Page 135 of Shadow Of Sin

“Yeah, you do,” Sal says.

He’s right. I know Wolfe isn’t at the Molloy house. He doesn’t need constant oversight now for that bullet wound, I’m sure. And he’d never willingly want to be in Ronan’s airspace. He’s definitely at the cabin, the one place he’d go when his brain needs to stop. The one place where nobody can find him.

The place he brought me to because he said I was the only person he wanted there with him.

“But I don’t have a plan,” I protest again.

“Good. Plans are overrated. Just go talk to the man.”

“He might not want to see me.”

Sal rolls his eyes. “The guy took a bullet for you two weeks ago. I’m pretty sure he wants to see you.”

I walk to the door then stop with my hand on the handle. I shoot Sal a glance over my shoulder. “Thank you, Sal. For everything. For letting me crash here and giving me a distraction and not kicking me out and putting up with my⁠—”

“Get out.” He points at the door. “Before I throw a spatula at you.”

I chuckle softly, pull open the door, and walk outside.

The car is where it’s been for two weeks, right outside Sal’s building. I dig the keys out of my bag and unlock the door. Then I get into the driver’s seat. I sit there for a long while with my hands on the wheel, my heart thundering so hard I can hear it roar in my ears.

He’ll know I’m heading to the cabin. The second I move this car, the tracker will show it. If he’s watching—and he’s always watching—he’ll see the dot headed north.

Good. Let him know. Let him have however many minutes it takes me to get there to figure out what he’s going to say. Because I sure as hell don’t know what I’m going to say either.

I head north toward the only man who ever made me feel safe, and the same man who shattered that feeling in forty-three minutes of me looking on his laptop.

One of them is the real Wolfe.

I’m about to find out which.

CHAPTER 34

WOLFE

The dot on my screen starts moving at 4:17 PM.

I check it every day, multiple times a day. Just like I have for the past two weeks. Every morning I open the tracker app and stare at the dot sitting outside Sal’s building, willing it to move. Then I try to convince myself that today might be the day.

But every morning it stays exactly where it is.

Until now.

And my heart jumps into my throat when I see it, damn-near choking me.

The dot pulls away from Sal’s block and heads north through the city. It moves past the neighborhoods and toward the highway on-ramp that leads out of Boston.

Toward me.

I suck in a breath and sit back in my chair. Then I close the laptop and stand up for some reason. I don’t know where I think I’m going, but my body just needed to take some kind of action.

I just stand there, though, because I don’t know what to do with myself. My brain runs scenarios for everything. It builds backup plans while I sleep. It maps out conversations before they happen and predicts responses and prepares arguments for and against things.

But it doesn’t have a setting for this.

I pace the cabin. I straighten the spines of books on the shelf that don’t need straightening. In the bedroom, I run my fingers over the worn wool quilt that I haven’t washed because it still smells like her hair, and I feel like it’s the only connection I have left to her. Yeah, that may be pathetic, but I don’t care. I walk past the bathroom and cringe at my reflection in the mirror. Jesus, I look rough. Two weeks of crappy sleep, my arm still in a sling, a beard I haven’t bothered to deal with because there was nobody here worth shaving for. My face is thinner than it should be because cooking for one is depressing as hell, and it makes my brain forget that eating is a requirement.

The drive from Boston is about an hour. That’s how long I have to figure out what to say to Eva when she shows up at that door. One hour. My brain keeps trying to build a script, and the script keeps erasing because there’s no version of what I have to tell her that sounds good. There’s only the truth. And the truth is damn ugly.