Page 143 of Flint’s Strike

My eyes drift closed. I gave him my worst fear. He didn’t try to take it away. He stayed with me so I didn’t have to carry it alone.

Chapter Fifty-Six

Parker

Eliot’s on his side, relaxed in a way I never see when he’s awake. He looks so much younger without the weight of all that guilt on his shoulders.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I lunge for it, cupping it in both hands, kick off the blanket and rush into the hall. No one calls this early on a Sunday morning to give you good news.

The ID on screen reads APD Dispatch. I stand at the living room window in only my t-shirt and panties.

“Elmore.”

“Captain Elmore, this is Detective Cortero with the Austin Police Department. You put out a BOLO on one Charles Kessler in connection with the Arson Task Force?

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

“That’s correct.”

“Couple of unis went out on a welfare check about an hour ago. One of Kessler’s neighbors reported an odor comin’ from his unit. The building manager let them in. He’s deceased, Captain. Looks like he interrupted a burglary. Thought you’d want to know before this hit the wire.”

“Detective, I need you to secure the scene. Get the uniforms out, and post yourself at Kessler’s door. Do not move until either I or Captain Nate Hardison arrive. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am. But…it’s a burglary. Ain’t no one gonna mess with it.”

“If this was a robbery gone bad, Detective, I’ll eat my star.”

“Parker?” Eliot leans against the bedroom door, shirtless, wearing only his briefs. “What’s wrong?”

“Kessler’s dead.” As much as I want to, I can’t muster enough energy to soften the news. “APD thinks it was a burglary gone wrong, but…”

“You don’t believe them.” He takes a single step closer, but doesn’t reach for me. He’s not law enforcement, but he’s seen more than his share of death. “I’ll get dressed. Didn’t bring a change of clothes, so I’ve gotta go home before work.”

I hate that he has to leave. That I have to leave. “Maybe you…I…we could each clear out a drawer.”

One corner of his mouth twitches, and he slides an arm around my waist. I rest my hand over his heart. The steady beat and warm, healthy skin grounds me in a way nothing else can.

“I’d like that,” he says, trailing kisses along the curve of my jaw. “A drawer.”

“I can give you some closet space too. If you ask nicely.”

His mouth curves against my skin, and for a few seconds, there’s no Kessler, no arsonist, no reason for either of us to be anywhere but here. Until my phone buzzes again. This time, with a message from Nate.

On my way to Kessler’s. I’ll bring the coffee. See you in twenty.

“Shit. I’ve gotta get dressed.” I kiss him one more time, then dig in my closet for the only clean pair of Wranglers I have left.

He’s dressed in under five minutes, but stops short of the door. “If I’m lucky, I’ll knock out three or four more buildings today. Text me if you need anything.” The way he looks at me, I think he wants to say more.

I hold his gaze for a moment, letting myself imagine all the ordinary mornings that could—that will—come after this one.

“Eliot?” I reach for him, closing my fingers around his wrist. “Be careful. Please.”

His eyes warm, crinkling around the edges. “I will. Promise.”

Kessler’s apartment is on the second floor of a beige, four-story complex off Riverside. It’s the kind of place with a pool no one swims in and fitness center with two broken treadmills and only half a set of free weights.

Two APD patrol units idle in the lot, and the medical examiner’s van pulls in right behind me. Nate’s Impala is already here, but the hood is still pinging softly, so he hasn’t been here long.