Becoming Rain (Burying Water #2)(90)

And am I next?

I don’t see any benefit to killing me. But, without Rust, the entire organization falls apart, so killing Rust wouldn’t be smart on Vlad’s end either.

Which leaves me wondering . . . who the hell did it?

She leads me up the front steps to the covered porch that my mom used to sit on, waiting for Ana and me to come home from playing with the neighborhood kids. They don’t creak like they used to, thanks to Rust, who had the entire thing replaced after Ana, at eight years old, fell through a rotten floorboard. I remember that day well. Rust and Deda went head-to-head, my old-school Russian grandpa’s philosophy of hiding imperfections behind a fresh coat of paint every year the cause for Ana’s broken leg.

It was the first time I ever saw my grandpa, a stubborn man by his own admission, relinquish power to Rust.

My mom answers the door in a red robe, the light from the porch highlighting the near black roots of her platinum-blond hair. For a woman who works as a hairstylist, I’d think she would stay on top of that more. I asked her about it once; she said she liked the look.

“Luke, what are you doing here so late?” Her worried eyes dart between me and Rain. “Is something wrong?”

That painful ball forms in my throat again. I don’t know how to tell her. She and Rust have always been close. The only reason she wasn’t listed as next-of-kin instead is because Rust knew how fragile she was. God knows what this will do to her.

Ana appears in the doorway behind her, the same confused look on her pretty face.

Rain gives my hand a squeeze. Somehow it helps. “Yeah.” I clear the rasp out of my throat. “Something’s definitely wrong.”

Chapter 48

CLARA

The elevator doors open to allow residents off, freshly showered, dressed, and ready for a day of work. We’re the exact opposite, in rumpled clothes and with red, tired eyes, which watched wave after wave of emotion grip Luke’s mom and sister, their tears coming from a seemingly never-ending tap of grief. What Luke didn’t shed in tears he made up for in cigarettes, burning through one after another, he and his mom emptying three packs while sitting on the steps of the front porch.

Like sitting ducks.

Only a dozen cars traveled down the quiet side street all night, but each one had me ready to pull the gun tucked inside my purse—that I grabbed from my safe before we left, using the excuse of forgotten car keys.

“Hey.” Luke sticks his hand out to hold the elevator door. “Don’t take this the wrong way, because you’ve been amazing, but . . . I need to be alone for a bit.” I’ve seen the look that now sits in Luke’s eyes many times—the vacant stare of a person who doesn’t know what to do next.

But it’s against my direct orders. And I’m not letting him walk into his condo without making sure no one’s waiting there for him.

“Sure, okay. Do you mind if I just go up to grab Stanley?”

He shakes his head quickly, like he forgot about the dogs. “Yeah, of course.”

The elevator ride up is silent, Luke leaning back against the wall, his eyes closed. No doubt exhausted. I’m exhausted, and I’m used to going a full day without sleep. Still, my mind frantically works to find a way into his condo without sounding forceful. “Hey, with everything going on, I couldn’t find where I put Stanley’s leash last night. Let me go grab it? Stanley’s less obedient in the morning for some reason. I’ll bring Licks home, too.”

“Yeah, sure,” Luke says absently, his keys dangling from his fingers. I pull them from him with a smile, unlocking the door, giving me the advantage of walking into his condo first. Everything looks the exact same, right down to half a glass of red wine sitting on the kitchen counter and the brown Thai food take-out bag.

I move through quickly, pretending to search for the leash—that I didn’t forget to give to Bridgette when I dropped off the dogs—with my gun hidden between my purse and my rib cage. If my behavior seems erratic, Luke doesn’t seem to notice, dropping down into his couch, his head hung, his elbows resting on his knees.

My heart aches for him, in a way that it isn’t supposed to, in a way that isn’t allowed. I force it down to focus on the more critical matters at hand.

“Weird. Can’t find it,” I call out when I’ve checked the last closet and can clear Luke’s condo from any crazy Russians wanting to exact more punishment. Slipping my gun back in my purse, I squeeze Luke’s shoulder. “Let me go grab the boys. I’ll be back.”

I duck out and run down the hall, cutting chitchat with Bridgette short and forcing Licks to gallop behind me. Luke has moved into his bedroom and shut the door behind him. I can hear the shower running.

So I quickly update Warner.

“Sinclair made some calls. We’ve got jurisdiction on the murder now. We’re running a couple of partials from the SUV. See if that gives us anything we can use. Anything on that end? Phone calls? Visitors?” he asks.

“Nope. Nothing.”

“That’ll change soon. The media’s all over this now.”

Shit. We haven’t so much as glanced at the TV since last night. Reporters can be insensitive *s, creating ugly headlines to hype a story with little consideration for the people it impacts.

My body is starting to ache. “Okay. I’m going to grab a bit of sleep, before I accidently shoot someone.”