Storm of Sin - Patricia D. Eddy Page 0,52

to be in Sin’s Fiat sitting less than a foot away from him, having his scent wrapped around me.

“So, who is this guy?” I ask.

“There’s a new tablet in my satchel for you. All of his information is on it.” He stares straight ahead, his voice flat and hard, and I roll my eyes. Fine. I’ll play his game. At least the tablet isn’t likely to try to kiss me. Or make me care about it. Not unless other worldly technology is somehow sentient.

“Gregory Locke, twenty-nine years old. Hasn’t reported to his job at the Fisherman’s Terminal for two weeks. Lives alone. No forced entry, no signs of a struggle.” Scrolling through the police photos, I enlarge one or two, hoping to find something…anything…that points to Temple or Thorn, but the police report is accurate. Everything looks…normal.

I sneak a glance at Sin. “You’re sure this guy is with Thorn?”

He stiffens. “Yes. My vision is better than a human’s. They were masked when they attacked us, but the scar on his neck is distinctive.”

Enlarging Gregory’s photo, I focus on the mark below his jaw. “It almost looks like a brand. The letter K?”

“Yes. From a Los Angeles gang. Gregory grew up there.” Sin accelerates up a hill, and I grab the door handle. I know his reflexes are sharp, but I’ve never been a good passenger. He sighs and slows the car to a more reasonable speed.

“You’re infuriating,” I mutter quietly.

“Because?”

His mocking tone grates on me, and I roll my eyes again. “You’re an asshole. Grade A. One hundred percent. Until you purposely slow down because you know I don’t like it when you drive so fast. I can’t reconcile those two sides of you, and it’s making me crazy.”

“I am trying to protect you, Zoe.” His fingers tighten on the steering wheel, and the veins in his neck bulge as he takes a slow, deliberate breath. “I cannot deny what I feel for you. Nor do I want to. There is something between us. But if we give in—if I give in—you will be hurt and I could not live with that.”

I don’t know what to say, but circumstances don’t give me the chance because Sin stops the car and pulls effortlessly into a parking space in front of Gregory’s apartment building. .

“We are here.”

Twenty-Two

Sin

Gregory Locke’s brother, Nathan, doesn’t speak as he leads us to a pair of couches in his sparse living room. “Kinda surprised to get your call,” he says once we’re seated. “The detective in charge of Greg’s case said they didn’t have enough evidence to continue the investigation.”

“We are not affiliated with the San Francisco Police Department. Consider us…independent investigators.” I focus my gaze on Nathan’s brown eyes, prepared to employ my talents if he pushes too far. Mem-Clear is a last resort only—one I rarely agree to use.

“I don’t care if you’re with the clown brigade if you can find my Greg.” The strain in his voice and the rather significant bags under his eyes speak to the close relationship he shares—or shared—with Gregory. “They said he probably just ran off. Found a girl or lost himself to drugs again. But he wouldn’t do that.”

Zoe taps her tablet screen a few times, then arches a brow as she focuses on Gregory’s photo. “Your brother had several arrests for drug possession with intent to sell back in Los Angeles.”

“Greg was clean. He’d been clean for three years.” Nathan reaches into his pocket and pulls out a silver chip. “We both were. Went to meetings twice a month, together. The last one was a week before he disappeared.”

Zoe’s tone softens. “I’m sorry. We had to ask.”

“Comes with the territory,” Nathan says quietly, then angles his head to show off the tattoo on his neck. “We got wrapped up in a gang when we were kids. I was fifteen, Greg was just thirteen.”

Nathan falls silent as he scrubs his hands up and down his thighs. “That’s why I know my brother wouldn’t just run off. We got out together. Moved up here together. He wouldn’t have left me.”

This man is telling the truth. I would bet my life on it. “We need you to tell us everywhere your brother might have gone the night he disappeared.”

Two hours later, over mulitas from Tacos El Primo, Zoe and I find a bit of a peace. Perhaps it is distance from this morning’s events, or the food, or the shared desire to honor the anguish of Gregory’s brother. She’s somber, but