Say Goodbye (Romantic Suspense #25) - Karen Rose Page 0,45

to her own side of the duplex for the night.

But he had never made her cry. He was frowning when Karl parked his Tesla and hit the button to bring the garage door down. Karl was also frowning as he got out of his car.

“What the hell did you do to her?” Karl demanded.

Tom’s mouth fell open. “What?”

“She’s crying,” Karl said, as if Tom’s guilt was obvious. “What did you say?”

“Nothing!” Tom protested. Which wasn’t exactly true. “Well, I did tell her I was proud of her. She probably saved Mercy and Abigail’s lives today.”

Karl Sokolov looked unconvinced. “What else did you say?”

“Why do you think it was me who said something to her?”

Karl tilted his head, studying him. “For real?”

Tom threw up his hands. “Yes. For real. I just got here. I didn’t do anything.”

Which wasn’t true, either. What’s wrong with you? You fucked up big-time.

“Kid, I’ve been married for nearly forty years, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that you’ve always done something.”

Tom huffed. “Maybe she’s . . . y’know . . . hormonal.”

Karl winced. “Oh my God. Are you stupid? Do not ever say that to her.”

“I’m not! I’m saying it to you.”

Karl shook his head, chuckling. “How old are you, again?”

“Twenty-seven,” Tom answered stiffly.

Karl patted Tom’s arm as he headed for the laundry room. “You’ve still got time, then.”

Tom turned to stare at the man. “Time for what?”

“Time to get it right.”

Tom gritted his teeth. “Time to get what right? No offense, sir, but the sooner you stop talking in riddles, the sooner I might understand what you’re saying.”

Karl shot him a pitying look. “Never mind, Tom.” He opened the door to the kitchen and called, “Where is my lovely bride?”

Tom pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. Slowly he followed Karl into the kitchen, feeling addled and irritated about it.

Irina looked behind him. “Where is Liza?”

“She left,” Tom said brusquely.

“I passed her in the driveway,” Karl said, then leaned in to whisper something in Irina’s ear.

Irina’s back straightened as she turned to Tom, glaring daggers. “You let her leave? Alone?”

“Shit,” Tom whispered, his blood running cold. She’d witnessed the sniper on that rooftop. If he saw her . . . “She needs protection.”

“Which I was providing,” Rodriguez said very slowly. “Until you let her leave. Alone.”

Tom’s temper boiled. “I didn’t let her do anything. She’s a grown woman, for God’s sake.”

Who he’d made cry. And he still didn’t know why.

He clenched his eyes shut, giving in to the need to rub his temples. “Dammit,” he whispered.

“I can’t go after her,” Rodriguez said. “I’m on Callahan detail until she’s safe at home.”

“Rafe can take me home,” Mercy offered. “He can take Amos and Abigail, too.”

Because they all lived in apartments within the same house until Amos and Rafe finished renovating the new house.

Rodriguez shook his head. “I’d need to get that cleared, Miss Callahan.”

Irina made a noise. “All this talk, all while Liza is unprotected.” She took out her cell phone and pressed a button. “Damien, this is your mother.” Her lips pursed. “Do not sass me, young man. I am not in the mood.”

Damien Sokolov was one of Irina’s sons, a uniformed cop with the Russian division in West Sacramento. Tom had thought at first the division dealt with Russian organized crime, but instead it served the large Russian-speaking population of West Sac.

“I need you to go to Liza’s house,” Irina was saying to her son. “To make sure she gets home safely.” Irina smiled. “You’re a good boy, Damien. I will send the address.”

Tom’s head fell back to hit the laundry room door. “Tell him not to worry about it. I’ll go.”

Irina’s smile was smug as she slipped her phone into her pocket without saying goodbye. “Good.”

Tom scowled. “Did you even call him?”

Irina just chuckled. “Go and make sure she is okay, Tom. You know you want to.”

Hell of it was . . . he did.

Which was not a big deal. At all. It’s what friends do for each other. Like she’d taken care of him when he had the flu in January when they’d first arrived in California and knew no one but each other. Or like he held her every time he heard her cry out in the night through the duplex wall they shared, her nightmares making her shudder and tremble in his arms.

Or like she took care of “his dog.” Except that before today, Pebbles had been “our dog.”

Today she’d said “his dog.” He’d