“Alright, alright,” Raylan says, holding up his hands in surrender. “Lemme wash these dishes and then I’ll take you over to your parents’ house.”
He clears off the kitchen table, then stacks all the dishes in the sink and fills it up with hot, soapy water. Quickly and efficiently he reverses what appeared to be an insurmountable mess in the kitchen. In less than ten minutes, every dish is wash, dried, and put back exactly where he found it, and the countertops and stove have been restored to their former sparkling state. He even folded and re-hung the dishtowel.
“Does that meet with your satisfaction, Sergeant?” he asks me, a gleam of amusement in his bright blue eyes.
Sometimes I get the uncomfortable feeling that Raylan can read every thought in my head.
“Yes,” I say primly. “Back to normal.”
I grab my briefcase, heavy with all the files I brought home for the weekend.
I stole that stack of purchase agreements back off Josh’s desk. Just as I suspected, he hadn’t even touched them yet. He is a lazy shit. If he spent less time spying and schmoozing, and more time working, he might actually have had a shot at the partner position.
I know Uncle Oran said to let Josh do it, but I already started on the purchase agreements, and we need them finished before we can move into Phase Two of the South Shore Project. That’s my family’s number one priority right now, and the Gallos’ too. We’ve sunk everything we have into it. I can’t risk an idiot like Josh fucking it up.
8
Raylan
I drive Riona back over to the Griffins’ modern mansion on the Gold Coast. It’s a palace of glass and steel, a monument to how their family has grown and flourished in Chicago.
As we enter the huge, bright kitchen, I remember that this is where Riona and I first met. I glance over at her to see if she’s thinking the same thing. I catch her eye, making a little tinge of pink appear on her pale cheeks.
I don’t know why I get such a kick from getting a rise out of her. I guess it’s because she’s so determined to keep that perfectly composed demeanor at all times. It’s like she’s setting up a challenge for me. And I’ve always been one to rise to a challenge.
Imogen Griffin is just finishing her breakfast. She’s already dressed for the day in one of those classy business-style sheath dresses, her blonde bob as smooth and sleek as glass.
Riona and her mother look a lot alike. Riona’s a little taller, with red hair instead of blonde. But looking at Imogen is like looking twenty or thirty years into Riona’s future—proof of how gracefully she’ll age. Like an iconic actress who only seems to become more regal with time.
I could have guessed that without ever seeing Imogen, though—Riona’s too stubborn to ever let herself look less than her best.
Imogen comes over to Riona at once and kisses her on the cheek.
“How are you, love?” she says. Imogen strokes her hand gently down Riona’s hair.
I’m surprised to see that Riona allows this. In fact, she rests her cheek against her mother’s for a moment. She obviously respects Imogen.
But she still won’t admit that someone trying to murder her has affected her in the slightest.
“I’m fine, Mom,” she says.
“Imogen Griffin,” Imogen says, holding out her slim hand to me.
“Raylan Boone.”
“Thank you for coming to help us,” she says. “Dante speaks very highly of you.”
“I’m surprised,” I say. “He’s usually so honest.”
Imogen smiles, her blue eyes fixed on mine. “He is honest,” she says. “I’ve come to trust him. It never ceases to amaze me how even the bitterest of enemies can become friends. Or the reverse.”
She checks the delicate gold watch on her wrist.
“I’ve got to go,” she says. “I have a board meeting for the Chicago Library Association. Riona—Butcher and Meecham are here to keep an eye on things.”
I assume that’s her security team. I plan to give them a once-over before I leave, though I’m sure the Griffins are supremely careful who they hire for that type of position.
Riona is already spreading out her work on the small table of the breakfast nook. It’s obvious she intends to dive right in.
I admire her work ethic. Makes it kinda tiring to watch her though—she doesn’t get much sleep.
Callum comes into the kitchen right as his mother is going out. He kisses her on the cheek, almost exactly the same way she kissed Riona. It’s always funny to see the little habits in families—the gestures passed along like a silent code that only the members would recognize.
“How’s Miles?” she asks him.
“Fantastic,” he says. “I think he and Aida are soulmates. All they do is nap and cuddle and eat.”
“You better be getting up with him in the night,” Imogen says warningly. “Don’t leave it all to Aida.”
“Do you honestly think she’d allow that?” Callum laughs.
Imogen smiles. “No. Probably not.”
Imogen waves goodbye to us all, and Callum pours himself a cup of coffee from the large carafe on the spotless white marble countertop.
“You want some?” he asks me.
“No, thanks. Just had a cup.”
“How’s the guarding going?” he asks me with a glance at Riona, already bent over her work.
“Great,” I say.
“Really?” I can hear his mild disbelief.
“Of course.” I grin. “What could possibly go wrong, following Riona around twenty-four seven, constantly right next to her, watching her every move, sticking right by her like I’m surgically attached? How could she not enjoy that?”
Riona doesn’t dignify that with a response—she keeps her eyes on her papers. But I can feel the disdain radiating out of her all the same. Callum has to work hard not to laugh.
On a more serious note, I say, “How long have these guys Butcher and Meecham worked for you?”
“Six years for Butcher, eight for Meecham,” Callum says. “We can trust them.”
“Alright.” I nod. “Just checking every box.”
“I appreciate that,” Cal says. “You ready to see the broker?”
“Most definitely.”
Cal gulps down his coffee and puts the mug in the sink. I can tell from the dark shadows under his eyes that he was telling his mother the truth—he’s definitely been getting up with a newborn. You can’t hide that haggard-but-happy look of new parents.
“We’ll be back in a couple hours,” Callum says to Riona.
“Don’t hurry,” she replies, still not looking up.
“I can drive,” I say to Cal as we head back out the wide, curving driveway where I left the Escalade.
“Thanks,” Callum says. “That’s probably for the best. I felt like a zombie on the way over.”
I get behind the wheel, and Cal climbs into the passenger seat, rubbing the inner corners of his eyes.
“I don’t know what it is about interrupted sleep,” he says. “Even if you get eight hours, it’s not the same.”