Crack. Clink.
In a fair and just world, Ansel Rollins would have lived out his full sentence, and the day of his release, he would have suffered a painful and traumatic death. Instead, he’d managed to escape his punishment due to a stroke that had quietly ended his life in his sleep. The unfairness of it had the rage rattling that locked box inside me.
“You haven’t been my therapist for fifteen years. I don’t have to talk about him with you anymore.”
“As one of the few people on this planet who you tolerate, I’m only pointing out that two father figures dying within six months of each other is a lot for any human.”
“I believe we’ve established that I’m not human,” I reminded him.
Emry chuckled, undisturbed. “You’re more human than you think, my friend.”
I scoffed. “No need to be insulting.”
Crack. Clink.
“How did it go with Simon’s daughter?”
“Which one?” I hedged deliberately.
Emry snorted. “Don’t make me come up there in a snowstorm.”
I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t feel compelled to look toward Sloane’s house. “It was…fine.”
“You managed to be civil at the funeral?”
“I’m almost always civil,” I snapped wearily.
Emry chuckled. “What I wouldn’t give to meet the infamous Sloane Walton.”
“You’d need more than one session if you wanted to get to the bottom of what’s wrong with her,” I told him.
“I find it fascinating how she’s lodged herself so securely under your skin when you’re an expert at surgically removing annoyances from your life.”
Crack. Clink.
“How did Sadie’s piano recital go?” I asked, changing the subject to one my friend couldn’t possibly ignore: his grandchildren.
“In my humble opinion, she outperformed all the other five-year-olds with her stirring rendition of ‘I’m a Little Teapot.’”
“Of course she was the best,” I agreed.
“I’ll send you the video as soon as I learn how to text ten minutes of shaky footage.”
“I can’t wait,” I lied. “Have you gotten up the nerve to ask out your neighbor yet, or are you still lurking behind your curtains?”
My friend had developed a crush on the stylish divorcée across the street and, by his own account, had only managed to grunt and nod in her general direction.
“The right opportunity hasn’t presented itself yet,” he said. “I would also like to point out the irony of you encouraging me to start dating again.”
“Marriage is right for some people. People like you who can’t stop burning casseroles and need a nice woman to force you to stop dressing like a 1980s sitcom star.”
Headlights next door skimmed the fence that divided my backyard from Sloane’s. I got to my feet and went to the window on the other wall that overlooked the front of her house. It looked as though Sloane was getting company whether she wanted it or not.
Emry chuckled. “Leave my cardigans out of this. Are we still on for dinner next week? I think I’ve finally figured out an opening that will tame your infuriating knight.”
Emry and I had graduated from therapy sessions to a friendship that required dinner and chess matches every two weeks. He was good. But I was always better.
“I doubt that. But I’ll be there. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
“No rest for the wicked, eh?”
None.
“Goodbye, Emry.”
“Good night, Lucian.”
I immediately pushed the conversation out of my head and had opened another report when the doorbell rang.
“Why won’t people leave me the fuck alone?” I muttered as I opened my security app and found both Morgan brothers, shoulders hunched against the cold, at my front door.
On a growl, I slammed my laptop shut.
“What?” I demanded when I opened the door a minute later.
They tromped in, stomping snow from their boots on the entryway tile. I would clean up the puddles later, I told myself. Waylon, Knox’s basset hound, marched inside, headbutted me in the knees, then trotted into the living room.
Knox held up a six-pack of beer. Nash hefted a bottle of bourbon and a bag of chips. The furry white head of his dog, Piper, poked out above the zipper of his coat.
“Girls are next door,” Knox said as if that explained everything and headed for the kitchen. “Told you he’d still be in a suit,” he called out to his brother.
I ran a hand down my tie, noting that they’d both changed into the standard Knockemout winter uniform of jeans, thermal, and flannel.
“Figured we’d stick around to keep an eye on them to prevent another last time,” Nash said, putting Piper down on the floor and following his brother. The dog was wearing a red sweater with white snowflakes. She cast an anxious look at me and then trotted down the hall after Nash.
I closed the door and resisted the urge to knock my head against it. I didn’t want company. And I didn’t want to be drawn into whatever drunken escapades Sloane and her friends got themselves into. “Last time” had involved Naomi and Sloane getting heroically drunk and “helping” Lina catch a bail jumper with their wits. Well, with Naomi’s wits and Sloane’s spectacular tits.
I was still furious I’d missed that.
“I have work to do,” I said.
“Then we’ll just watch a movie with explosions quietly while you run your evil empire,” Nash said cheerfully.
They helped themselves to paper towels and glasses, then wandered into the living room, more comfortable here than I had ever been.
The room was staged with a family in mind. There was a deep sectional couch and an upholstered ottoman facing a large flat-screen TV. The white bookshelves that lined one wall had plenty of space for books, games, and photos.
There hadn’t been any family photos here when I was growing up. At least none past my midteens when everything had gone to hell.
“Your security cameras get any good angles on Sloane’s place?” Knox asked.
“I don’t know,” I hedged. “Why?”
“Wouldn’t put it past them to sneak out to build an army of snowmen in the middle of the highway,” Nash explained.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
I headed back upstairs and grabbed my laptop, but not before peering out the window into the gloomy winter night. Sloane’s bedroom lights were off. I’d spent too many nights wondering why she’d kept the room she’d grown up in instead of moving into her parents’ room. I hated how many questions I had about the woman I didn’t want to care about.
On a testy sigh, I cued up the security feed that I staunchly refused to open. The one that angled toward Sloane’s front door and driveway. It was a point of pride that I never looked at it, even when I felt homesick for a home that had never been mine.
Hearing the brotherly banter in the living room, I reluctantly changed into sweats and a T-shirt, then shoved my feet into the sherpa-lined house slippers Karen had given me two Christmases ago. I clomped back downstairs where I found my friends and their dogs lounging comfortably on the sectional.
“He’s human,” Nash observed when I walked in.
“Only on the outside,” I assured him.
He had taken two bullets this summer when his name had landed on that list of obstacles for Anthony Hugo’s crime syndicate in the DC area. After a few hairy months, Nash had managed to pull himself out of a downward spiral with the help of the stunning, monogamy-averse Lina.
While he’d convinced her to let him put a ring on her finger, I was still attempting to convince her to work full-time for me. She was smart, devious, and better at managing people than she gave herself credit for. I’d win eventually. I always did.
I dropped down on the couch and opened the laptop to the camera footage. “Here,” I said, angling it toward the brothers.
“Perfect,” Knox said.
“What are we watching?” I asked.
“Narrowed it down to Shawshank or Boondock Saints. Your choice,” Nash said.
“Boondock,” I answered automatically.
Knox cued it up while Nash poured the bourbon. He distributed the glasses and held his aloft. “To Simon. The man all men should aspire to be.”