Otherworld Secrets

The Cainsville Series

Omens

Visions

Deceptions

The Otherworld Series

Bitten

Stolen

Dime Store Magic

Industrial Magic

Haunted

Broken

No Humans Involved

Personal Demon

Living with the Dead

Frostbitten

Waking the Witch

Spell Bound

Thirteen

The Nadia Stafford Series

Exit Strategy

Made to Be Broken

Wild Justice

The Darkest Power Series

The Summoning

The Awakening

The Reckoning

The Darkness Rising Series

The Gathering

The Calling

The Rising

Story Collections

Men of the Otherworld

Tales of the Otherworld

Otherworld Nights

eSpecials

The Hunter and the Hunted

About the Author

Also by Kelley Armstrong

Title Page

Copyright

PROLOGUE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

1. MORGAN

2.

3. JESSICA

4. ELENA

5.

6. JESSICA

7. ELENA

8.

9. MORGAN

10. ELENA

11.

12.

13.

14.

15.

16.

17. MORGAN

18. ELENA

19. MORGAN

20. ELENA

21. MORGAN

22. ELENA

23.

24.

25.

26.

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

1. HOME SWEET HOME

2. HEDGING A BET

3. CRUSADER CRUSH

4. DIVVYING UP DUTIES

5. THE FIRST RULE OF FIGHT CLUB

6. ROUND ONE

7. BLACK MAGIC WOMAN

8. TAKING CARE OF BUSINESS

9. UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT

10. THE ART OF BLACKMAIL

11. BROTHERLY LOVE

12. FOLLOW THE MONEY

13. HOMEWARD BOUND

14. WAKING NIGHTMARE

15. DRAGON’S BLOOD AND BUCKTHORN

16. CONTRACT NEGOTIATIONS

17. MAINTAINING THE CHARADE

LIFE AFTER THEFT

PROLOGUE

Sharon Avery settled her large frame into a chair on Fredrick Birkan’s rooftop deck and gazed down the mountainside at Lake Geneva. How much money did one need to own a house in the Swiss Alps? Enough that she was quickly recalculating the price of the goods she was about to offer Birkan.

Birkan came out the French door and handed her a glass of wine and then set a plate of cheeses on the patio table. He made the requisite small talk. She replied by rote. Idle chatter really wasn’t her thing, but Birkan was the kind of man who’d dismiss her as a crass American if she got right down to business.

Finally, he broached the subject himself, swirling his wine before saying, ever so casually, “I took a chance inviting you to my home, Ms. Avery. You are a stranger to me and I do not usually invite strangers here. But I made a rare exception, based on your excellent professional reputation.”

That was a lie. According to her sources, he said the same thing to every potential new business associate, to make them feel both honored and obliged to live up to his expectations. And, she presumed, so he could show off his estate—a don’t-fuck-with-me display of his wealth and power in the supernatural community.

“I will admit,” Birkan continued, “when you first contacted me, I thought it was a joke. The item you offered . . . well, it is not exactly easy to obtain.”

“I wouldn’t offer it to you if it was,” she said. “That would be an insult to the quality of your collection.”

He nodded, pleased. “Yet you believe you can obtain it? While you have a sterling reputation, I am told it is impossible, even for a master thief.”

“True, but I’ve come into some information that will make it much easier. And I have a particular thief in mind. One whose reputation surpasses even my own.”

She reached into her briefcase and passed him a file folder. As he read the first page, his brows shot up.

“Karl Marsten? The werewolf?”

“Is that a problem?”

“He is notoriously difficult to hire. I have tried myself and have not even been able to arrange a meeting with him.”

“I can get you one.”

Birkan tapped the folder. “So he has not truly retired?”

Avery smiled. “Oh, he says he has. But I believe we can persuade him to take one last job.”

ONE

As I edited the piece on chupacabra sightings, I sipped my decaf coffee and ignored the disapproving looks from the sales director. A week ago, she had informed me—complete with Web links—that even decaf contained caffeine and I was endangering the life of my unborn child. I’d pointed out that I’d drunk decaf all through my pregnancy with Nita, whereupon she’d made some snide comment about my daughter’s high activity levels. I ignored that. Nita had a werewolf and a chaos half-demon for parents—one couldn’t expect her to sit quietly for long.

I returned my attention to the article, written by an intern who apparently had managed to get through college without learning the difference between “there,” “their,” and “they’re.” I had only myself to blame, given that I’d hired him. I’m now the editor at True News, which would be far more impressive if I hadn’t been promoted during a downsizing, when they’d decided I could handle the position while still being lead reporter. But it’s a miracle we’re open at all—World Weekly News stopped publishing years ago when the Internet began fulfilling the public’s appetite for “Proof of Elvis on Mars!” stories.

When my phone rang, I answered with, “Hope Adams.” My brother, Joel, laughed and said, “You guys can’t afford call display?”

“No, I can’t afford the two seconds it takes to look at it. I’m rewriting an intern’s piece and lamenting the state of the modern education system. Which makes me feel very old.”

“Maybe so, but I’ll join you in that lament. I just hired two MBAs who don’t know how to write a proper business letter. Which segues nicely into the reason for my call. Good employees are hard to find, and when you do find one, you do everything in your power to keep him. I need you to talk to your husband.”

“I thought Karl was working out well.”

“Better than well. I had three guys working on a security plan for weeks, and they couldn’t meet the specs. In two days, Karl had it done. The client was ecstatic.”

“Okay . . .”

“Then I put him on this project protecting something called the Anatolian Hoard. It’s supposedly cursed, so figured he’d get a kick out of it, given what you do for a living.”

“So what happened?”

Silence. Then, “He didn’t tell you? He quit.”

“What?”

“I gave him the project yesterday morning. He started work on it. Then, after lunch, he tells me he wanted to go back into sales. I tried to talk him out of it, but you know your husband. I may be his boss, but with Karl that’s a technicality. Which is where you come in. Will you talk to him? Please?”

When I married Karl, I knew exactly what he was. Not just a werewolf, but a jewel thief. Hell, I’d met him because I’d been hired to foil one of his museum heists. So there were no illusions. And the fact that he retired from the life six months ago has nothing to do with me. In fact, if I had my way, he’d still be stealing jewels, because that’s his life—it’s how he’s lived since his father died when he was fifteen. More important, it’s how he works off the nastier instincts that come with being a werewolf. Instead of chasing human prey, he chases the glittering variety, getting his adrenaline rush from that. Nobody understands the importance of that sublimation better than me, as a half-demon who craves the same rush.

Karl had begun talking about retiring when Nita was born. He’d been shot in the head a couple of days before her birth, while I’d been taken captive, our unborn daughter held as “ransom” to get my father’s—Lucifer’s—attention. All that had nothing to do with Karl’s profession, but it still put things in perspective, and he’d wanted to make changes, starting by quitting the life.

I’d convinced him there was no point. He took only a few jobs a year, all out of country, and it would be years before Nita started asking questions. Then we’d started working on having another baby, and he’d barely broached the subject of quitting again when we had an . . . incident. It was at a Pack Meet. The youngest Pack member, Noah, had asked Karl to show him a few tricks, because he was taking law enforcement in college, so he was curious. Karl obliged. Nita watched. Then we returned home to discover her luggage contained two books, a stuffed animal, and a necklace that she’d stolen from the Danvers twins.

Nita had been very proud of herself, regaling her father with the story as best a three-year-old can tell one. She’d gotten a long talk about the notion of private property and a trip back to Stonehaven to return the items with apologies. The twins had been very impressed and made her show them how she’d done it—getting the books and toy from a high shelf and the jewelry from around Kate’s neck. Elena and Jeremy had been amused. Clayton was not. But one person was even more appalled than Clay: Karl. When we got home Sunday night, he’d called my brother to see if his long-standing offer of employment still stood.

TWO

After Joel’s call, I packed in my editing early and headed out to find Karl and Nita.

After Nita was born, we’d moved from a condo to a house . . . the sort of home that befits two people with very healthy bank accounts. Not some obscenely tacky modern mansion—that isn’t Karl’s style or mine. It’s an early twentieth-century two-story on an acre of land, backing onto a ravine. The money went into the location—a neighborhood dating back almost to the time my dad’s family landed on the Mayflower. And by “dad,” I mean Will Adams, the man who raised me, not my biological father. Dad’s family may be old, but compared with Lucifer’s, they’re strictly new blood.

Given the time, Karl and Nita would be at the park. Karl worked only part-time for Joel, doing as much as possible from home, because he was the primary caregiver for our daughter. As he says, there’s only a brief window before kids go off to school, and it’s an experience he’s never going to get again.

Even from the parking lot, I could see my husband. In a sea of au pairs, nannies, and mothers, the only man stuck out. Not that Karl wouldn’t stick out anyway. He’s fifty-six, but werewolves age slowly, so he looks more like a forty-year-old guy in prime condition: six feet tall, well built, wavy black hair barely touched with silver, and a face that belongs on the silver screen. Of course, being married to him, I could be biased, but the looks he got from the other caregivers said I was not.

As Karl watched Nita on the climbers, a couple of the twenty-something nannies stood nearby, trying to catch his attention and failing miserably. When Karl switches on the charm, he’s undeniable, which is why he’d made a good salesman. Yet it really is a switch, and when it’s off, that’s a hint: leave him alone or you’ll wish you had.

When he saw me, that somber expression broke into a smile and he turned . . . just as Nita attempted to leap across three bars. I yelped a warning, but Karl was already in flight, catching her as deftly as if he’d never taken his eyes off her, which he hadn’t, not completely.

“Oh, your nanny’s here,” one of the women said, adding, “Finally,” with a look that told me I really shouldn’t force my poor boss to—God forbid—take care of his own child.

As for why she presumed I was the nanny, let’s just say that every other woman of color in that playground was caring for someone else’s kids. My mother is Indo-American, and being half-demon means I get my looks from her. That’s when Nita spotted me and let out a whoop of “Mommy!” diving from Karl’s arms. I scooped her up as Karl came over and kissed me, and the nannies decided they really ought to get back to, you know, actually watching the kids they were being paid to watch.

“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy,” Nita sang as she hugged me tight enough to inhibit breathing. “Did you see me jump?”

“I saw you nearly fall.”

“Daddy caught me.”

“Daddy won’t always be there to catch you,” I said, ignoring the look on Karl’s face that said he damned well would be. “You need to be more careful. Or you’ll take a tumble and—”

“Break my arm,” she said, giggling. “Kate broke her arm. I want to break mine.”

“No, you do not.”

“I never broke a bone. I want to.”

“To see what it’s like? I’ll tell you. It hurts.”

She shrugged, as if this was inconsequential compared with the thrill of a new experience, and I cursed Lucifer for that. When Nita was born, my demon father said she would inherit some of my chaos hunger, making it more manageable for me. Which it is, but it’s left my daughter with a thirst for adventure that keeps us very, very busy. This is as bad as it will get, though, and if pressed I’ll admit that’s not such a horrible thing, and it’s not entirely the fault of my genes. If I were too worried, I certainly wouldn’t be having a second child.

“Park done, Daddy.” Nita twisted in my arms and launched herself back at her father. “Ice cream time.”

“I believe ice cream is on Tuesdays,” he said. “Today is Thursday.”

“Mommy’s having a baby. She needs ice cream. My book says so. Milk and cheese and ice cream for . . .” Her face screwed up.

“Calcium,” I said.

“Calcium!” she said, screeching the word like she’d found a new toy. “Calcium, calcium, calcium. Mommy needs calcium. Mommy needs ice cream.”

“You’re right,” Karl said. “So we’ll buy Mommy some. You and I will sit and watch—”

“No! Daddy watch. Mommy and Nita eat. Need calcium, calcium, calcium!” She wriggled down, saying, “Slide!” and then took off for one last ride, running and singing at the top of her lungs.

“She’s such a deeply unhappy child,” Karl said. “I don’t know where we went wrong.”

I laughed. Nita does have a temper—no idea where that came from—but the best word to describe our daughter is exuberant. I watched her run off, black curls streaming behind her. If the nannies were surprised she was my daughter, they needed glasses. Her big blue eyes are Karl’s, but otherwise she has my hair, my features, and skin only a shade lighter. Also, sadly, she has inherited her mother’s size, meaning we’ve just barely gotten out of the infants’ section.

Karl took my hand, entwining it in his as we walked. When we first started dating—after two years of being friends—he’d have no more held my hand in public than he’d have worn brown shoes with black trousers. I won’t say marriage and kids have mellowed him, but they’ve calmed something in his core. It is the realization of a goal he never allowed himself to even acknowledge. He had a stable life now—with territory and family—and public displays of affection declared that this was his choice and he was happy with it.

His hand tightened around mine. “I’d ask if you got done early, but I know that never happens. Was it work you could bring home?”

I nodded.

“Excellent timing. Nita goes for her nap after we get back home.”

“Giving me a quiet hour to work?”

He met my smile with one of his own. “Not exactly what I had in mind, but you can certainly try to work during it. I’d be rather disappointed if you managed, though.”

I laughed. I was tempted to let the job conversation wait until after sex. Four months pregnant meant I was into my favorite stage of the process, where I’m past the morning sickness, far from waddling, and enjoying the surge of hormones that make sex even better than usual, which is saying a lot.

It helps that I have a partner who very enthusiastically takes advantage of my libido upswing. Having a three-year-old, though, means scant private time. If I got the chance for an hour alone with my husband, I really did not want to spend it having a discussion that might turn into a fight. Sadly, I wouldn’t be able to push this conversation out of my mind enough to focus on sex.

As we were walking back to the house, I told Karl that we needed to talk first. Then I put Nita down for her nap, which is easier than one might think. She actually embraces the rest time, even reminding us if we forget it. She can feel her batteries running low and wants the recharge.

When I came out of her room, Karl had made tea.

“I came home early because Joel called,” I said as I settled onto the sofa.

Karl was at the bar, getting a water from the fridge. At my words, he stiffened, just a little. He uncapped a Perrier, his back still to me.

“I was going to tell you,” he said.

“I should hope so.”

“I planned to do it after dinner,” he said as he turned to meet my eyes. “Last night, we were preoccupied with Nita bumping her head, and this morning I didn’t want to hit you with it as you were heading to work.”

“Okay. I’d still rather not have heard it from my brother, but let’s move on. You liked the security work, Karl. Liked it a hell of a lot more than sales. Designing and debugging security systems is right up your alley.”

He’d been standing in front of the bar, listening. Now he came over and sat in the chair across from me. He fingered the bottle and stared out the back window, and as I watched him, turned away from me to hide his expression.

At home, Karl doesn’t dull his edges—he just keeps them covered. Working as a salesman, though, doesn’t just dull those edges—it smashes them and leaves him a little bit broken. It was killing me to watch it happen.

Worse, I had to feel it happen. As a chaos half-demon, I get a direct line to other people’s chaos. My powers may have weakened along with my hunger, but when my husband is struggling, I feel every twitch and roil of it.

I got to my feet and walked to the patio doors and out onto the back deck. Karl followed, leaving the door open so we could hear Nita’s bell. We refuse to put a lock on our bedroom door for privacy, so we put a bell over hers. We tell her it’s her princess bell, so we know when the princess is awake and her loyal servants can be ready.

I waited until he was outside. Then I turned to face him. “Tell me what I can do to make you quit sales.”

“Hope . . .”

“I know this isn’t about me. It’s about you, and what you want for your family, for your kids. You want to be able to tell them what you do for a living and have them be proud of you. But you know what, Karl? You being miserable in a job isn’t going to make them proud.”

“It isn’t about them being proud of me. It’s about having something to tell them. I don’t want my children to grow up with lies. The sales job is a temporary measure while I figure out what I want.”

“How about the security work that you just quit?”

He eased back. “I had a reason.”

“You researched the Anatolian Hoard, saw the Eye of Pldans, and knew if you designed the plans to secure it, you’d be tempted to breach them yourself. To steal it.”

He looked up sharply.

“What?” I said. “I’m your wife. I hope I could figure out at least one plausible reason why you quit after being given that specific job. I looked up the Hoard. It contains the Eye of Pldans. A jeweled amulet with a diamond center. In the human world, they say it’s cursed. But in the supernatural world, it’s believed to convey the power of fire to anyone with demon blood. In other words, for a half-demon, it adds a bonus power. That means that while it’s valuable to humans, it’s even more valuable on the supernatural black market.”

He was quiet for a minute. Then he said, “I put out a few feelers to see if anyone was looking to buy it. I told myself that was part of the research. A security system must protect against the supernatural powers of potential thieves.”

“Yes, and you can’t steal it even if you wanted to. It’s historically significant. That violates your agreement with Clayton.”

“True, but the buyer I uncovered isn’t a supernatural. He’s a Turkish national who plans to return it to his government, the rightful owners.”

“Meaning you could get the thrill plus the payday of a heist, and even Clay would admit it wasn’t a bad thing.”

“Not really my priority.”

“But still, win-win, right?”

“Except for the part where I betray my brother-in-law’s trust. And betray my own decision to retire, a mere six months after making it.”

I lowered myself into a deck chair. “I just want you to be happy, Karl.”

“I am.”

I met his gaze. “Chaos half-demon, remember? I can tell when you’re unsettled.”

“Unsettled, yes. Not unhappy. Am I as happy as I was three months ago, when you told me you were pregnant again? No. Am I happier than I was before I met you? Absolutely. The worst days since you came into my life are better than the best days that came before it, Hope.” He paused. “Except for when I was shot in the head while you were kidnapped by your psycho ex. That wins for worst day ever.”

I laughed in spite of myself.

He continued. “But other than that, I’m much happier now. Also, being shot in the head makes a man rethink his life. I didn’t want to die and have you lie to our child about what her father did for a living. Perhaps that shouldn’t have crossed my mind. But it did. It still does. I want to be able to look our children in the eye when I answer that question.”

“Getting a legit job doesn’t mean you need to stop being a thief.”

“Try to have it all?” He shook his head. “I spent fifty years thinking only of myself. I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime. I’m only struggling a little because this is a period of transition. And it’s not as if I plan to give up every bit of adventure in my life and settle into a desk job. I have Pack missions, and I have interracial council investigations with you.”

He pulled another chair over to sit in front of me. “I’ll feed my own chaos cravings with those, and I’ll find a better position, and everything will be fine.” He leaned back in his seat. “By the way, the answer is four.”

“To what question?”

“How many kids I want. I know we keep going back and forth. Three, maybe four, no, three . . .”

“So we’re done talking about the security job?”

“You want me happy. I’ve picked a topic that makes me much happier.” He rose, picked me up, and put me on the railing, his hands on my hips as he moved closer. “You’ve said it’s up to me, and I keep waffling, which is highly uncharacteristic. But I’ve never felt it should be my choice. Yes, I know, you’ve said you don’t care, but you’re still the one who has to go through a nine-month pregnancy and childbirth. Yet I have decided that since you’ve given me the choice, and I believe I’ve proven that I’ll take on my share of the postpartum responsibilities . . .”

“More than your share.”

“Then if you are giving me the option, I need to be honest and say four. I would like four children.” His hands slid under my skirt and over my hips. “Yes?”

“I said it was your choice.”

“I’d still like to hear you say it.” He tugged my panties down and I lifted my hips to help.

“Yes, Karl, I’d like four kids, too. You realize you can’t start on number three now, right?”

He chuckled. “I can practice.”

“Uh-huh. You like that, don’t you? Particularly when I’m already knocked up.”

His nose wrinkled. “I wouldn’t put it that way.”

“Knocked up? Oh, hell, yeah.” I leaned back a little on the railing. “You like having kids. You like working on making kids. But you also really like this part.”

I eased my dress up over the bump it concealed. His hands slid up to that, fingers running over it as a smug smile played on his lips.

I chuckled. “You like that, and you like it even more when it’s big enough that everyone can see what you’ve done.”

“That would be positively Paleolithic of me.”

“Yep.”

His fingers dropped back to my legs and eased down my inner thighs, but his gaze stayed fixed on that bump, the smile growing, just a little.

“Very pleased with yourself,” I said, arching back as he slid a finger into me.

“Never. Any man can make babies. Most, anyway.”

“True.”

“Of course . . .” Another finger, working expertly, as I closed my eyes and moaned. “If I was overly pleased with myself, I would have good cause.”

“Would you?”

“Impregnating a woman is no great accomplishment. However . . .”

He paused here for more wonderful finger-work. I responded with more appreciative moaning. With his free hand, he undid the buttons on the front of my dress. His hand roamed up my stomach, pausing at my belly, and then continued to my bra, flicking open the front clasp.

“However . . .” he continued. “A brilliant and beautiful woman who agrees to have my babies . . .” He cupped my breast with his free hand and teased one nipple. “Who, furthermore, agrees to have as many as I want . . .” His lips came toward mine. “That is, I believe, cause for me to be very pleased with myself.”

He kissed me and I wrapped my hands around his neck and returned it. Then I pulled back, my hands dropping to undo his belt.

“That’s . . . not entirely true,” I said.

“No?”

I opened his button, pulled down the zipper, and reached inside. “I wouldn’t say I’m willing to have your babies. I believe the word”—I moved my lips to his ear and whispered—“is eager. Very, very eager.”

He let out a growl, grabbed my hips, and pushed into me.

THREE

A week passed, and I was once again editing my intern’s latest piece when my phone rang. I heard Joel’s voice, there was a moment of déjà vu, and I was so distracted by it that when he said, “Someone stole the Eye of Pldans,” the first words out of my mouth were, “Karl didn’t . . .” Luckily, I caught myself in time and finished with, “. . . work on that project.”

“Um, yeah, sis. That’s what we discussed last week. Baby brain?”

“No, I thought we talked about the Anatolian Hoard last week.”

“Right. Well, the Eye is the crown jewel of the Hoard, so to speak. I’m calling to see if he can help me figure out what went wrong. He has a knack for this, and I’m . . .” His voice lowered. “I’m in trouble, Hope.”

“The client isn’t holding you responsible, is he?”

“She. The necklace is insured, of course, and we don’t owe anything except a refund, but it’s a black mark on the firm, and considering we only branched into security work a year ago, it’s a huge blow to our credibility. I don’t want Karl to get the jewel back or anything . . .”

He trailed off, as if hoping this was exactly what I’d suggest. My family isn’t stupid. They’d never asked a single question about Karl’s “import-export business.” My other brother investigated Karl’s finances, but only to make sure he actually had money and wasn’t a gold digger. As for Karl’s former occupation? My entire family was completely uninterested. The messed-up baby had found her feet at last—a career, a loving husband, now children. I’m happy, so details don’t matter.

I doubt my family suspects the truth about Karl’s past. They just think it might not be . . . squeaky-clean.

“Retrieving stolen goods really isn’t Karl’s forte,” I said, which is absolutely true.

“Can he look at the plans, then? Show me where we went wrong?”

I suspected Joel’s real goal was to get Karl back on that team. See how fast you figured that out? We need you, Karl. No one else can do this. Which would be great, if Karl were the kind of guy who needed his ego pumped with flattery.

“You know, he does have this amazing piece of technology called a cell phone,” I said. “Better yet, he’s going to be at your office later, because he, you know, works for you. You can talk to him about this directly, Joel. Really. He doesn’t bite.”

“He doesn’t listen, either. Not to me. He just humors me because I’m signing his paychecks.”

“You’re his boss. You need to establish dominance.”

“You’re laughing at me right now, aren’t you?”

“Never,” I said, biting my cheek.

“Yeah, yeah. I have about as much chance of ‘establishing dominance’ with Karl as I do of winning an argument with Mom. I know my limits. Just talk to him, okay?”

I sighed and agreed.

That evening, we were on the back deck again, this time watching Nita run through a makeshift obstacle course Karl had set up for her.

“No,” Karl said when I told him about Joel’s request.

“Okay.”

“And . . .” he prompted.

I shrugged. “Okay.”

“You’re not going to argue?”

“Would it help?”

He shook his head.

“Then no, I’m not going to argue. I’ve made my point as strongly as I can, and you’ve made yours. Pushing veers dangerously close to nagging. You’re an adult. I can try to make you happy, but ultimately, I can’t force it on you.”

His lips twitched in a smile. “You can always try, though possibly not in the way you’re suggesting.”

I sipped my tea. “I will . . . after Nita goes to bed.”

He chuckled and settled into his chair. He didn’t ask if I was serious. Withholding sex because I wasn’t happy with him fit my definition of the old adage about cutting off your nose to spite your face.

We sat for a few minutes, watching Nita wear herself out for bedtime. Then he said, “It means a lot to Joel, doesn’t it?”

I didn’t answer. He knew it already.

Karl shifted forward. “I would like to help, Hope, but I don’t . . . I know your family suspects I have a shady history. They look past it for your sake. But there’s a limit. Showing Joel exactly how thieves circumvented his security passes that limit. It raises questions that I’d rather not raise.”

“Okay.”

He shifted again. “He doesn’t need me to look at those plans. He can hire an expert. He just wants to woo me back to security work.”

“Okay.”

“If you really want me to . . .”

“Nope, not falling in that trap. You make up your own mind.”

“Then the answer is no.”

“Okay.”

He sighed and slumped back in his seat to brood some more on the matter.

The next afternoon, I got another call. This one was from Paige, leader of the interracial council.

“Hey,” I said as I answered. “I was just going to call you. Hold on.” I took my phone out onto the office balcony. “There, privacy. I was going to see if you had any missions for me. Preferably the type custom-made for a chaos demon. I’d like to get some credits logged before I’m too pregnant to be chasing down leads and bad guys.”

“I . . . might,” she said. “But right now . . .”

“You have something else in mind. Something important and troubling.”

A strained chuckle. “I didn’t think your power worked over the phone.”

“It doesn’t. I can just tell this is a call you’d rather not make. What’s up?”

“The Eye of Pldans.”

I cursed under my breath. “Karl didn’t do it.”

“A very valuable artifact with a supernatural history has been stolen in Philadelphia. That would have me wondering already, Hope. But apparently the company guarding it is owned by your brother. And it’s the company Karl has been working for . . . in the security design division.”

“Right. And the fact that my brother’s firm is responsible for the necklace means Karl sure as hell wouldn’t steal it.”

She didn’t respond to that. Paige and her husband run a law and private investigation firm dedicated to helping supernaturals in need. She’s never going to understand Karl, and she’s given up trying.

“Put it another way,” I said. “What if I owned that company? Would Karl steal the necklace then?”

“No, of course not.”

“Betraying my brother would hurt me. Yes, Karl did work in Joel’s security unit. Yes, he was given the job of designing security for the Anatolian Hoard. But as soon as he found out what it was, he went back to sales, because he’s determined to go straight and didn’t want to be tempted.”

“All right.” She didn’t sound convinced, but before I could argue further, she said, “I just wanted to warn you that it’s out there on the grapevine. The Eye of Pldans is gone, and Karl Marsten stole it. That’s not merely a rumor or conjecture. It’s being spread as undeniable fact. Elena is eventually going to hear about it.”

I sighed. “Meaning we need to get ahead of that. Okay. Thanks.” I was about to wind down the call when I thought of something. “Wait. Karl did some research before he dropped the security job. He said the guy looking to buy it was a Turkish national who wanted to repatriate it. But if the story is on the supernatural grapevine, I’m guessing someone else got it.”

“No, the buyer is a Turkish national. Fredrick Birkan. Who is also a half-demon collector and most assuredly is not repatriating it.”

“Not when it’s rumored to give a second power to half-demons.” I paused and then cursed. “Karl’s been set up.”

“What?”

“A valuable artifact with a supernatural history has been stolen in Philadelphia. The security company hired to protect it is the one Karl works for. And the most obvious buyer had a cover story about repatriating the Eye, which means Karl could have justifiably stolen it.”

Silence.

“Which he did not,” I said.

“I’m not trying to cause trouble, Hope. It just seems—”

“—too obvious. Which is the point. Under those circumstances, particularly with someone intentionally spreading the story, no one is going to believe Karl didn’t do it. No one except me. So I guess I have an investigation after all—prove my husband didn’t renege on his retirement and steal this.”

FOUR

I had to warn Karl before Elena contacted him. I called as soon as I got off the phone. When he didn’t pick up, I waited ten minutes before trying again. Then I took off. Karl was supposed to be at home with Nita, and while I tried not to worry, he’d just been set up to take the blame for a major supernatural jewel heist. I had reason to be concerned.

I rang again as I pulled into the lane . . . and heard Karl’s ring tone through the open windows, with no one answering. I raced inside fast enough that I almost forgot the alarm. It’s a custom-designed system, the best Karl could dream up, because, as he’d discovered three years ago, his reputation alone didn’t protect his family against supernatural thugs with guns.

The fact I had to disarm it should mean everything was fine. I could see his phone, left on the side table where he often set it down. I wasn’t picking up any chaos twinges. He’d probably taken Nita out for a walk or a bike ride.

I was telling myself to relax when tendrils of chaos slid through the open back windows. At one time, even if that chaos meant my family was in danger, I’d have lapped it up. That was the hell of my demon hunger. Even when it meant someone I loved was in danger, I was like a crack addict getting a long-overdue fix. Then Nita came, and I lost just enough of that hunger that while I still paused, unable to resist an initial rush of “Damn, that’s good stuff,” it only lasted a split second. Then I was racing toward the back door, my gun in hand.

A scream cut through the yard. My child’s scream. Any lingering trace of that chaos buzz evaporated. I yanked open the back door and—

“Daddy! Do it again! Again, again, again!”

A splash and another scream. No, not a scream. A squeal of delight. Karl and Nita were in the pool. That was the chaos I’d picked up. Happy chaos. I stood in the doorway, letting it wash over me as I smiled.

My daughter has brought so much into my life, but this is one of the most treasured gifts, and one reason we never rein in her exuberance. Joyful chaos is such a rare thing. And I get to enjoy it almost every day of my life. It’s like finding the one glittering diamond in a heap of razor-sharp glass.

When Karl’s phone rang again, I took out mine to see if I’d butt-dialed. I hadn’t. I walked to his phone, saw the caller’s name, and groaned. Then I answered, not waiting for a hello because I knew I wasn’t going to get one.

“Yes,” I said, “a valuable supernatural relic has been stolen on Karl’s territory. Yes, it was being guarded by the company he works for. No, he did not do it. Yes, I know rumor says otherwise. No, Karl didn’t break his vow—not the one about going straight or the one about promising you he wouldn’t steal anything of archeological significance. And, by the way, Clayton, shouldn’t Elena be making this call?”

“She’s busy.”

“I can’t imagine she’d ask you to handle this.”

“She’s very busy, Hope,” Clay said, a warning growl in his voice telling me not to pursue it. Luckily, the great thing about not actually being a Pack member is that I can ignore protocol.

“So you went behind Elena’s back—”

“When I say she’s busy, I don’t mean she’s making dinner for the twins. I mean she’s dealing with a problem, one big enough that, yes, I’m going to handle this without telling her.”

“Is it Malcolm?” I asked, my voice softening.

“The Eye of Pldans—”

“—was not stolen by Karl. Any other time, I’d be the first person to suspect him of this, and you know it. He’s quit the life.”

“Or so he tells you.”

“I’m the one who doesn’t want him giving it up because I don’t think he’ll be happy without it.”

“He’d be fine without it. He’s just too damned selfish—”

“Enough.”

“I know you don’t want to hear that, Hope, but it’s the truth. I’m not saying he doesn’t care about you and Nita. I’m saying he cares enough to pretend he’s given up thieving. But he’s sure as hell not going to do it. I’ve known Karl for thirty years—”

“And you’ve hated him for all thirty of them, which means you might know him, but you don’t know him very well. At all. You just aren’t interested. To you, I’m just a messed-up half-demon chick with a bad-boy complex—”

“I don’t think . . . All right, I did. I don’t anymore. But I still believe the fact that you’re married to him and he’s the father of your children means you’re going to cut him some slack, not look all that hard and see him for what he really is.”

“Huh. You know, I’ve heard that before. But they were talking about you and Elena.”

He gave a soft growl. “That’s—”

“Elena knows exactly what you are. No illusions. Same with me and Karl. My husband is an egotistical, arrogant thief and a werewolf with a brutal reputation, which he earned. But if he tells me he quit the life, then he quit the life. And I’d stake my own reputation—and my pride—on shouting that from the rooftops. But I’ll save my breath and focus my energy on a more productive show of support—proving he didn’t do it.”

“Fine. Do that. Elena doesn’t need this shit. Not now.”

“And I’ll ask again, is it Malcolm?”

“Elena will be calling a Pack Meet to discuss it. Make sure Karl’s there.”

“I always do. Would you like me to come up and take the twins out with Nita? This doesn’t sound like the kind of Meet where you’ll want kids around.”

“It’s not, but Elena would like you at the meeting too. Vanessa’s coming to look after the kids. She says she’ll take them to the range and teach them to shoot.” He paused. “I think she’s kidding.”

I smiled. “Hopefully. But I can leave Nita at my mom’s if—”

“Bring her. Kate’s been asking when she’s coming up again. Apparently, she has baby name ideas, and she’s decided Nita is the one to give them to.”

“Oh, Nita has already chosen her name for the baby: Rainbow.”

Silence. Then, “And if it’s a boy?”

“Rainbow.”

That got a soft chuckle. “Okay.”

“Believe me, we have no intention of letting our three-year-old name our child. But tell Kate yes, Nita will be there and—”

The screen door flew open with a screech of “Kate!” Nita had overheard me on her way in. She raced across the floor, water spraying everywhere, a river forming behind her.

“Nita, no!” I said. “You’ll slip—”

She was already beside me, chanting, “Kate, Kate, Kate,” while jumping for the phone. There’s a mild case of hero worship here. Nita adores Logan too—he’s teaching her to read. But Kate is, well, a girl—one who can teach her all kinds of special girlie stuff, like how to climb trees and then cannonball off them into the pond behind Stonehaven.

“It’s not Kate,” I said. “It’s her daddy.”

Nita yanked on my pant leg with “Kate! Want to talk to Kate. Wish her Happy Birthday!” She singsonged the last two words as loudly as she could.

“You called and wished them both Happy Birthday two weeks ago . . . on their actual birthday.”

A voice in the background said, “Is that Nita?” It was Kate, her werewolf-sharp hearing apparently picking up my daughter’s screeches.

“Who else?” Clay said to his daughter.

Kate’s chuckle sounded remarkably like her father’s. She’s almost as much of a handful as Nita—always on the go, usually up to trouble—but for Nita she finds a well of gravitas and patience that surprises everyone.

“Let me talk to her,” Kate said. Then, after Clay handed her the phone, “Hope?”

“Hey, Kate.”

“Kate!” Nita crowed. “Kate, Kate, Kate!”

“I’ll pass you over before she yanks off my leg. When you’re done, just tell her it’s nap time. She likes her naps.”

“Your kid is weird.”

“I know. She gets it from her dad.”

Kate laughed, and I passed the phone over and headed outside to fill Karl in.

To say Karl was not happy would be an understatement. Someone had besmirched his professional reputation by framing him for a job. Worse, they’d publicly damaged his integrity by claiming he’d taken that job after telling his contacts he’d retired. Yes, there is honor among thieves. Or, in their own way, honorable thieves. Karl had spent a lifetime building a reputation as a man whose word could be trusted, a rare thing in his line of work. Now someone apparently had “proved” otherwise, and it didn’t matter if he no longer needed that reputation. In fact, it was worse coming after he’d retired—a black mark at the end of a career, reversing the legacy he’d left.

Personally, I was a whole lot more concerned about the damage this did to his position with the Pack. There’d been a time when he would have brushed that off. Hell, there’d been a time when part of him would have said, Hmm, maybe I’ll get lucky and they’ll kick me out . . . He’d stayed in the Pack because I wanted it for him. But it was different now, with Nita and another child on the way. The Pack is “his” side of the family, and our children need that as much as they need my side. Moreover, they need the protection the Pack offers. So, yes, while he didn’t think this jeopardized his position, he wanted the matter cleared up.

Karl and I were up half the night planning our investigation. Lots of questions to answer, starting with why Karl had been framed and ending with whodunit.

We knew who the buyer was: this Fredrick Birkan. Had he framed Karl? That didn’t make any sense. It must have been the thief. Was he someone with a grudge against Karl? Or someone who merely hoped to blame him for the crime? Whatever the motivation, we had a mystery to solve and a false accusation to clear.

FIVE

The next morning, we dropped off Nita at my mom’s. Then Karl met with Joel and the security team, having agreed to look over the plans.

At one o’clock, I joined him at the scene of the crime. Joel didn’t question Karl bringing me along—my journalism gave me an investigator’s eye. But Karl also wanted me there for my chaos detector.

The Anatolian Hoard had been rented to a woman by the name of Melinda Fitzwilliams. Actually, Lady Fitzwilliams. Apparently she’d married into the name and Joel said she insisted on using it. It’s Philadelphia—we get some of that, as I well know from my days as a debutante.

The Hoard’s owner hired it out for events—a private exhibit to liven up your next charity gathering. The necklace was supposed to have been worn by Lady Fitzwilliams. Joel’s men had brought it to her house and secured it in the safe they’d installed specifically for this purpose. It had disappeared from there.

The only chaos vibes and thoughts I picked up from Lady Fitzwilliams were the ones that said she was dreadfully worried about the effect this whole nasty business would have on her sterling reputation. Also, she thought Karl was hot. Thoughts like what is a man like that doing with a little chit like her thrummed with the anger and angst of a woman whose own husband had —according to our research—recently left her for a twenty-three-year-old.

Lady Fitzwilliams took us to where she kept her safes—in a panic room they’d installed after a neighborhood home invasion a few years ago.

“Who had access to this room?” Karl asked.

“Only my family.”

“Does anyone on staff know the code?” I asked. “For cleaning or checking the alarms?”

“Of course. The room does need to be aired out weekly, and I like the emergency water replaced every month.”

“Who does that?” I asked.

“The housekeeper. She has the code posted in her instruction book.”

“Which she keeps . . .?”

“In the kitchen.”

“Is it secured?”

“The book? I wouldn’t know.”

In other words, this “secure” room was about as secure as my college dorm, where my roommate would pass out keys to everyone she knew in case they needed a place to crash.

There were three safes in the panic room, because, apparently, Lady Fitzwilliams had a lot of things she considered valuable. One held papers. Another contained jewels and other tangible treasures. The third had been installed specifically for the Anatolian Hoard, to comply with the owner’s requirements. Karl examined it at length and then said, “There are two ways of opening this: with the combination or a stick of dynamite. Possibly multiple sticks.”

When I glanced over, he gave a small shake of his head, which meant he couldn’t open it either.

“Which means obviously the thief had the code,” Joel said.

“Yes,” Karl said.

Joel looked at Lady Fitzwilliams, who squawked and said, “You have the code. Your men installed it.”

“No, you reset the code,” Joel said, “as per our instructions. My man showed you how and then he waited in the hall.”

She deflated. “Oh. Yes. That’s right.”

“Who had access to that code?” I asked.

“Only me.”

“Did you write it down anywhere?”

“Of course,” she said, bristling. “With my Internet passwords.”

“Is that secure?” And please don’t tell me they’re in the housekeeper’s book.

“It’s in my bedroom wall safe.”

That led to further questioning about who had access to that safe, at which point the woman declared, with absolute conviction, that only she did. Well, as far as she knew. But her sons might. And maybe her ex-husband. She’d been meaning to change the code after he’d left . . . However, none of those three people had been in the house between the time the Hoard arrived and the time the necklace was discovered missing.

The most likely answer, then, was that someone on staff had it, because God knows she’d probably written her wall-safe code somewhere else, too. Which meant, as we’d suspected already, it was an inside job.

When we were done in the panic room, Lady Fitzwilliams didn’t realize I stayed behind as Karl diverted her with the smiles and personal attention that had charmed many jewels off wealthy and lonely women. Alone in the panic room, I focused on picking up leftover chaos. I can catch visions of past trouble, but it’s always been an unreliable power, becoming even more so after Nita’s birth. Given that we also had no reason to suspect anyone had been hurt in the robbery, it wasn’t surprising that I caught nothing. I rejoined them in the parlor.

We started by questioning the young man who’d served as security—Joel’s firm having advised a round-the-clock guard for the house while the Hoard was there. Lady Fitzwilliams had insisted on hiring the person she usually used, because he was the grandson of her butler. Yes, there were so many flaws in this security “plan” I could have stolen the Eye myself.

Joel’s staff had come up with a sound concept on paper, but they hadn’t factored human fallibility into the equation. He needed to contractually insist that the client follow his instructions to the letter or it voided his responsibility.

The young guard—Miguel—put out some serious chaos vibes. But the thoughts I picked up were only, Holy shit, they think I did it and now I’ll lose my job and my girlfriend will dump me and I won’t be able to pay off my bike and . . . In other words, scared rather than guilty.

We continued interviewing household staff. Lady Fitzwilliams lived alone and yet maintained a butler, housekeeper, maid, and cook. Does that seem wasteful? Maybe, but it was her money to waste, and if she was paying the wages of four people for what was probably light work, I saw no problem with that.

When we got to the maid, I picked up stronger chaos vibes. Not worried for herself, but for someone else. I couldn’t tell who. I’m not a mind reader. I can only pick up fully formed mental sentences strumming with fear or anxiety or anger. Usually, though, chaotic thoughts are more a jumble of words, tangled in free-flowing thought. That’s what I got from the maid.

During the interview, I turned my sympathy on full blast. If Karl’s questions had even the slightest edge, I reworded them. When she mentioned she’d gone to Zumba class the day of the theft, I professed an interest in learning and derailed the conversation for a few minutes, getting her to relax. After she left, I slipped out to use the bathroom, and on my way back, she appeared and motioned for me to follow her outdoors.

I caught up with her behind the pool house.

“Miguel didn’t do it,” she said. “I know everyone’s going to think he did, but he’s not like that. I’ve known him for years—my mom used to be the housekeeper here, and Lady Fitzwilliams would let Miguel and me come swimming when we were little. He’s not one of those guys who sees all this and thinks the rich people owe him. He appreciates what she’s done for him. He’d never steal from her.”

“Then who would?”

She nibbled her lip and looked toward the house.

“Theresa . . .” I said. “The best way you can help Miguel is by giving us another suspect.”

“She lied,” Theresa blurted. “Not on purpose. Well, yes, on purpose, I guess, but not to get Miguel in trouble.”

“To protect someone else.”

She nodded. “She doesn’t think he did it, but . . .” The girl looked back toward the house. Then she straightened her shoulders. “I’d never do anything to hurt her, either, but if he did this, then he’s hurting her, and she doesn’t deserve that.”

“What did she lie about?”

“She said her sons weren’t here that day. But Bradley was. He’s also the one who recommended your brother’s firm.”

Gotcha.

SIX

We took Nita home for a few hours after that. By eight, she was back at my mom’s, and Karl and I were preparing for our night mission.

Come midnight, we were outside a crack house, waiting near Bradley Fitzwilliams’s car. As for how we knew where he’d be, well, presuming he’d just made some serious bank off the Eye, he’d be flush and looking to spend it. So we’d run extensive background checks, figured out his bad habits, and cleverly deduced which one he’d be pursuing and exactly where he’d pursue it.

I’m lying. That’s far too much effort. We knew where Bradley was because we’d swung by his office tower, located the parking spot with his name on it, confirmed that the vehicle matched his DMV records, and attached a GPS. What we had done for research on Bradley Fitzwilliams suggested he wasn’t the sort to stay home on a Friday night, which meant tracking his signal and lying in wait. Apparently, outside a crack house.

When we saw someone approaching, I slid into the shadows. Once I was sure it was him—alone—I stepped out with, “Um, excuse me . . .”

The female voice got his attention. He turned, but all he could see was a figure in the shadows, the long, curly hair and voice telling him I was female, my tiny size screaming nonthreatening or, yes, possibly drugged-out waif.

As soon as he took a step toward me, Karl pounced.

I let out a shriek and tore off. Karl had insisted on that—no matter how deeply I’d been hiding in those shadows, he wanted it to seem as if I’d had nothing to do with the attack, on the off chance I ever met Bradley again.

A few minutes later, I was slipping into the backseat with Karl. Bradley Fitzwilliams was in his driver’s seat, blindfolded and handcuffed to the door handle. Over the next two minutes, he ran the full gamut from “You’ll pay for this, you crackhead scum” to “You want my wallet, take my wallet” to “I’ll give you my PIN codes, too.” Karl hadn’t laid a finger on him—just sat back and waited in silence.

“What do you want?” Bradley asked finally.

“The Eye of Pldans would be nice.” Karl spoke with a German accent. He doesn’t like disguises—he says they make thieves overconfident and sloppy. Instead, he kept out of view and saved the disguise for his voice.

“I-I don’t have . . . I mean, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Karl said nothing. He waited until Bradley, now visibly sweating, said, “Hello? Are you still there?” Then he pressed cold metal to the back of Bradley’s neck, and from the yelp the guy gave, he’d need a change of underwear.

“Okay, okay,” Bradley blurted. “It wasn’t my fault. I was set up. I hold parties, you know? Big parties, lots of people. Important people. So this guy contacts me and says he wants to be my new supplier and offers me all the favors I need for my next bash, free of charge. Coke, smack, girls. I say sure. Seems legit, right? Businesses do that all the time, offer freebies to get new clients.”

Karl said nothing.

“So I have the party, and the next day I’m out walking my dog and these guys show up with a bill. A huge bill. I laugh, thinking it’s a joke, and they kill my dog. My dog. Right in front of me. They say I have a week to pay or I’m next. When I tell them I need more time, they give me an option. Somehow they know my mom throws parties of her own—very different ones—and she likes to rent stuff. Museum-type stuff. They want me to tell her about this Hoard thing and get her to rent it, and then get this certain company to protect it. Then I had to steal the necklace. Steal it. Like I’m some kind of common criminal.”

Says the guy who just spent his evening in a crack house.

“But I didn’t have a choice,” he continued. “And, well, it wasn’t exactly hard work. Mom’s always looking for new shit to rent for her shindigs. She doesn’t know anything about security, so she trusted my advice. And taking it was easy. I know where Mom keeps her codes, and she’s never going to suspect me.”

Which is why she’d lied about him not visiting the house? No, I suspected Lady Fitzwilliams knew exactly who’d stolen the necklace and had decided she’d rather pay the insurance fee than turn in her son.

“Where is the necklace now?” Karl asked.

“I, uh, gave it to some guy—”

Karl pressed the cold metal into Bradley’s neck, making the guy twitch.

“That’s all I know! He didn’t give me a name or anything. I can describe him, but I’m not sure how that will help.”

“Contact information.”

“Wh-what?”

“How did you contact him?”

“Right. Yes. That’s right. They gave me a phone number. I’m sure it’s just a— What do you guys call them? Burner phones? Is that enough?”

“It better be,” Karl said, and withdrew the handcuff key from Bradley’s neck.

Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to set Karl up. This job had been orchestrated right from the point of bringing the Anatolian Hoard to Philadelphia, through Lady Fitzwilliams. Getting a confession from Bradley Fitzwilliams didn’t help as much as it might seem it would. If we turned him in, those who thought Karl did it would simply think Karl had set up Bradley. And it didn’t resolve the issue of why he’d been set up.

I spent the next week trying to identify the middleman. That was frustrating, because we knew the identity of the buyer, and it was tempting to just attack the problem from that end. Except Fredrick Birkan lived in Switzerland, making it a whole lot harder to waylay him in a dark alley. And considering he was a very wealthy supernatural with underworld connections? Waylaying him definitely wasn’t the answer.

So I was digging, using all my connections, and coming up empty. Thursday night, I was in the kitchen, taking a break, tidying up as I waited for a pan of brownies to cool. Karl was in the living room, Nita on his lap, dressed in her pajamas and curled up listening to a bedtime story.

When Karl’s phone rang, he didn’t even take it out to have a look.

“Phone, Daddy!” Nita sang.

“It can wait. I want to see how the story ends.”

The call went to voice mail. And seconds later, it rang again.

“Phone, Daddy. Phone, phone, phone!”

“Just answer,” I called. “I’ll bring the brownies while they’re warm and you can take a story break.”

“Brownies!” Nita said, and then slapped her hand over her mouth as Karl answered his phone.

She launched herself off his lap and was halfway to the kitchen when Karl growled, “Where did you get this number?” and she stopped short, looking back in alarm.

I hurried in and scooped her up as Karl waved an apology and took the phone call outside.

“Daddy’s mad,” Nita said.

“No, he’s annoyed. Mad sounds more like this.” I imitated Karl’s voice with a deeper growl and more snap, and Nita giggled.

“An-noyed,” she said as I handed her a warm brownie. “Daddy is an-noyed. Like mad. But not as bad.” She tilted her head, hearing the rhyme, then grinned and said it in a singsong, “Like mad, but not as bad. An-noyed. Daddy is annoyed.”

“Daddy is indeed annoyed,” Karl said as he came back inside.

“Who was it?” Nita asked.

“Just boring old work.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Work’s not boring. Work is fun.”

Karl hesitated, just a second, before snatching the rest of her brownie and making her squeal.

“Mommy will get you a new one,” he said, “and we’ll finish the story.”

“Why is work boring?” she asked.

“I didn’t mean that. I’m just, as you said, annoyed.”

“Mommy’s work’s not boring. Mommy likes her work. I’ll like my work. I’m going to make up stories. Just like Mommy.”

Karl gave a soft laugh at that. I didn’t argue. I write for a supermarket tabloid. Despite the name, there’s not a lot of truth in our news.

“I’m going to make up stories. Right now.” Nita bounced over to where they’d left the book and slapped it closed. “I’m going to make a new ending.”

“That sounds like a fine idea,” Karl said, and went over to sit with her.

I put Nita to bed and came out to find Karl in the same chair, staring out the window. When he heard me, he gave a start and rose, saying, “I was going to make you tea.”

“Later. Sit. Talk.” I took a seat. “That wasn’t work, was it?”

He glanced toward the stairs. I got up and motioned him outside. When we were seated out there, he said, “It was one of my former clients. An important one.”

“Who was not happy when you quit.”

He made a noise, as if to say none of them had been happy. Which was true. He’d handled the matter professionally, finishing his current jobs and informing everyone of his plans. He had, however, closed down all methods of contact, making it very clear that he was done.

“So he found your number and called to say he’s heard you’re back in business.”

Another noise deep in his throat.

“He’s pissed because you didn’t tell him. And he’s not a man you want to piss off.”

Karl shifted in his seat and the noise he made now was an unmistakable growl. This was why he’d been so careful about how he shut down his business. It was more than mere professionalism—it was protection, for him and us.

“Is there any chance he’d—”