Ambush (Michael Bennett #11)(34)

“Cohen?” I called.

He leaned out of the kitchen.

“Did you move any of the photos on my corkboard?”

He understood immediately. “Something’s gone?”

Behind him, a kettle’s whistle blew.

“I’ll be right out,” he said.

I rubbed my upper arms, the goose bumps like sand on my skin. I understood the message they’d sent by killing the dog. But why would the Alpha steal a photo of Malik with Sarge and Dalton? Unless Dalton was the Alpha, and he was covering his tracks.

Then why not take the photo of him with Dougie?

I flipped quickly through the rest of the pinned photos, making sure the one I wanted hadn’t been concealed by the others. Then I checked the floor and behind the library table set against the wall.

Nothing.

The gentle sounds of Nina Simone wafted into the room. Cohen had queued up what I thought of as his deep-thinking playlist and piped it through the built-in sound system. I loved the great women of jazz. Simone, Holiday, Vaughan. But tonight I felt more Megadeth than “Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood.”

Cohen joined me at the wall and handed me a mug of steaming liquid.

I scowled. “What is this?”

“Chamomile tea.” At my look he added, “You’ll sleep better on that than on booze.”

“You get your medical degree while I was gone?”

“Shut up and drink it.”

I held the mug at arm’s length. “Jazz and herbal tea. What’s next? Laxatives and long-term care insurance?”

“Pacifiers and a blanket.”

He sidestepped my jab. I held on to the grimace, took a sip of the tea, and let my frown deepen for Cohen’s benefit. But the flavor was only moderately awful.

“What do you think?” Cohen asked.

Never call me a pushover. “It’s dreadful.”

“You’ll get used to it.” He grinned. “I bought a case. It was on sale.”

“You sneak in anything else healthy while I was gone?”

“Veggie bones.”

“For us or for Clyde?”

Cohen’s expression stayed innocent. “Depends on whether Clyde likes them.”

“Well, that’s a relief. He likes everything. No sense of taste.” I sniffed the tea. “It’s contagious, apparently.”

We both glanced at Clyde, who lay sprawled on his side, lights out and snoring.

“He likes his new bed,” I said.

“Memory foam.”

“He liked his old one, too.”

And with that, the moment passed. We turned back to the corkboard.

“Which picture is missing?” Cohen asked.

“A photo of the boy I went to Mexico to find.” For the moment, I left out any mention of Dalton and Sarge. I would ease into them if I had to.

“So whoever broke in here and left the dog . . . it has something to do with this boy?”

A thought occurred to me then with a fierce and sudden burn, like the bite of a rattlesnake. I snatched up the pad of paper Cohen kept near the corkboards, jotted down a note, then turned the pad toward him.

YOU STILL HAVE THAT AUDIO JAMMER YOUR BROTHER GAVE YOU?

He cocked an eyebrow but then nodded. He went downstairs to his study and came back a moment later with a small black box. He placed it on a table nearby and turned the switch, slowly raising the volume until Ella Fitzgerald sounded like she was singing next to a waterfall.

Cohen leaned close to me. “That good?”

How can you not love a man who accepts your paranoia? I nodded.

He angled his shoulders so that he faced me, his eyes alert with that expression I loved. The one that reminded me painfully of Dougie. Cohen’s look said, I need to know everything, and yesterday was too late.

I heard Dougie’s voice in my head. Tell me everything.

“Sydney,” Cohen said. “It’s time to share.”

I brushed the backs of my fingers against his cheek. He turned his head and kissed my hand.

The fear for this man that I’d been holding ever since Sarge broke into my home and threatened my life now wrapped its hands around my throat and tried to drag me to the floor. Along with the fear came a shame that went beyond guilt. Guilt was for when you forgot to call your mother on her birthday. This feeling was the kind that settled in your bones and set the marrow on fire.

All because, I finally admitted, I’d allowed myself to fall in love.

And now I was about to blow it out of the water.

I drew in a breath. “Mike . . .” Another breath. At this rate I’d need an oxygen tank just to get started. “I never meant for you to be a part of this.”

“Part of what?”

“It’s a long story.”

He took my hand and led me to the couch. And while édith Piaf sang “La Vie en Rose” to the accompaniment of static hiss, I took a corner on the sofa and faced him, my mug cupped between my hands like an anchor that would keep me from flying apart.

“I don’t even know where to begin,” I said.

“Start anywhere,” he answered. “We’ve got all night.”

Deep in my chest, where no one could see, my heart began to bleed.

Too late we come to our realizations.



“It’s an ugly story,” I said. “And I will tell you most of it. But I can’t tell you everything. For your sake and for mine. You have to accept that.”