Or maybe that was the point? Buck had known more than he shared. Like a test . . . but of what? Certainly not ethics. Investigative prowess? Not Buck’s style. That left a short list that cramped her stomach. Alignment. Loyalty. Coercion.
None of those felt right, because, as much as Buck liked to play games, he didn’t like to do the work. Vanka retied her hair in a classic bun and abandoned the mess on her table. She needed more caffeine and fewer conspiracies.
She’d just turned the electric kettle on when she heard the floorboards creak overheard. In this old house with its original floors, there wasn’t any hiding where someone was when they walked. She considered it a rudimentary security system. If someone was upstairs, Vanka would know about it.
Not that she’d had the opportunity to test this theory often. She’d only had one house guest visit. It was silly to call her Nan a house guest. Though what else would she call family who visited? Either way, she’d known when Nan was up and about and tidying Vanka’s house well before she rolled out of bed.
Spiker joined her in the small kitchen. “Tell me you have coffee.”
“I should lie and watch you suffer.” She eyed his dark hair, mussed from sleep and a splash of water, and then his outfit. Bright orange-and-navy board shorts and a T-shirt that should only have been worn on the beach. “We could set a lawn chair by the sprinkler if it’d make you feel more at home.”
“Coffee,” he pleaded.
“Only because I have no patience for your pity party.” She used a step stool to reach above her refrigerator for a French press and a vacuumed-sealed sampler of coffee.
He took it from her as she stepped down. The electric kettle signaled the water was ready. They worked side by side at the counter, passing mugs and making their drinks as they had so many times before. But until now, she hadn’t realized how much of a system they had.
With her tea steeping, Vanka knew what would happen next: she’d organize the tea and coffee, and he’d wipe the counter. Their habit had never stood out to her before she’d seen it in her kitchen. “Do you realize we each do the same steps every time we make tea and coffee?”
Spiker furrowed his brow. “Yeah.”
“You do? Really?”
“What do you mean? Yeah, of course.”
Of course? Of course. In his own way, Spiker liked order and steps. Everything had a correct course of action. She felt the same but trusted an intrinsic inner voice instead.
Spiker shrugged and headed to the living room. “How long have you been at this?”
Longer than she’d admit. “Long enough to know there’s not enough information to do anything.”
The doorbell rang. Spiker spun for the door as though an unseen enemy had fired a warning shot.
“Ignore it.” She sipped her tea. “Probably someone who wants me to sign a petition.”
His eyebrow arched.
“Lots of petitions around here.”
Spiker settled down. “That’s one way to get a job done.”
“Apparently.”
“Don’t you have one of those doorbell cameras? Something to see who’s out there?”
She shook her head. “Nope.”
“Why the hell not?”
“How many times have we used those cameras to track a target?” She’d never understand why millions of people had cameras installed in their homes. Puppy cams? No way. She could appreciate an argument for nanny and baby cams, but they didn’t need to be on Wi-Fi networks, which were easier to compromise than they were to set up.
“I trust the company that’s working on my place,” he offered. “They could send a team over by the end of the day.”
This was her opening to learn more about his sabbatical. Vanka sipped her tea. “You’ve worked with them before?”
“Exclusively.”
“Hm.” She baited him for more information. “That good, huh?”
Spiker nodded. “I told ’em what I needed.”
“Which was?”
“Total renovation.”
“And just like that,” she snapped, “they scheduled the architects and the—”
“No. I called my guy up and said this is what I need, this is when it has to be done by. He said no problem.”
“No problem,” she repeated.
“Exactly. They handle the bullshit. The permits and people—” He registered what she’d done far too late.
Hook, line, and sinker. “You made that call after the plane crash.”
Spiker leaned back and dropped his head against the couch. “That has nothing to do with going on sabbatical.”
Vanka sipped her tea. “The timing’s suspect.”
He rubbed the back of his neck and scooted to the edge of the couch, game face on. “Everything in our line of work is suspect, princess.”
“It’s cute, that you think I’ll stop asking until I know the truth.”
“There is no truth to uncover.”
She set her tea on the glass table and met his gaze. He tried too hard to keep her eye. They had too much training and too many years together to hide much from one another. “That you insist otherwise only fans my curiosity.”
“It wasn’t the plane crash.”
“Fine,” she said. “I believe you.”
“Good.”
“But it was something.”
“I need a break.”
“Why—” The doorbell rang again. She glared at the front door as if it were responsible for the timing of the interruption. “Ignore it.”
A heavy knock followed.
Spiker stood. “The friendly neighborhood petitioners are a little heavy-handed, don’t ya think?” He strode to the door, checked out the peephole, and muttered, “Of course.”
“What?”
Spiker’s muttering continued under his breath as he unlocked the deadbolt and cracked the door. He positioned himself in the opening and waited for the other person to speak. Vanka didn’t hear anything, but Spiker opened the storm door and then offered a curt goodbye. The door shut, and Spiker relocked it, turning with the empty casserole dish in his hand. “If that guy’s not your guy, he’s sure as fuck angling to be.”
Vanka opened her mouth but didn’t know what to say.
“You want to know why I need a break?” He lifted the casserole dish like it was a smoking gun. “I’m tired of assholes who beat around the bush. Who say one thing and do another.” Spiker headed toward the kitchen. The dish clattered in the sink. “Do you remember last year, what Jason Green said?”
Her head spun. “When we . . .”
“Yeah. When we thought he’d turned.”
“He didn’t.”
“I know,” she said emphatically. “We were doing our job.”
“We should’ve known better.” Spiker walked the outskirts of her living room. “We—”
“If you’ll recall,” she raised her voice. “One of us figured that out before the other.”
“That’s not my point.”
She stood and locked her hands on her hips. “Then what’s your bloody point?”
Spiker put his hands out as if there were something to catch or kill. His brow furrowed, seemingly frustrated and furious at an explanation he refused to say.