Midnight Betrayal (Midnight #3)(40)

“Thank you, Gerome.” Louisa swallowed her rising nausea at the thought that Blaine had been here. “If he comes again, please don’t let him up or accept any more packages. Just call me immediately.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Gerome’s tone flattened, telling Louisa he understood.

Louisa hung up the phone. Kirra pressed against her legs.

“It’s all right, girl.” She stuffed the gift box and card back into the bag and went into the kitchen. For a moment, she held it over the trash receptacle, then reconsidered. Perhaps sending it back to him would be a better move. Blaine needed to get it through his arrogant, thick head that she wanted nothing to do with him. He’d been pursuing her for years, and it needed to stop. She would never be his.

Not after what he’d done to her.

She opened the hall closet and put the bag on the top shelf. As soon as she had time, she’d mail it back to him. Ignoring him hadn’t worked in the past. This time she would be more forceful. After checking the door locks, she swallowed two aspirin and went into the bedroom. A hot shower helped relax her, but sleep was going to be elusive tonight.

She settled on the couch and turned on the television. Kirra jumped up beside her, curled up, and rested her head on her leg. Grateful for the company, Louisa settled a hand on the dog’s back.

Her mind whirled with Blaine’s unwanted gift, grief for Riki, and worrying about Zoe. Where was her intern? The police seemed certain she was dead, but Louisa refused to believe it. But with Riki already murdered, how long could she hope that Zoe hadn’t been killed?



Pat’s red head drooped over his glass.

“Come on. Let’s get you home.” Conor grabbed his brother’s arm and hoisted it across his shoulders.

Pat stood and swayed. “Okeydokey.”

Conor staggered as Pat leaned on him. “Steady. If you fall down, that’s where you’ll stay for the night.” He steered Pat out the back door and toward the waiting car.

“Watch your head.” Conor opened the door and folded Pat into the passenger seat. He stuffed his brother’s long legs under the dash. Twenty-year-old Porsche 911s were not designed to transport men the size of Pat.

“We raised them right.” Pat’s voice was thick and slurred.

“We did, Pat. We did a damned good job.” Conor slid behind the wheel and took a couple of seconds to admire all the shiny new leather in the interior. His brother let out a massive burp, and Conor shot him a look. “Do not hurl in my car.”

Pat thumped his chest. “I’m insulted. I can hold my liquor with the best of them.”

Conor covered his snicker with a cough. Pat’s tolerance for liquor was ridiculously low for his size.

He started the car. The engine fired with a sweet roar. He should think about selling her and looking for another project. He took one whole day off a week. What would he do without a car to fix?

But damn, this one had turned out to be one fine ride.

“I can’t believe Jaynie’s having a baby.” Pat sniffed. “And she’s getting married at Christmastime.”

“Me either.” Conor drove onto Oregon Avenue. The two cops who’d been sitting in the bar all night got into their unmarked car and followed him. “Maybe they should move the wedding date up. Be nice if she were married before she starts to look pregnant.” He wasn’t sure why that popped into his head and out of his mouth. Conor wasn’t exactly fixated on propriety. But there’d been a time when appearances mattered, like when the social worker showed up for a home visit to make sure Pat and Conor had a good handle on their younger siblings. Most of the time they hadn’t, but they’d faked it pretty well. All four of the Sullivan siblings were decent liars, which probably shouldn’t be considered an attribute.

Pat waved off his comment. “Aw, she’s happy. Who the hell cares?”

“As usual, you’re right.” Conor laughed, but he didn’t feel the humor. An inexplicable sadness lodged in his bones tonight, a torrent of dissatisfaction that had been building to a crescendo inside him for months.

It felt disturbingly like self-pity.

Was he jealous of his three siblings’ happiness? Because if he was, that was just lame. Lame and inexcusable. He really needed to get his own life. He and his siblings had suffered the same tragedy. They’d moved on. Why hadn’t he?

“She’s all grown up. She has Reed. She doesn’t need us anymore.”

“That’s the way it’s supposed to be, Pat.” Did parents feel this jumble of emotions when their kids got married and had kids? How could he be sad and happy at the same time?

“And Danny’s all settled up in Maine with Mandy.” Pat sighed heavily. Alcohol made his brother emotional. “You’re the last holdout, Conor.”

“Uh-huh.” Do not engage.

“I’m serious.” Pat hiccupped. “You need a wife.”

Conor made another noncommittal sound and made a mental note that his brother’s new cutoff was three drinks, two if he was rolling out the scotch like he had tonight to celebrate Jayne’s news.

“How’s your curator?” Pat asked.

“Fine.” Conor wasn’t going anywhere near a conversation about Louisa with a drunken and sentimental Pat.

Pat glanced in the side mirror. “The cops are behind us. It’s a f*cking parade. Have you heard from Damian?”