“That’s true.” Sometimes, the universe had pretty perfect plans. Though I would never understand why I’d needed tosuffer so much darkness to get to the end of the tunnel. “What time do you want to go to Zeno?”
“Zen isn’t much of a morning person unless he’s seeing it from the wrong side. I think it would be smart to go over there this afternoon or evening.”
“So you’re going to go to Ronny’s before that?”
“Yeah,” he said, shoulders growing tenser. “I figure you will be more comfortable being here alone during the morning anyway.”
I wasn’t about to tell him that I was being a big baby about the safe house as a whole. “Yeah,” I agreed, thinking I might just spend the whole time in the locked bedroom with Goya.
“I’ll take Goya for a walk again right before I head out, so he should be set until I get back. You’re not a prisoner here, but I really would prefer it if you didn’t go out at all. Or if you do, make it short trips.”
“Aside from Goya having an emergency, I don’t see a reason I would need to. There’s lots of food here. I’m sure I can find something to entertain myself for a few hours.” If nothing else, the whole apartment could use a good cleaning. I’d found all the basics: broom, mop, vacuum, scrubbers, and products in the hall closet when I’d been looking for a towel for my shower.
“You will have your burner phone and the gun the whole time. For your peace of mind. And my own.” We’d set up his new phone and added each other’s numbers while we ate our ice cream the night before.
“Oh, in case of a, you know, real emergency, can you write down this address for me?”
“Of course.”
We made more small talk as we finished eating, then I offered to clean up while he showered. And I tried not to think about how much I wanted to strip out of my clothes and join him.
Even just the idea had me pulsing and aching again, despite being wholly satisfied just an hour or so before.
Things had been oddly… formal between us since he came back. Like maybe he, too, had decided that it was best if that was a one-and-done sort of thing. No matter how good it was.
Or, that sneaky, ugly little voice inside me whispered,it just wasn’t as good for him as it was for you.
It was silly to be that worried. I’d seen the way he’d looked at me. I’d felt the tension in his body.
But once that insecurity seed was planted, I couldn’t stop tending to it. By the time Nico was leaving to go to Ronny’s house, it had already rooted and sprouted through me.
So I spent the next three hours cleaning the apartment from top to bottom until my fingertips ached and I needed another shower to get all the products and sweat off of me.
I was about to text him, tell him to go to Zeno’s without me, when suddenly he was in the doorway.
One second, he was reaching back to lock the door, something about him crackling in the air around him.
The next, he was across the room.
And his lips were on mine.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Nico
I would never forgive Matt for making me doubt myself, making me question my instincts.
It was only natural, if I were being logical about it. I mean, you couldn’t spend time with someone who was compiling a dossier on you and your entire family with the sole intention of selling it to the highest bidder, who would use that information to pick us all off, one by one, and not think your gut wasn’t working right.
But when I was invited into Ronny’s home, surrounded by familiar knick-knacks, the walls lined with memories, the whole house having a scent I’d always associated with a large chunk of my childhood: orange cleaner, wood polish, and the slightest hint of cigarettes that Ronny claimed she gave up when she was pregnant with Matt, but still reached for occasionally—often while half-leaning out the bathroom window so no one would know—I was finding it hard to read the woman who’d been like a stand-in mother for me when mine had passed.
Was she jumpy because she’d been up all night crying, or did she know something? Were her eyes shifty, or was she just distracted by the images of her son on the wall behind me?
“I wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon,” she said, leading me through to the tiny kitchen and waving me over toward the scuffed table. I couldn’t help but wonder if she ever found the spot underneath the table where Matt and I had scratched our names.
I wasn’t prepared for the wave of nostalgia, followed by the grief. Not necessarily for Matt’s death this time. But for whatever broke between those two young, carefree kids, to destroy our bond enough for him to plot my murder.
Had I done something to prompt the rift?
