Becoming Rain (Burying Water #2)(89)

“Got it.”

“You can do this.”

“I’ll talk to you later, Mom.” I force myself to take a few breaths before I turn around. “Hey, sorry about that.” I can’t keep the shake from my voice.

Luke stands, frowning. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, it’s just . . . just some procedure my dad’s having done next week.”

“Is it serious?”

I swallow against the bitter taste of my lies. “As any surgery is.”

Luke pulls me into his side and kisses the tip of my nose. “He’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

“Thanks.”

Leading me back to the couch, he waves the remote toward the screen. “I’ll even watch this if it’ll make you feel better.” He has a sappy Nicholas Sparks movie highlighted.

I manage a laugh, which quickly morphs into tears. Why the hell am I crying? I’m an undercover cop and a criminal got himself killed doing illegal shit! I don’t care about Rust!

But I do care for Luke.

This is going to crush him.

Knowing that breaks the last of my defenses and suddenly the tears are flowing down my cheeks. For Luke, for what he’s about to go through. For the anguish of replaying what his uncle’s final minutes might have been like. Not the uncle who led a car theft ring. The one who raised him the way a loving father raises a son.

Wiping them away with the back of my hand, I manage to get out, “Nicholas Sparks movies don’t make me feel better.”

“Okay, I’m sorry.” Luke takes turns brushing and kissing away the steady stream. “What else do you want to do?” He glances out the window. “It’s raining outside. We could go run around in the park?” He pauses. “Naked?”

I burrow my face in the crook of his neck and he wraps his arms around me, his chuckles soothing.

That’s what makes the severe knock on the door that much worse.

“Million-dollar condos and security doesn’t screen anyone, do they? I’m sorry.”

I trail him over, nearly stepping on his heels. He checks the peephole and his face pales.

“Who is it?”

A momentary flash of him opening the door and Vlad being there with guns aimed hits me. With Rix and Franky watching, I know that’s not likely. Still . . .

He looks at me, worry etched over his face. “It’s the cops.”

Another second and another knock on the door.

Finally, he opens it. And steps back. I know what he’s thinking. That they’re here to take him in. I almost wonder if that would be better.

“Are you Luka Xavier Boone?”

He folds his arms across his chest. “Yeah.”

I stand three feet away and watch as the storm—the rain I’ve been trying to save him from—hits Luke.

And I don’t feel an ounce of satisfaction.

Chapter 47

LUKE

“Hey.” A hand softly squeezes mine. I peer up into Rain’s eyes, brimming with tenderness.

Where am I? Still sitting on my couch, with a bowling ball weighing my chest down. Where I’ve been since the police told me that Rust is dead. They wouldn’t give me any details, other than that he had been identified by their forensics team and that the death was under investigation. And then they grilled me for ten minutes, asking me if Rust had enemies, if I was aware of any altercations that Rust had been in lately.

One name came to mind immediately.

But, to name him would mean opening up a giant can that I don’t know how to handle yet.

Rain told them in a polite but firm way that they needed to leave and we’d get back to them soon.

“Is Bridgette okay with watching the dogs?” My next-door neighbor, a thirty-eight-year-old wealthy divorcée with two boys in private school, has always been willing to dog-sit Licks when I’m in a jam.

“Yup. For as long as we need.” Rain holds up her keys. “Let’s go.”

She insisted on running back to her condo to pick up her car keys. I don’t know how long she was gone. I don’t know why she insisted on driving her own car. I don’t know how I’m going to get to the front door.

But I manage, with Rain holding my hand the entire way.

“This one, right?” Rain asks, pulling her car into the driveway of the tidy white bungalow where I grew up. It was my grandparents’ home, and when my grandpa died, Rust not only let my mom have it free and clear, he also sunk money into it, replacing the roof, the furnace, and the flooring, and bringing the ’60s-style kitchen and bathrooms into the twenty-first century.

Rust has always been there to take care of us.

And now he’s dead.

Bile rises up my throat for the hundredth time in the last hour. I’m about to ask Rain to stop the car so I can hop out and puke. Thankfully, the driveway’s short and I’m out of the car within seconds.

“It’s a nice, old neighborhood,” she murmurs, her eyes roaming over the giant oak trees that Ana and I used to climb. Clutching her purse tight to her side, she takes my hand. “Come on, let’s get inside.”

Even in this perpetual state of shock that I’ve fallen into, I can’t help but notice the edge in Rain’s movements. Maybe she’s wondering the same thing I am—does this have anything to do with the angry Russian from last night?