It seemed so cramped. And being boxed in just doesn’t work for me.

Maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s why this goddamn accusation pisses me off so much. Because The Serpent boxed me in, and I can’t even find him and throttle him and make him tell Tony the truth because the son-of-a-bitch is finally, truly dead—and I didn’t even get the satisfaction of watching him bleed out.

I got confirmation this morning that a small motorboat had drifted onto the beach of a nearby island. In it was a dead man dressed in black and wearing a baseball cap. He’d died from bullet wounds—two in the chest and one in the head. I’d retrieved the gun and caught up with him as he was pulling away from the doc. I’d got off three shots. Apparently, they’d found their way home.

“At least you killed him,” Eliza says, reading my mind as always. “That’s something.”

I make a scoffing noise. “Yeah, Tony will assume I did it because The Serpent rattled off the truth and pissed me off. And he’ll be annoyed because he’s been gunning to kill the bastard for years, and now I’ve denied him the pleasure.”

“Yeah, but otherwise the guy would have escaped. I mean, Tony’s not an idiot, right? He has to know—”

“He thinks I lied to him. That I’m lying to the SSA. Dammit, Eliza, he thinks I’m one of the bad guys.”

My sister’s brows rise to her hairline and she sinks back into the cushions. “Sorry. Shit. Don’t bite my head off.”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuckety-fuck.

With a sigh, I drop into a cushy, leather armchair. One of the few pieces of furniture that makes me remember that Quince is British, since it seems like something you’d find in the scene-of-the-crime library featured in an Agatha Christie novel.

When I look up, I find my sister staring at me. I sigh. “What?”

“This isn’t like you. There’s something else going on.”

“More than my partner thinking I’m a turncoat who’s aligned with a criminal prick that the SOC and half a dozen other intelligence agencies wanted to capture alive? No, I think that’s plenty to be going on.”

“Dammit, Emma, it’s me.”

I bite back yet another curse, then sigh loudly. “I just don’t…” I trail off, letting my hand rise and fall on the armrest in silent testament to the futility of this entire conversation.

“I liked him, okay?” The words are clipped. Harsh enough that they sound like a challenge. Anyone else would have cowered. My sister does the opposite, leaning forward eagerly, her eyes wide.

“Define like,” she demands.

“I’m not a sixth-grader, and we are not playing that game.”

“Did you sleep with him?”

I cock my head. “Hello? Sex island. What do you think?”

“Fair enough. But you also know what I mean. You’re not exactly celibate, and you don’t fall in love with everyone you sleep with.”

I pull my legs up so that I’m sitting cross-legged in the armchair. “That’s because I don’t think sex is some transcendental experience. Recreation is a perfectly acceptable reason for getting naked.”

“Not disagreeing. Except sometimes it’s more than that.” She props her chin on her fist, studying me as I stay silent. “It was more than that, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t know him well enough for it to be more than that.”

She just smiles.

And again I think, fuck.