Page 78 of The Wrong Monster

“I’m mad at you.”

I look over at her, the half-eaten Reuben already feeling greasy in my hand. Part of me is relieved at her saying it out loud because that’s pretty unlike Isla. The other part of me feels insanely guilty.

“I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” She picks at the edge of her burger wrapper. “I’m leaving tomorrow, Matty, and I’ve barely seen you.”

“I’ve been working.”

Her eyebrows shoot up.

“Exactly.”

“Isla.” I close my eyes briefly, brain spiraling to come up with a lie, another lie, but she interrupts.

“I’ve been here for days, and every time I see you, you’re distracted. You’re checking your phone. You’re thinking about work. You disappear. I haven’t been able to come over to your rental, which only makes it seem even sketchier. You barely tell me anything.”

“Because the case I’m working on is complicated.”

“Everything is always a complicated case with you.” Her voice is getting louder. I glance around. People are eating, talking, laughing, but Isla looks visibly upset now. She’s sitting up straight, the beet burger forgotten.

And several yards away, two of Art’s men are pretending, badly, not to watch us. One of them shifts incrementally in our direction. He’s wearing a jacket that, now that it’s almost noon, is too heavy for the spring sunshine. Without a doubt, it’s hiding a holstered weapon.

My stomach drops. If Isla makes a scene, if they come over, everything is ruined.

“You’re being unfair,” I say quietly.

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“You know what? Fine.”

She stands. I follow quickly, fries forgotten, snatching the daypack off the bench.

“I came here because I was worried about you,” Isla says, her eyes narrowed and looking suspiciously wet. Angry tears. She’s always been one to cry out of anger more than sadness, which is part of what makes her a good vet.

“And I’m grateful for that, but there’s not⁠—”

“You don’t act grateful.”

The words are like a punch to the gut. Yeah, at work I’m known for being a hardass. For winning. But Isla has never looked at me this way before, and suddenly I want to tell her everything.

About Vasily. The way he showed up in my apartment with a syringe. The lake house. The case against Mikhail. The entire, crazy empire being run right under the nose of every rich family vacationing their way through Lake Placid.

About why I can’t leave.

But I can’t. Not here; not with his men watching.

Clenching my jaw, I barely get out: “I can’t explain everything right now.”

“That’s the problem, Matty.” Isla’s voice cracks slightly. “I don’t know you anymore. I feel like I can’t talk to you, and you obviously aren’t going to bother talking to me about anything real.”

Then she turns and walks away.

“Isla.”

She doesn’t stop.