Page 58 of Murder Notes

“Lilah—”

“I need answers, Kane. Do you know if my family is just reacting to political pressure to avoid bad press or are they in this deeper? Are they dirty?”

“You know I don’t know that answer yet.”

“I know? How do I know when we both know there’s plenty you’ve kept from me?”

“What exactly have I kept from you?”

“Tell me about the tattoo.”

The engine roars to life and I reach for my headset, determined to talk in code if necessary but finish this conversation, but I never get the chance. Kane’s hand is suddenly on the back of my head, his cheek is pressed to mine, his lips to my ear. “My turn to ask questions. My turn to need to know. Tell me about the note on your car.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The chopper engine roars fiercely, Kane’s hand still firmly on the back of my head. I slice fingers into his hair, and for several moments, there is nothing but Kane’s hand on my head, his lips next to my ear. I don’t process his words. I don’t even think about telling him about the notes or Junior. There is just the right and wrong of him. Of me with him. Of us together. I inhale the scent of him that someone else would describe as spice and sandalwood, but to me it’s love. Hate. Passion. Friendship. He was my best friend. He was the only person who really knew me, the only one I trusted, and suddenly the one thing that has twisted me in knots for two years is front and center.

“You knew how to hide a body,” I hiss into his ear. “You knew how to make it disappear.”

“I made a problem go away.”

“Really damn well,” I say. “The man I knew—”

“Would do anything for you, and I did.”

“I didn’t need—”

“You would have lost your badge.”

“I was drugged.”

“You would have lost your badge.”

“I wouldn’t—”

“Damn it, Lilah, you know what happened.”

“You shouldn’t have made decisions for me,” I hiss, shoving away from him and reaching for my seat belt.

He grabs my arms, holding me in place. “We’re lifting off,” he shouts. “Stay where you are.”

I inhale and let it out, flashes of that night ripping through my mind. The ocean crashing on the shore. The wind. The heavy body on top of mine. The sweat. The sound he made and that damn tattoo. That Virgin-fucking-Mary. I grab Kane’s arm where it holds mine. I rotate to face him and our eyes collide, igniting a new wave of anger and heat between us. I grab his tie and pull him to me again, his head lowers to mine, our cheeks colliding again, but this time it’s my lips immediately pressed to his ear. “The tattoo,” I say. “Tell me about the tattoo.”

“It’s buried with that man.”

I jerk back, furious now, and I turn away, reaching below the seat to grab my bag, no hesitation in my action. I remove my file, opening it and finding the photo of the tattoo on the victim from Wednesday morning. I hold it out in front of Kane. He goes completely still, stone in the shape of a man, seconds ticking by before he takes the photo from me and stares down at it. I can feel the waves of anger and shock rolling off him. And I know, then, that he knew about the victim, but he didn’t know about the tattoo. Time seems to stretch before he hands the image back to me. I take it and place it back in my bag, actually calmer now. Closer, I think, to real answers than ever before.

Kane doesn’t look at me, though. He leans his head back and shuts his eyes. There is a coldness about him, a darkness, that I’ve seen only hints of in the past. I’ve sideswiped him and he doesn’t like it. I don’t know what that means, but I intend to find out before this encounter is over. I place my bag under the seat and then lay my head back. But I don’t shut my eyes. I don’t like what I might see when I do. Instead, I start recapping every detail of that file. The victims’ names, ages, careers. I look for something, anything, that connects them, other than me as the investigative agent.

Neither of us moves until we’re on the ground; both of us wordlessly gather our things. Both of us clearly aware that the conversation we need to have does not belong in a place with a pilot and a now-silenced engine. The door opens and I head for it, and endure a few greetings from strangers. I can hear Kane giving directions to whoever he’s talking to.

“No later than ten,” is all I make out of his response, which I assume is related to his departure time.

I’ve cleared the last step, and I’m walking toward the terminal when my phone rings. I dig it from my purse to find Tic Tac calling. “Why are you awake at four in the morning LA time?” I ask, answering the call.

“I got up to pee and saw you’d called five times.”

“Just once,” I say.