Living with the Dead - By Kelley Armstrong Page 0,124

sadness that she had to.

Damon leaned into Robyn. “A brave new world, huh, baby?”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Finn muttered.

“Detective?” Robyn followed his gaze to her side. “Is there . . . a ghost?”

Damon pulled back sharply and shot him a look, reminding Finn that he’d promised not to tell Robyn about him. Damon was right—this was no time to tell her. That would come later. After they got through this and she was safe. For now, Damon would just have to be Finn’s anonymous spirit helper.

“She figured out that I see ghosts.” He gave Damon a meaningful look. “That’s it.”

“Detective?” Robyn said.

“Yes, it’s a . . . ghost. Can you give us—me—a moment?”

Finn backed to the corner. He was about to turn away, then remembered the last time he’d left Robyn alone.

“It’s okay,” Damon said. “I’m watching her.”

Which he was. Couldn’t take his eyes off her, even as he explained to Finn what had happened, how he’d followed Hope to the motel room, then been blocked at the sidewalk and known Robyn must be inside. He went back only to find Finn’s ghost radar on the fritz again. He’d been hammering away at Finn for a while before the motel room door opened, and Hope and a man came out.

“Karl Marsten?” Finn kept his voice low, so Robyn wouldn’t overhear.

“No, a red-haired guy in some team jacket.”

“I saw him.”

Damon told Finn that Adams had been in rough shape. Finn presumed it was from the gas, but he hadn’t mentioned that part to Damon, who was already eyeing Robyn like a mother hen with a bedraggled chick. Damon said the man seemed to take Adams against her will, but she’d escaped. He’d been about to run through the side fence, taking a shortcut to follow them. Then he’d seen a van around the back, Karl Marsten in the rear of it.

“He left Adams?”

“Not willingly. He was out cold, being loaded in by two guys dressed like SWAT, and I thought you must have called it in. But they’d cut out the bathroom window and taken him through there, so no one would see, which doesn’t sound like the LAPD to me.”

“They weren’t.”

“So we have private citizens in riot gear, kidnapping a guy through a motel room window, and strong-arming a woman out the front door . . . in broad daylight? This case is getting stranger by the minute.”

Again, Damon didn’t know the half of it, and if Finn stopped to think about it all, he’d get mired in the morass of his confusion.

“Where’s Adams now?” he asked.

“Over there.” Damon pointed to the back fence. “She kicked the crap out of the guy. I know Aikido is supposed to be good self-defense, but man, that was something else. Bobby definitely has to start taking those lessons with her. Way better than a gun.”

“So Adams is okay?”

“I think so. When they were going at it, I came back to find you, couldn’t, went back and they were done brawling. They seemed to be negotiating.” He paused, gaze still fixed on Robyn, and rubbed his thumb over his chin. “I guess I should go check on her. Hope, that is.”

Finn tried to think of some way to agree without sounding heartless. They both knew that once Damon left, he might not get this close to Robyn again.

“I’ll go.” Damon wrenched his gaze away. As he did, he leaned for a better look at the front lot. “An ambulance just pulled in. Is that for Bobby? Is she okay?”

“Just thought I should get her checked. Should be a squad car, too. I’ll send that over to help Adams.”

Damon hesitated. “Might want to hold off. She’s okay and . . .” He rubbed his chin again before looking at Finn. “What I heard at the sandwich shop? Hope and that Nast guy? It was . . .”

“Strange?”

“Yeah. What did Bobby—?”

“Go keep an eye on Adams.”

Whatever was going on here, he had a feeling that if the police descended on the situation too quickly, answers would dissipate like smoke signals. As Damon loped off to the fence, Finn collected Robyn and headed around front.

HOPE

A block away, Rhys had parked a nondescript car with local plates. In the car, he efficiently tended Hope’s wounds, then managed to pick up the Cabal tail while looking like he was trying to avoid it. Independent operative, hired gun, mercenary . . . whatever Rhys called himself, he was adept at it, which was good because as a