Page 36

“Have you seen a doctor?” I ask.

“Not yet.” He shakes his head, picking up his mug and having a sip. “Doctor would probably say it’s stress. Overwork. Not enough sleep.”

“Is that what you think it is?”

He’s quiet for a moment, staring into his coffee, dark arched brows furrowed together. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s finally catching up with me.”

“What is?” I prompt gently.

“The war. Catherine’s death.” His voice remains steady, but I see the tension in his jaw. “Grief does strange things to people. Makes them forget things, lose time. Sneaks up on you when you think you’re safe. So they say.”

“Who is Catherine?” I ask. “Your mother?”

“My wife.”

My heart stills for a moment, not expecting to hear that.

He glances at me and winces slightly. “I was married. She died.”

“Tell me about her,” I say, sensing he needs to talk about this, and I’m genuinely curious about the woman he was married to. “Tell me about Catherine.”

Callahan goes silent for a moment, rubbing his full lips together. “We met before the war, when I was a boxer. She was a nurse at Chicago Memorial where they patched me up after a bad fight.” A faint smile touches his lips. “Told me I was an idiot for getting in the ring in the first place. Naturally, I asked her to dinner.”

“Bold move. I like her.”

“You would. She turned me down the first three times.” The memory seems to soften him. “Catherine was…steady. The kind of person who knew exactly who she was and what she wanted. Never met anyone so certain about everything.”

Must be nice, I can’t help but think.

“You loved that about her,” I observe.

“More that I needed it.” He meets my gaze. “I was all over the place back then. Boxing, school, not sure what I was doing with my life. She anchored me.”

“What happened to her?”

His expression clouds. “Like everyone else, I went to go fight in the war. Got the telegram while I was in France. Pneumonia, they said. Swept through the hospital where she worked.” He swallows hard. “By the time I found out, she’d been buried for weeks. Never got to properly say goodbye.”

“I’m sorry,” I say softly. “That must have been terrible.”

Though I’m immortal and can’t die except under particular circumstances, circumstances only other vampires know, I know that no one is safe from the touch of death.

“It was a long time ago.” He shrugs, but the casual gesture doesn’t match the shadow that crosses his face. “Came back different and to a different life. We all did. Nothing has been the same. Started having trouble sleeping, concentrating. The Army doctors called it combat fatigue. I just thought it was grief, but I suppose that comes in all different forms.”

“And the blackouts? Did they start then?”

“No, that’s new.” He sets his mug down. “Started a few weeks ago. Around my birthday. Getting old is a real drag.” He pauses, a line forming between his brows. “Actually, around the time of Elizabeth’s murder.”

“You think they’re connected?” I ask, intrigued by the timing.

“Logically? No. But this case…” He shakes his head. “It feels different. Personal, somehow. Like I need to solve itto understand something about myself.” He gives a self-deprecating smile that I find breathtakingly handsome. “Sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud.”

“Not to me,” I assure him. “Sometimes we’re drawn to things for reasons we don’t understand.”

He studies me with renewed interest. “Speaking from experience?”

“Maybe.” I hesitate, then decide to shift the focus back to him. “Did you always want to be a detective?”

“Private investigator.”