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“I can’t be sure. I’d rather not have to worry about your safety too.”
“What about Sofia?” She wrings her hands with concern. “Anyone could find her easily.”
“I’ll take care of that.” It’s something I already worked out in my mind. A plan to send her far from New York, even if it’s against her will.
“And Alma?”
“Alma?” I ask, the mention of the girl taking me off guard.
“Your wife?”
“What about me?”
Both Nan and I turn toward the sound of Carina’s voice coming from the doorway.
“Holy shit, what happened to you?”
“I fell down the stairs,” I reply sarcastically.
She lets herself in, despite the order I gave her to stay out of the study. “Those must have been some nasty stairs.”
I turn to Nan. “Go now. I’ll call you when it’s safe to return.”
“But I’m not done.” She attempts to place a piece of gauze on my largest abrasion, but I stop her by gently grasping her wrist. “Carina can finish. You go on home.”
Nan looks at Carina and mutters her name but doesn’t question it. “All right. You two be careful.”
Carina frowns as she watches the older woman leave, then she comes to stand in front of me. She takes the gauze Nan had been working with and presses it to the wound.
“You were attacked,” she states.
“Yes.”
“Does it have anything to do with the murders?”
“I believe it does,” I tell her truthfully.
“The Ferryman?” She plucks a piece of first aid tape and secures the bandage.
As she does, she comes close enough that her soft scent fills my space, putting me in a drugged state. I watch in almost hypnotized fascination as her nipples play against the material of her shirt.
“He tried to kill you too.”
“Not me,” I say, sliding my hand under the T-shirt.
With her this close, I can’t help myself. I need to feel her soft skin on my palms, the curve of her waist.
“I wasn’t the target. My uncle was.” I’m not sure why I share that bit of information.
What I do know is that the throbbing in my head is suddenly forgotten as a new throbbing begins much lower.
Her brows pinch together in confusion, and I can see the wheels turning in her mind.
She pulls away slightly to peer down at me. “Why would he be targeted by the Ferryman?”
Though she asks the question out loud, I can tell she’s not asking me. She’s trying to figure it out herself, as if she’s taking the pieces of the puzzle I’ve given her and attempting to make them fit.
“The assassin made it clear she wasn’t there to killme. She’d happily do it, but I wasn’t her assignment.” Why do I keep telling her?
