Bitter Bite (Elemental Assassin #14)(98)

Then I coaxed him back upstairs. I asked again if he wanted to leave, but he

said no and called Stuart Mosley. Bria pulled out her phone, called Xavier,

and told him what had happened, then contacted her own bosses.

“They’ll be here soon,” she said, after she ended the call. “Probably

fifteen minutes, tops.”

“You guys should go,” Finn said, his voice that same dull monotone as

before. “No need for you to get dragged any deeper into this.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but he shook his head, not quite looking at me

or anyone else.

“You’ve done enough for me today. Just go, Gin. Please?”

I didn’t like it, but he was right. Us sticking around would just lead to all

sorts of awkward questions. I squeezed his shoulder again. Finn gave me the

same weak smile he had down in the vault, then turned away, staring out over

the blood and bodies in the lobby.

Bria stayed behind with Finn, and Owen, Silvio, Jo-Jo, and I left the bank.

“He’ll be all right,” Jo-Jo said, once we were outside. “He just needs

some time.”

I nodded, knowing that she was right. The dwarf hugged me, then headed off to

her car to drive back to her salon. Owen, Silvio, and I went back to the

parking garage.

“I’m going to the Pork Pit,” Silvio said. “Spread the word and get people

to start looking for Deirdre.”

If Deirdre was smart, she was already on her way out of town, but I didn’t

mention that. “Good idea. Thank you, Silvio.”

The vampire nodded, got into his car, and drove off.

I climbed into Owen’s car with him, and we sat there. I didn’t say anything,

and he didn’t try to prod me into a conversation. Instead, he reached over

and took my hand in his. Owen knew that Finn wasn’t the only one who was

hurting and heartsick.

“I didn’t want to be right about her,” I whispered. “I know that I didn’t

help matters, acting the way I did toward Deirdre, but I didn’t want to be

right. I didn’t want Fletcher to be right. I didn’t want her to hurt Finn.”

“I know, Gin,” Owen said. “I know.”

I curled my fingers into his, soaking up all the warmth, comfort, and support

he had to offer. Then I let go and buckled my seat belt.

“Will you drive me somewhere?”

Owen frowned. “You don’t want to stay here? See what the cops do? Make sure

that Finn’s okay?”

I shook my head. “Bria will take care of him. There’s nothing else I can do

here.”

“All right, then.” Owen cranked the engine. “Where to?”

I rattled off an address. His eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he threw the

car into gear and left the garage.

Ten minutes later, he pulled into another parking garage, this one

underground, and we took the elevator up to the lobby. I made a call to the

doorman’s boss—Jade Jamison, an underworld figure that I was friendly with—

who was happy to tell her guy to give me access to whatever I wanted. The

doorman put his key in the elevator, and Owen and I rode it all the way up to

the top floor of the Peach Blossom.

The doors slid back, revealing Deirdre’s penthouse.

Knife in hand, I stepped out of the elevator and into the suite. Owen was

right beside me, gripping a gun and ready to shoot anyone who came at us.

After a quick once-over, we saw that no one was in the kitchen or the living

room, and no one was hiding in the bedrooms and bathrooms. Even more telling,

I didn’t feel so much as the faintest trace of Deirdre’s Ice magic. When we

’d cleared the suite, Owen and I went back to the living room.

That was where the mess was.

Deirdre must have come straight back here after the disaster at the bank,

because a suitcase was sitting on one of the white sofas, clothes haphazardly

sticking out of it. More luggage littered the rest of the living-room floor,

all of it open, with clothes, shoes, jewelry, and makeup bristling out of the

tops of the bags. It looked as though Deirdre had grabbed her things and

tossed them into the suitcases, not caring where or how they landed.

Someone, most likely Deirdre, had dropped a heart-shaped perfume bottle onto

the floor, breaking it into half a dozen jagged pieces. The overpowering scent

of peonies filling the air reminded me of the broken bottle that had been in

Fletcher’s casket box.

Owen poked his gun down into one of the suitcases, making bottles of makeup,

hair gel, and nail polish rattle together. “Looks like she was in a hurry to

leave.”

“Yeah,” I replied. “But she didn’t take any of her stuff with her. Why

not?”

He shrugged. He didn’t know any more than I did.

We moved through the rest of the penthouse, but it was clean, except for the

mess in the living room. No blood, no bodies, nothing that would indicate a

struggle or that Deirdre had left against her will. If the luggage and her