worried that if I suggested we should quit, he’d turn that anger on me. Yet I didn’t get more than a whispered “Jack, I think—” out before he was nodding and nudging me to a quiet spot, where he said the very words I’d been ready to speak, as if he’d already realized we should leave and had just been holding out a few minutes longer before surrendering.

And it did feel like surrender. Jack said our target had probably left, and I agreed, but we both knew neither of us believed it. Even if we suspected it, we wanted to be sure, to cover every square inch, hunt until dawn drove us off.

It was a silent drive to the hotel.

Instead of letting me sink into my black thoughts, the quiet refocused my attention. Jack was just as angry, just as frustrated as I was, and what I felt was the overwhelming need, not to join him, but to pull him out of it. Help him as he’d helped me last night, after the opera.

Yet last night, he’d initially seemed uncertain how to help, leaving my room to buy a bottle. Only later did he hit on the perfect diversion—And so now I sat there, wishing I knew him better, knew how to help.

When we finally reached the hotel and got inside, I said the only thing I could think of.

“You got him. Shot him, I mean. For all we know, he’s holed up, dead.”

Jack shook his head, tossing his keys on the dresser, rattling as they collapsed in a heap.

“Fucked up,” he said.

“You? I never even got off a shot.”

He shrugged off his jacket and tossed it on the chair then, with a glance my way, picked it up and laid it neatly across the back. I watched him, measuring the set of his jaw, the force of his footfalls as he crossed the room. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, vertebrae crackling. Then he kicked off his shoes, thumping one-two on the carpet.

“Fucked up,” he said again, as if he’d never paused the conversation. “Back at Little Joe’s place. That punk. Message wasn’t enough.”

“We don’t know that. This was more likely Gallagher’s man—”

“Doesn’t matter.” He lowered himself onto the bed, springs squeaking. “Ten years ago? Would a put a bullet in him. Never thought twice. Punks like that? Can’t let them think they bested you.”

Another neck rub. “But like I said tonight? Ten years ago? Don’t much like who I was then. Things I did. These days? Try to find other ways. Sometimes? Go too far.”

“Even if you had killed that guy the other day, that’s not to say the Nikolaevs wouldn’t have sent this one…if that’s who did send him.”

Jack opened his mouth, as if to argue, then said, “Gotta get some sleep.”

“Can you? I mean, I’m not sure I can so if there’s anything I can do…”

He paused and I could tell he was ready to lie and say “Nah, I’m good,” but then he glanced my way, hesitated a few more seconds and said, “Talk to me.”

I managed a wry smile. “Now that I can do, as you well know—though, after I get going, you probably wish I came with a shut-up button.”

He met my gaze. “Never.”

I felt my cheeks heat. Didn’t know why, but felt the blush anyway as I stumbled on. “If it’s war stories you’re looking for, I’m afraid I can’t match yours. Mine are all pretty much ‘find Mafia thug, kill Mafia thug.’ Good for putting you to sleep, though…”

“None of that shit. Just tell me…” He shrugged. “Talk about the lodge. Your plans. Where you want to be in five years.”

“Still open for business.”

A quarter-smile. “Yeah. I know. You will be. Must have plans, though.”

“Tons of them.”

“Tell me.”

And so I did. Babbled on about the lodge, my plans for it, and he listened, even prolonging the conversation with questions and suggestions. Absolutely meaningless drivel that we managed to invest with all the gravity and consideration we gave to our investigation plans.

After ten minutes, we were stretched atop our respective beds, heads on the pillows. Jack had his shirt off, jeans still on, half ready for bed but not prepared to make the full commitment. Another twenty, and his questions came slower, as he relaxed, lack of sleep from the night before catching up with him. Ten more and he was gone, snoring softly, as if exhausted.

I slipped from bed, tiptoeing, knowing how easily he woke. I took a blanket