“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, disturbing him from his thoughts.
He looks up. Smiles mildly. “Do you?”
“I’m really fine, Danny,” I lower to the couch, not liking the torment in his eyes. “In fact, it felt good to help them. All but two had families worried about them or thinking they’d run away from home.”
He nods, clearly struggling with the memories being raked up. “You know, all I saw in that place was you.” He opens the drawer and picks up the gold letter opener, turning it in his hand, staring at the blade. He’s imagining killing Nox and Ernie all over again — or any man who has ever touched me. He shifts in the chair, as if uncomfortable, his now-working muscles flexing.
“What do you know about your father?” I blurt out of nowhere, the question I thought I’d filed, obviously not being filed well enough.
Danny stills, turning his icy blue eyes my way. “What?”
I look down, wondering what the hell I’ve done. But I’ve asked now. No going back, and at least he’s not heaving like an angry gorilla over my past anymore. “Your biological father,” I say. “I’ve never heard you or Esther talk about him.” Perhaps because they simply don’t talk about anything from their pasts.
He frowns, and suddenly my husband turns from my masterpiece killer into a lost little boy. “I’ve never asked.” I expect getting his head around Esther was tough enough, and I also know he only ever saw Carlo as his father. “Why are you asking?”
I shrug lamely. “I don’t know.” My hand goes to my stomach, and that tells him everything. And perhaps subconsciously I am wondering, since I have no parents.
He smiles, standing and coming to me, kneeling before me and resting his hands on my thighs. “This family not big enough for you?”
“Of course, it’s just—”
“Carlo Black is my father. Carlo Black is Daniel’s grandfather and our baby’s grandfather.”
I purse my lips. Understood. But I don’t say that. Instead, I smile and feel at his face. “We need to talk about the girls that are here. Pearl and Anya.”
“Can we do that later?” he asks.
“Sure.” I relent easily. I just want to make his life easier for a while. “Coffee?”
“Thought you’d never ask.” He stands and stretches, making a noise about it too.
“I’m going shopping with Beau tomorrow to buy something for her to wear at her father’s funeral.”
“Oh?”
“Do not try to stop us.”
“Would I?”
I snort and head for the door as Danny’s phone rings and he mumbles something about there being no rest for the wicked. I look back as I get to the door, seeing him gazing down at his cell on the desk with a dirty look. And I’m reminded that I can try all I like to make his life easier, but I will never fully be able to take him away from this life.
Danny answers in silence as I take the handle, and just as the door meets the frame, I hear him say, “What do you want, Sandy?”
And I walk away wondering who the hell Sandy is.
21
JAMES
“What the fuck is wrong with you? You’ve been a grouchy fuck since we came back from St. Lucia.” I stir my coffee, eyes on Otto, as he moodily taps away on his laptop at the island in the kitchen. Esther’s back. I was banking on that putting a smile on his face, but Esther was here all day yesterday faffing around the house and everyone in it, and Otto was nowhere to be seen.
“Winstable was bought by someone called John Theodore Little,” he says shortly. Okay, so he wants to talk shop.
“And who is John Theodore Little?” I ask, humoring him.
“Don’t know. I can’t find anything on him.”
“That’s strange, isn’t it?”
“Very. I’ll keep digging. Still nothing on Cartwright and I’ve got Len following Natalia Potter.”
“And Burrows?” I ask, wondering what his fucking game is and where he is.
Otto looks out the corner of his eye at me, then back over his shoulder, checking the coast is clear. “Beau’s tried calling him. He’s not answering.” He turns his screen toward me, showing me Beau’s phone records, and I sink deeper onto my stool. It could be in shame. It’s not that I don’t trust her, it’s not that Burrows is her ex. The last time they spoke he wanted to meet her, and now nothing? He’s not at work. Annual leave. Escaping? Hiding?
“What are you thinking?” Otto asks.
“I’m thinking Beau is right. Maybe The Bear doesn’t have anyone on the inside anymore, which is why everyone appears to be jumping ship.” I look at Otto. “Which means my conclusion on Burrows is wrong.”
“You don’t think he’s bent?”
“I don’t know,” I muse. It would fucking suck if he’s not, because it would remove one solid good reason from my list of solid good reasons to kill him. Aside from that, how would The Hound know where and when to find me the day I was arrested for Spittle’s murder if Oliver Burrows didn’t tell him?
“Or maybe they all simply want independence again,” Otto says. “Besides, I’m afraid the Burrows situation is not dissimilar to the Dexter situation. Even if he is/was bent, Beau isn’t going to let you touch him. Torture him. Keep him against his will.”
“If she knows,” I say quietly.
“You’re a dick if you think you’d get away with that.” He’s right. And once again I’m damning my girl for being a former cop.
“Not that it matters because no one knows where the fucker is.” I clench my fists and push them into the worktop. Just give me The Bear. The thought of him disappearing without a trace fucking pains me. Justice. Vengeance. It might never be ours.
“Has anyone spoken to the girls?”
“You mean Pearl and Anya?” I ask, and he nods. “Rose and Beau have been with them. And Esther. It’s a gently does it situation.” We can’t go steaming in demanding every detail they can tell us. Well, we could, but Rose would have something to say about it. I would have guessed she’d be the one most deeply affected by Monday’s events. Turns out she’s found fuel in the situation. It’s Danny who has struggled.
“Let me know.” Otto snaps the lid of his laptop closed and gets up. “I’m going for a workout.”
Workout. Just the word makes my muscles hurt again, and I stretch my arms high, relishing the pull. “Where’s Danny?”
“His office. I’m passing by so will let him know about the buyer of the boatyard.”
“Don’t kill each other, will you?” I return to my coffee, mulling things over. I didn’t think the plot could thicken more, but here I am chewing it over like a piece of fat that refuses to break down.
I pick up my phone and look down at the screen. At the email I received this morning—the one I was expecting but not prepared for. Not prepared at all, which means Beau definitely won’t be.
“Morning.”
I quickly clear the screen and turn on my stool, finding a sweaty Beau behind me. “You were up early,” I say, following her path to the fridge, pouting, my eyes fixed to her firm, peachy arse.