Page 49 of Torched Spades

Her eyes bounce from her lap to the floor to her desk to the murder mosaics hanging over my shoulder. “I’ve never seen wild violets in Providence.”

“I meant in Jersey.”

Her chin snaps forward. “I thought you were from Pennsylvania?”

Fuck.

This time, I’m the one who looks away.

“I am.” Feigning boredom, I lean back and stare at the ceiling. “My grandparents lived in Northern Jersey. I spent summers there as a kid. Would you like the names and addresses of all my cousins, too?”

When she doesn’t answer, I tilt my head just enough to see her reaction, only to find her frowning and staring at that damn painting again.

Luckily, that’s where the interrogation ends.

I can’t help but appreciate the grim irony… Her obsession with murder art saved her from digging for darker truths she can’t unsee.Or maybe it saved both of us.I may want to use Becca for a lot of unspeakable things, but a bridge to the past isn’t one of them. I’ve already dug too many inroads as it is.

Not only did I endanger both of us by telling her about my fight at the warehouse, but I dropped my trump card about her father early.And for what?To get a reaction out of her? To push her buttons because she pushed mine?

Fucking idiot.

Now, not only do I have to protect my ass from Reese, Ledger, and what may be the resurrection of an Irish mob dynasty, but I have to protect Becca’s, too, all while keeping her from using the leverage I just gave her to screw me over. The whole thing is as fucked up as those demonic ink blots plastered on her wall.

She clears her throat, an awkward transition that only feeds the already thick tension. “How have things been since the shift change? I assume there were no more ‘altercations.’”

I grit my teeth.What is it with Rhode Islanders and their damn air quotes?“Not this week.”

“That’s good.”

A few more moments of strained silence, and I’ve had enough. “Are we really going to sit here for the next forty-five minutes and act as if nothing happened?”

“Yes, please.”

“Absolutely fucking not. You can’t tell me that kiss didn’t leave you wanting more. I know better. If you’d like, I can give you a detailed synopsis of everything you said and did, starting with—”

“No!” she shouts, swinging her hand so hard the file on her lap falls to the floor. Glancing down at the scattered papers, she sighs. “I mean, that won’t be necessary. I’m very aware of my actions.”

“Which you think is best to just sweep under the rug and ignore.” I’m done with the kid gloves. Mindfuck is a game for two. “Is that your professionalopinion, Doc, or one a bit more personal?”

“This is week five,” she says quietly.

“Don’t change the subject.”

“I’m not. Our agreement was for four weeks of effort and commitment, remember? That deal became null and void when you broke the terms.”

“I didn’t force you to kiss me back, Becca.”

She shakes her head. “Not that. The terms were for fourconsecutiveTuesdays. You missed last week.”

“That’s a cop-out, and you know it,” I accuse, stabbing my finger across the table. “Your receptionist screwed up, and you’re hiding behind her mistake.”

She purses her lips. “Does it really matter? After what happened last week, my entire life’s work is on the line.” Palming her forehead, she lets out a low curse. “Don’t you get it? I’ve lost my objectivity because Ican’tsweep that kiss under the rug.”

“So you admit you want me.”

“That’s not what I…” Wrenching her glasses off her face, she pinches the bridge of her nose. After a few moments, she sighs, then tosses the frames on the table between us before folding her hands in her lap. “Wanting something isn't a crime. It’s the taking.”

“Wrong. They’re both crimes. One feeds into the other, then loops back around in a vicious circle. The more you want, the more you take, and the more you take, the more you want.”