Becoming Rain (Burying Water #2)(108)

All needed within the week, in shipping containers at an Astoria shipyard.

A few days after that, Rust ended up with a bullet in his head.

Miller doesn’t have the context we have. He hasn’t figured out that that last order was for Aref. That the deal Luke says was made with Aref that night in Corleone’s didn’t stick. That when Vlad found out about what Rust was doing, he must have gone straight to Aref and demanded the business. That the lead time Rust insisted on obviously wasn’t ideal for Aref, but instead of telling Rust that, he simply smiled and nodded and agreed.

Which tells us that Aref knew what Vlad had in store for Rust.

Miller doesn’t know all that, but Rust dying scared him enough. What I witnessed the day of Rust’s funeral was Miller telling Vlad that he wanted out.

And Vlad telling Miller that Rust had wanted “out” too.

It’s all great information, and exactly what we expected to get from him. But it’s not enough. So Miller has agreed to wear a wire to his meet with Vlad tonight, in exchange for immunity and Witness Protection for him and his family.

By sunrise, we’ll have that Russian *.

It’s hard to be excited when I can’t seem to dislodge this painful knot in my throat. Because by sunrise, I’ll be saying goodbye to Luke.

“Licks needs a run.”

I look up to see Luke wearing his track pants. Luke needs to run, is more like it. He’s as much on edge as I am. I’m sure he’s heard enough of my conversations with Warner over the past twenty-four hours—from the confines of his room—to figure out that something’s happening tonight.

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” I offer as gently as I can, glancing over at the clock. One forty-five a.m.

“I run every single day. If anyone’s watching us, they’ll notice,” he counters in a flat voice.

He’s right. Except that he hasn’t gone running in the past two days. Plus, it’s in the middle of the night and therefore not the safest time to go out. Still, his hands are visibly shaking. He’s as much on edge as I am.

“Okay. Just let me get changed and we’ll go together.”

When I leave my room, he already has both dogs on their harnesses. I walk toward him, feeling the weight of the hidden gun strapped to my ankle beneath my pants. “You’re not going to try something stupid, are you? Like run away from me?”

“No.”

“Are you lying to me?”

“I’ve never lied to you.” Clear blue eyes stare hard at me. I can’t read anything besides pain and accusation in them. So acute, though, that I’m forced to look away.

“You’ve hardly eaten in days.” I gaze at the full plate of pasta he dropped on the counter, the one I brought to his room hours ago.

“You ready?” He ignores my concern. “I wouldn’t want to be out of your sight and have you send me to jail on a technicality. Especially after I’ve given you everything.”

He doesn’t trust me. He’ll never trust me again. I can’t blame him.

But it hurts, all the same.

Water splashes against my pants as we jog through the puddles of the dimly lit path, lined with corners and shadows that are testing my anxiety limits. I’ve jogged with Luke several times before and it’s now clear he always slowed down for my benefit. The punishing pace has my lungs burning and my heart pounding, until I have to call out, “Slow down!”

He does, finally, leaving me hunched over and struggling to catch my breath.

“You can hate me all you want, but don’t try to kill my dog.” I pick up a wet and wheezing Stanley, my eyes scanning the shadows. I don’t like standing out here. Even in the darkness, I still feel someone could pluck us off like birds sitting on a wire.

“But I thought you loved this.” A bitter chuckle escapes him and he throws his arms out, palms up, to accept the cold drizzle as it seeps into his clothes. “Or was that part of the lie too?”

“Say what you want to say, Luke. Get if off your chest. I can handle it.”

Luke’s breaths are just as ragged. He keeps his legs moving by walking in small circles, his head hung, his hands now on his hips. For what feels like forever, I just stand there, watching him.

Waiting for the accusations and insults to begin. I expect him to call me a two-faced, conniving bitch, a slut, a terrible lay. A dirty cop.

Anything to try and heal his pride.

“I’m getting exactly what I deserve.” His eyes are focused on the trees, on the path, on the ground. On anything but on me. “I can’t get those pictures out of my head. Every time I close my eyes, I see a red Ford pickup truck and fuzzy dice. And a car seat. I pulled that car seat out of that truck, Rain. And I just tossed it aside like trash, and now I can’t stop thinking about the kid who sat in it.”

The rain and the darkness mask a lot, but they don’t hide the sheen in Luke’s eyes. “How could Rust have been involved with that! How could I have let myself get involved in that?”

“You’re helping stop it, now that you know it’s happening,” I offer. “You’re helping to stop people who hurt others from doing it again.”

After a pause, “Miller didn’t hurt anyone,” he argues, his chuckle bitter. “No more than I did. He’s got a family to feed, a kid in a wheelchair, and now, because I ratted him out, they’re going to lose everything. He should be the one with this deal, not me.”