Page 27

He nods. “You casing the place?” There’s no accusation in his tone, just mild amusement. “Or trying to cover something up?”

“Investigating,” I correct him, annoyed that he’d think I’ve got something to hide. Well, more than the usual. “The same as you.”

He turns to face me, leaning against the door, the brim of his hat keeping his face in shadow, except for the jut of his strong chin and those lips that look more enticing by the second.

“You should have told me you were planning a visit here,” he says.

“If I had, would you have let me come alone?”

He smirks. “Absolutely not.”

I take a step closer, noting how he doesn’t back away. “I like a protective man,” I tell him. “Not sure I need one, though.”

“I have feeling you don’t know what you need, dollface,” he says, the implication hanging in the air, causing the tension between us to become something palpable.

“The truth, Callahan. The truth about Betty.”

“Then we’re on the same page. Wouldn’t you say?”

I know he’s right. “We do seem to be working the same angles. Might be more efficient to pool our resources.”

Something shifts in his expression—interest, perhaps, or wariness. “Marco Russo wouldn’t approve of that arrangement.”

“Marco doesn’t own me.”

Callahan studies me carefully. “No,” he says finally. “I don’t believe he does.” A pause. “Though he seems to think otherwise.”

“My relationship with Marco is…complicated.” I offer no further explanation.

“Most things worth having are.” His gaze is too perceptive, seeing too much. “He someone worth having?”

I swallow hard and change the subject. “Do you have a way past this lock, or are we just going to stand here admiring it?”

A genuine smile this time, transforming his face from merely handsome to something that makes my chest tighten. He reaches into his pocket and produces a set of lock picks.

“Ladies first,” he says, stepping aside after working the lock with practiced efficiency.

The warehouse interior is cavernous and dark, what little daylight filters through cracks in the boarded windows revealing a mostly empty space. The air smells of dust, mildew, and something metallic and familiar that makes my throat constrict.

Blood.

Old blood.

Callahan moves with surprising silence for a man his size, making his way toward the center of the space. I follow, my vampire vision adjusting quickly to the dimness. There are marks on the concrete floor—dark stains that would be nearly invisible to human eyes, but to me, they tell a story of violence.

“There was a table here,” Callahan says, crouching to examine the floor. “Heavy. Left these scratches.”

I kneel beside him, careful not to touch the stains. “How can you see that in this light?”

He glances up, momentarily confused, then shrugs. “Good eyes.”

Too good, I think, filing away another anomaly about Victor Callahan.

“What do you think happened here?” I ask, playing human, though my senses are screaming the answer.

“Nothing good.” He rises, scanning the walls. “But whatever it was, they cleaned up thoroughly afterward.”

I follow his gaze. The walls are bare except for…wait. I move closer to the eastern wall, where faint outlines are visible beneath a hasty coat of whitewash.