Page 80 of Shadow

Gemma Morrison, 18, caught in crossfire during drive-by shooting on East Colfax.

The timeline matched. His story checked out.

She’d found these articles in the twenty-four hours after their rainy showdown.

Had read them so many times she could recite them, the blue glow keeping her awake at two a.m. while Asher took watch downstairs. Looking for inconsistencies. Looking for proof he was lying.

Instead, she’d found confirmation.

Still felt like she might be missing something, however.

The article included a photo—young woman with dark hair and a bright smile, wearing a coffee shop apron.

Five and a half years later, the shooter had been found dead in a warehouse. Execution-style.

She’d even contacted Caroline, who’d fished around his file. Yes, Internal Affairs had investigated Asher. Cleared him.

So maybe she should too.

And since then, they’d had two weeks of no incidents. No threats.

Two weeks of Asher Morrison being exactly what he claimed.

Two weeks of watching him keep his word.

Two weeks of learning details she hadn’t expected to notice.

He was allergic to cats. This she discovered when Ruthie’s orange tabby had wandered over last Tuesday. The cat had rubbed against Asher’s legs, purring. He’d bent down and picked her up, cradling her against his chest while he talked to Ruthie about the potluck.

Five minutes later, his eyes started watering. Then the sneezing. Ten minutes of continuous sneezing while he carried Pumpkin back to Ruthie’s house, eyes streaming, nose red.

“I’m allergic to cats,” he’d said afterward, voice nasal.

“You think?” Daphne had said as she’d handed him tissues. “Why didn’t you just put her down?”

“Because Ruthie loves that cat. And we need Ruthie to like us.” Another sneeze. “Cover maintenance.”

He’d looked miserable and kept sneezing for the next hour. She’d made him take Benadryl, and he’d fallen asleep on the couch with his head tilted back and his mouth slightly open. She’d covered him with a blanket.

He took his coffee with sugar and cream. Lots of both. She’d watched him doctor his coffee that first morning, adding spoonful after spoonful, then pouring cream until the dark liquid turned pale tan.

“Don’t judge my life choices.”

“That’s not coffee. That’s candy in liquid form.”

“That’s candy coffee. Best kind.”

So yeah, she’d learned exactly how he liked it. Two spoonfuls of sugar. Cream to the rim. Stirred clockwise three times. She made it for him every morning now without thinking. Watched him take that first sip and make a satisfied sound.

It sort of rumbled right through her, hit her bones.

She was a little like Pumpkin when he did that.

He loved The Terminal List. They’d discovered that last week when Roger had complained there was nothing to watch. They’d watched three episodes together after Roger and Destiny went to bed, sitting on opposite ends of the sectional.

“He’s right,” Asher had said during a violent scene. “When the system fails—sometimes you have to go outside it.”

“Vigilante justice isn’t right.”