Becoming Rain (Burying Water #2)(25)

Luckily there’s a knock on the door. “I’ve got to go now, Mom,” I interrupt, checking the peephole to see Warner standing on the other side. “It’s my boss. I’ll call you in a few days.” I hang up before I get any more grief. It can be exhausting, talking to that woman. Someday she’s going to realize that I’m no longer that little girl who splashes around in puddles in her rubber boots and that I don’t make my choices based on her approval. Then maybe we’ll have a normal conversation.

“I could kiss you right now.” I step back to let Warner in.

“Because of my swarthy accent or because of this?” He drops a paper bag on the counter.

I stick my nose in, inhaling the fresh scent of a buttery chocolate scone. “Definitely this.” Warner learned of my weakness for baked sweets early on. Now he swings by the little shop at the corner anytime he’s stopping by my place in the morning. Which is more than I’d ever expect from a handler. Aside from regular check-ins after meets and surveillance from my cover team whenever I’m with my target, I don’t usually see or talk to them. I guess the Feds operate differently than your average city police force. Maybe they pay him to come by and check up on me.

“Bill tells me that 12 called last night?”

“Yup.”

“And you have a date tonight?” Warner pushes.

“Yup . . .”

His brow spikes. “That turned around quickly.”

“Crazy, right?” I lean over and scratch behind Stanley’s ear, avoiding Warner’s shrewd gaze. Hoping he doesn’t notice the dark bags under my eyes from lack of sleep. I tossed and turned, my body wrapped up in sheets, my mind wrapped up in Luke Boone, all kinds of insane late-night thoughts and hopes fluttering through my mind. Specifically, what could happen if we have it all wrong about him. What if he’s an innocent in all this?

“What do you think made him finally call?”

“Besides my beauty and charm?” I glance up to see the smirk. “Who knows? He’s a criminal. They run hot and cold, you know that. I can’t say what’s running through his head.” That’s a believable answer. We’ve heard it all before. Interrogate a suspect and you’ll get all kinds of skewed logic, crazy explanations for why they do what they do. Like, that murdering a father of two so they can make a grand cash off a stolen truck to pay their rent is completely reasonable.

Wanting the conversation to change course, I ask, “Will you be on tonight?”

“No. I’m heading to San Francisco for a wedding.”

“Oh yeah? Who’s getting married?”

“My girlfriend’s sister.”

I stop, mid-chew, unable to hide the shock from my face. “Dude. Girlfriend?” In the time that I’ve known Warner, he has never once mentioned a girlfriend. Then again, he hasn’t talked about his personal life at all. If he didn’t have such a heavy accent, I wouldn’t even know where he was from. “How long has that been going on for?”

He scratches the back of his head and seems uncomfortable. “A year now, I think? I don’t know.”

“A year? Is she on the job?”

“Nope.”

“Wow. A year.” As much as all the cops I know say they hate dating other cops, dating non-cops—people who will never truly understand why we do what we do—rarely works out. I wonder if it’s different for FBI agents. Doubt it. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

He simply shrugs and then turns on my pricey Canon digital camera that sits on the counter and begins flipping through the pictures. “These aren’t bad.”

I guess that’s all I’m getting out of Warner about his personal life. “You sound surprised.”

“What’s with all the trees?”

“That’s my homework assignment for the week.” When we were working on the cover details, I warned them that I couldn’t just sit in this condo all day every day. Not only would that look suspicious for a young, wealthy woman; I’d literally go insane. I couldn’t get a steady cover job because it would restrict my schedule, so we all agreed that I should tie up some of my time with hobbies that I can easily walk away from. I’ve always wanted to take a photography class, so two evenings per week, I head down to a camera store to congregate with my “class”—a small group of eight beginners plus an instructor—and learn all about lighting and filters and angles.

“Your homework assignment is trees?”

“Not just trees. ‘Trees in different light,’ ” I mimic my teacher, an eccentric little Asian man with a Mohawk who reminds me of Richard Simmons, minus the spandex jumpers.

“Sounds thrilling.” His dry tone tells me he doesn’t think so. He sets the camera down on the counter. “Keep out of trouble tonight. You hear?”

“Don’t worry. I don’t think 12’s the kind of guy to put a bullet in a girl’s head on their first date.”

“Not what I’m worried about,” Warner mutters. “Just be ready to tell him anything you have to, to make him back off.”

“What, like that he has to wait for my gonorrhea to clear up?” That only works on pimps wanting to sample the goods before they put a girl to work for them. Any other guy will turn and run.