Page 55 of Torched Spades

My cheeks burn. “Laundry day,” I say, sliding across the other side of the booth.

“I said one hour.”

“I’m sorry; I’m not used to being summoned with a death threat.”

He clenches his jaw at that, which to be fair was a low blow. I’m lashing out because I’m afraid of what he’s going to say. They say hope floats, but in my experience, it sinks straight to the bottom, dragging you right along with it.

“Well, when my best friend has ignored my calls for six months, I figured there was only one way to get her attention,” he clips, setting his phone on the table. “I’m impressed you showed. I wasn’t sure you would.”

I almost didn’t.

Staring down at the laminated menu in front of me, I tug at the sleeves of my hoodie. “So youdon’thave new information for me?”

He groans. “Becca, it’s been twenty-two years…”

“Yes, and thirteen since you promised me you were ‘only joining the force to have access to my mother’s case’. Yet here we are, not one step closer.” I choke out a bitter laugh. “Unless you count answering to the root of all evilprogress.”

His tight expression softens. “Becca, he’s worried about you.”

Instead of dignifying that with an answer, I dig into the front pocket of my hoodie and draw out my phone. Holding his stare, I shove it across the table, his text backlit by anger and suspicion. “Bullets and blades, Jack. You know what this means, yet you still used it to get me here, and for what? To do my father’s dirty work for him? Did he send you to talk some sense into me?”

“You don’t understand; he—”

“If you’re not willing to be an asset to my life, then stay out of it,” I interject, despising the slight tremble in my voice. “I need a friend, not a guidance counselor.”

Sitting back in his seat, Jack rakes his fingers through his hair, giving the ends a frustrated tug. “Becca, this guy…”

Fuck, I was right.He and my father have been trading stories. I can only imagine what dear old Dad told him after our run-in at the bar.

“Please, don’t start.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not trying to tell you how to run your life—”

“No, my father is. He’s just turned you into his carrier pigeon.” Jack rears back as if I’ve slapped him, and shit, I might as well have. I don’t know who is spouting all this vitriol, but it’s not me. “Shit, I didn’t mean that—”

“Yes, you did, but it’s okay.” He shrugs. “We haven’t spoken in six months, yet here I am sharing information about your personal life I’m supposedly not privy to. That doesn’t exactly start us off on the right foot.”

That’s putting it mildly.

“Look, maybe your father asked me to talk to you, but I’m here as your friend not as a detective.”

“Jack…”

“You’re risking everything for someone you barely know. A patient, for Christ’s sake.”

I stiffen. “Is that right? What else did he tell you?”

“Not much. Just that whoever this guy is, he’s bad news. Do I need to remind you of your own rules?” Shoving his menu away, he ticks each one off on his fingers. “No liars, no criminals, and no patients. From what I hear this guy fills the whole Bingo card.”

I stiffen. I know all about my rules for men. He’s running interference for the first building block. “He’s not a—”

“Yes, he is.” Shooting me a hard look, he nods at the yellow stain on my chin. “Any man who puts his hands on a woman is a criminal, Becca. I’m a cop. I’ve seen this kind of shit before.”

“He didn’t put his hands on me,” I mutter.

It was his mouth.

Letting out a slow breath, Jack reaches across the table and takes my hand. “Becs, I’m worried about you. You don’t look well. You’re pale, you have bruises, and I haven’t seen you smile in…” He gives me a sad smile. “Christ, I can’t remember the last time. So, please, talk to me. You can tell me anything—just like when we were kids.”