“So?” he replies.
And well, I can’t argue with that. I give a farewell fist bump to Dozer, positive I’ll see him again before I leave, then Cruce and I head up to the fourth floor.
In his apartment, I look around at the small feminine touches Barrett has added over the last month since she moved in with him. Curtains on the windows and flowers on the small kitchen table.
Speaking of which, I have to ask, “Where’s Barrett?”
“Off in San Francisco, overseeing some testing on the fusion reactors they’re going to use to test her formula.”
I shake my head, still astounded Cruce’s fiancée is a scientist who figured out how to create free energy. Well, the theory anyway. Testing still has to occur, of course.
“How are things going in Paris?” Cruce asks as he pulls two bottles of beer out of the fridge.
I take one, twist the cap off, and set it on the counter. Moving into his living room, I plop down on one end of his couch. “It’s a total mess.”
I proceed to tell him everything, and I mean everything, starting with running into Sin that first day, which necessitated me explaining our history together.
“Aha,” Cruce says as if a light bulb went off. “She’s the reason you were so averse to relationships when I tried to ask you for advice about Barrett.”
“Well, wouldn’t you be if you had a woman you loved send you to prison?” I reply sarcastically.
“But… she didn’t mean it,” Cruce says pointedly as he takes the spot on the other end of the couch.
“Didn’t know that at the time,” I grumble.
“But you do now,” he replies smoothly. “Does it mean all is forgiven?”
I hesitate before answering, but not because I don’t want to. The beer tastes good, so I take a fortifying pull from the bottle to gather my thoughts. After swallowing, I say, “Yeah… that’s forgiven. Don’t like she did it, but I do understand.”
I continue with the rest of the story, including Neal almost botching our nightclub heist and Mercier killing Neal without blinking an eye.
Cruce leans forward, eyes now hard and worried. “Whoa… this shit is getting a little dicey, don’t you think?”
I nod, my stomach roiling. “This Mercier is bad news. I don’t trust him at all. Whatever this big heist is going to be, I’m pretty confident he doesn’t intend to leave any witnesses behind once he gets his hands on the loot.”
“What’s your play?” Cruce asks, because he knows to cut through all the bullshit. How do I go about preventing my own death here?
“I’m still working that out in my head,” I say candidly. “But there is something I could use your help on. Does Kynan have you doing anything?”
“Nope,” Cruce replies. “Just tell me what you need and I’m yours.”
“I don’t think Kynan is going to like this,” I warn.
“What he doesn’t know won’t kill him,” Cruce replies with a smirk. “Besides… he’s not my boss.”
“He kind of is,” I point out.
“Not while I’m in between jobs,” he argues. “The way I see it, if I need to fly over to Paris to cover your ass, then that’s what I’m going to do.”
I sigh in relief knowing Cruce is on board. Because once this idea took root in my head, I couldn’t get rid of it. I think it’s the only way I can assure Sin’s safety.
She’s going to hate me for it, but she’ll get over it. I can attest to that.
CHAPTER 20
Sin
I unlock the door to my dad’s flat, pushing my way in while juggling the bags from my trip to the supermarket. It’s been a relaxing three days, more so than I can remember in some time, and that’s because I’ve resolved myself to quit worrying about things I cannot control.
I can’t make Saint feel a certain way or want to be with me after this is over.
I can only control how I choose to feel about those things, and I’ve decided what will be will be.
So Dad and I have been hanging out—taking walks in the park, trying new recipes, and having awkward conversations about him wanting to return to work.
“Look what I found,” my dad says from where he sits at the kitchen table. He has the newspaper spread out before him, along with a full cup of tea beside him I’m betting has gone cold. “There’s a new antique shop that opened a few blocks away. Bet they’ve got a pretty spot of collectibles begging to be stolen.”
The fact my dad is doing his research from a print newspaper is all the proof needed that it’s time for him to retire, regardless of his medical condition.
I don’t say anything, merely start to unpack the bags.
He’s not thwarted. “They’ve got a picture of the shop here in the paper. Not even a security gate to protect all those valuables at night. It would be like taking candy from a child.”
Freezing in place with a carton of milk in my hand, I close my eyes and inhale. I suddenly realize it’s time for me to have a heart-to-heart with him.
After I deposit the milk in the fridge, I move over to the table. It’s only big enough for two chairs so I take the unoccupied one.
He looks up, a silly grin on his face. It’s a handsome face—very Dick Van Dyke-ish—and I hate I’m getting ready to put hurt there.
Taking in my expression, his smiles slides. “What’s wrong, love?”
“Dad,” I begin, but falter slightly. I give a slight cough, consider not going where I need to go, then tell myself to suck it up. “Dad… you can’t go back to stealing.”
He frowns, lips pursed in confusion. “Why ever not?”
“Because… you’re not physically able because of the stroke,” I say.
“I’m in excellent health,” he replies, completely offended. He sits up straight. “You can’t even tell—”
“Yes,” I cut in on him firmly. “I can tell. You don’t have your full balance. You often reach out to a wall or counter to support yourself, and I don’t even think you realize you’re doing it. You’re not as agile, and that’s both the stroke and your age. And Dad… you process things a bit slower.”
My heart shreds as he studies me, absorbing what I’m saying. I can tell it’s a complete shock.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” I continue. “But I don’t think it’s possible anymore. Honestly, I’d worry too much about you if you did. I’m afraid you could have another stroke and die. I’m afraid you’d get caught because things are a little off with you. And you always taught me to never go into any situation unless I was at peak performance in all aspects. Remember that one time I had a bad head cold and I was going to rob that big house over in Knightsbridge… and you told me not to do it because—”
“All right,” my dad snaps, holding up a hand to stop my rant. “I get it.”
“I’m sorry—”
“I get it,” he says again, this time in a low, dejected tone.
I reach across the table to take his hand in mine. He doesn’t pull away, only squeezes mine back as his gaze drops to stare blankly at the paper.