Ruthless Creatures (Queens & Monsters, #1)(55)

Even retirees have a better social life than me.

I’d call Sloane, but I can’t figure out the time difference between Tahoe and Rome without looking it up. Plus, she could be in Norway by now. Africa. Brazil. The last time we spoke, several days ago, she and Stavros were mulling over maps.

It sounded like she was having so much fun, she might never come back.

Wondering why Kage hasn’t called yet, I mope around the house until it’s time to let Mojo out for one last pee before bed. As I’m standing shivering on the front porch in my fuzzy slippers and winter coat, watching the dog sniff around in the bushes, a car drives slowly by the house.

It’s a white sedan with lights mounted on the roof and the words Placer County Sherriff painted on the side in gold and green.

Chris pulls to a stop at the curb, parks the car, and gets out, leaving it running.

Wonderful. Exactly what I needed right now. Thanks a lot, universe.

I consider taking the dog and going back inside, but figure Chris would just pound on my door until I opened up anyway. So I wait on the porch as he approaches, hat in hand.

“Evening, Nat,” he says, stopping a respectful distance away. “Merry Christmas.”

His tone is neutral. His expression is unreadable. I have no idea if he’s happy, sad, or about to explode in burning rage.

I say pleasantly, “Merry Christmas, Chris. I’m surprised to see you working tonight. Does your boss not give you holidays off from spying on your ex-girlfriends?”

“I’m not spying on you.”

“How many times a day do you drive by my house?”

“All part of the job. You know, keeping the community safe and whatnot.”

“You think I’m a threat to the community?”

“No. Not you. I do, however, think you’re too good for that piece of shit you’re protecting.”

We gaze at each other. In the porchlight, his eyes behind his glasses glow glacier blue.

Might as well get it out there. We both know why he’s here.

I say softly, “I’ve always liked you, Chris. I think you’re a good person. But this thing you’re doing, stalking me like this, it’s not cool. No matter how many times you drive by my house, it’s still over.”

His jaw works. A crack appears in the smooth fa?ade of his expression. For a moment, he almost looks as if he’s going to start shouting at me.

Instead, he glances away, drawing a slow breath. “I did some digging. Got some friends in the bureau. Showed them the sketch of your neighbor. They kept it off the news, but they know who he is.”

He looks back at me, and now his blue eyes are fierce. “Do you know who he is, Natalie?”

“Chris, please.”

“Do you know what he is?”

“This is ridiculous.”

He takes a step toward me, eyes blazing. “No, it’s not. It’s actually a matter of life or death.”

I’ve had too much wine to deal with this shit calmly any longer. I demand, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Chris raises his voice. “It means your next-door neighbor is the second-highest-ranking member of the Russian mafia, Nat. It means this guy you’re sleeping with—”

“I never said that.”

“—is a liar, a career criminal, and a murderer. He kills people, Nat. For a living. That’s his job. That’s what they call him: Reaper. You know, as in the grim reaper? As in the skeleton in the cloak with the scythe who comes to get your soul?”

Reaper.

My boyfriend is named after a mythical personification of death?

A mental image of Kage with glowing red eyes peering out from under the hood of a black cloak gives me chills.

Trying to keep my voice even, I say, “None of that has anything to do with me. Now it’s time to say good night and for you to leave. Mojo!”

I whistle for him. He trots up, ignoring Chris, and heads back inside, going into the house through the open door behind me.

Christ takes another step forward. I take a step back. The anger in his gaze makes my heartbeat tick up a notch and my eyes widen.

Then I get a whiff of the alcohol on his breath, and my pulse ticks up higher.

Alarmed, I say, “You’ve been drinking.”

“So have you. Your cheeks always flush after a few glasses of wine.”

It’s true. I’m prone to flushing. I’m also prone to conspiracy theories and worst-case-scenario thinking, impressively demonstrated by my brain, which is howling that Chris is about to kill me.

He says, “You know how I knew you were sleeping with him? You do this thing when you’re not telling the truth. You glance up and to the right. Just for a second. When I asked you if you were fucking him, that’s what you did.”

That he noticed such a minor tic about me frightens me deeply.

It makes me wonder what else he noticed.

And why he was looking so closely in the first place.

“You’ll notice that I’m not glancing up and to the right now when I tell you that you’re starting to scare me.”

He was about to take another step forward, but stops dead.

He says vehemently, “I’d never hurt you. Proven by the fact that I didn’t tell the feds I thought you and this Reaper character were involved.” His eyes darken. “Because if I did, you’d be sitting in a black site military cell right now, in handcuffs, being questioned by a guy named Snakebite who gets off on the sight of blood and the sound of a woman screaming.”