Vicki Pettersson - The Given

“And why do you?” Barbara said, flashing her a knowing look.

Kit flinched before she could stop herself, but it was plain to them both. She wanted to see how she fared against the infamous Evelyn Shaw.

“We just want to know who killed him . . .” She blushed, correcting herself when Barbara’s eyes narrowed. “Who tried to kill him—them both—fifty years ago.”

Barbara huffed and shook her head, so that her hair spread in a cloud. “What does it matter? It was a long time ago.”

“It always matters!” Kit slammed her palm on the table, causing her drink to topple, and they both jumped. She rarely lost her temper, not in public, not with informants, but this woman’s sewer brain and toxic-waste mouth made her feel dirty. “Those two people were driven apart because of what happened that night and there’s been a lot of pain as a result. Grif lost . . . years of his memory and life, most of which he’ll never get back.”

“Most?” Barbara said, voice oily with interest.

“He remembers her, ” Kit said, because as much as it pained her to say it, Grif and Evie’s relationship seemed to affect Barbara even more adversely. Kit couldn’t help but rub a little salt into that old wound. “So despite your wishes, your words, and someone’s terrible actions long ago, they are both alive today, and he means to find her. And I’m going to help.”But Barbara was staring off into the distance. “What words?”

“Huh?” Kit paused as she reached for her bag.

“What words ?” Impatient, she waved her cigarette holder at Kit. Kit dodged, but Barbara didn’t notice that, either. “What wishes are you talking about? What words?”

Kit tilted her head. “You reportedly told one of my sources that you hated Griffin and Evelyn Shaw. You said, and I quote, ‘The past doesn’t matter, and they mattered even less. Both Shaws got what was coming to them.’ ”

Barbara stared at Kit for a long moment. “And you’re sure it’s really him? That he’s still alive?”

“Yes.”

Barbara huffed. “Then I guess I was wrong about that.”

Shocked silence wrapped around Kit, a blanket of burrs and thorns. She shouldn’t say anything, it would only put the power back into Barbara’s hands, but she couldn’t help it. How could anyone hate Griffin Shaw that much? “Why do you hate them so much?”

Barbara put on an innocent mien that almost worked, due to her age and sex combined. The sharpened gaze, though, kept the innocence from truly reaching her eyes. “I don’t know. I’m old, honey. I can’t remember shit.”

Disgusted, Kit threw down her business card and enough money for the drinks. “Call me if you ever really want to talk.”

But she wouldn’t hold her breath.

“Hey. Hey!” Kit didn’t stop at first. She didn’t want to watch this woman’s painted mouth curving up to tell more lies. “You sure it’s him? Shaw?”

Hand on hip, Kit turned. “Dead sure.”

Barbara tilted her head. “And he’s still sweet on Evie?”

Kit forced a shrug. “He’s been searching for her for fifty years.”

Barbara’s whole face seemed to turn inward at that, and she shuddered down to the base of her spine. But then she remembered Kit standing there, and instead of giving an admiring nod, she shook her head. “Some P.I.”

Kit couldn’t stand it anymore. She whirled and left Barbara there, a small woman in a red velvet booth contemplating a love that was epic and enduring and true . . . and one she’d clearly never known in the entire length and breadth of her mean and bitter life.

You did something to her,” Kit told Grif as they sailed from the casino’s parking garage back onto Vegas’s main drag. Kit had actually allowed Grif to take the wheel of her beloved Duetto, a testament to how much she trusted him . . . and to how much vodka she’d downed due to nervousness and shock. Besides, she was still working through her thoughts on Grif’s abrupt return to her life. It seemed like a magic trick to her. There, gone, then back again. Poof.

“Hand to God,” Grif said, lifting his palms to the sky, and Kit pointed, directing them back to the steering wheel. “I never met any Barbara McCoy.”

“Her name used to be Barbara DiMartino.”

Grif jerked his head. “Sal was married to a woman named Theresa when I was alive. Barbara came . . . after.”

No she hadn’t, Kit thought, turning away, watching as the neon glare of the Strip was snuffed out in her rearview mirror. Barbara had married the old mobster only months after Theresa’s death, and Kit would bet the car she was sitting in that Barbara had been lurking around before then. “What if she was part of the reason you were killed? After all, someone spread the rumor that you hurt”— raped —“the twelve-year-old niece of a mobster.”

They’d discovered that nugget of information last summer. It was a ludicrous lie . . . but one that’d gotten him killed.

Grif hummed, considering it. “I only worked that one case for the DiMartinos. Beyond returning little Mary Margaret unharmed, and getting dry-gulched for the effort, I had no dealings with that family whatsoever.”

Kit said nothing, because she hadn’t been there . . . but she did know women. She could read them inside and out, and Barbara had all the markings of one who’d been scorned. A woman didn’t hate a man in the way she hated Grif unless he’d all but crushed her.

There was more to consider, more to ask, but it was late, and Kit was exhausted. Grif was, too. She saw it in the slump of his wide shoulders, and the circles stamped beneath his eyes, though she could tell from his frown that he was still stewing over Barbara. That’s why she was surprised when he asked, “We going home?”

Silence swelled in the car.

He’d said it without thinking, his tired brain lagging behind his mouth. Kit ignored the slip, knowing that if they were going to work together there were bound to be others— home and honey and Kitty-Cat —all the things that had once marked him as hers, and vice versa. Swallowing hard, she told herself she’d take them as they came. She’d also protect herself this time, and surround herself with people and places that did the same . . . but for Kit that meant home. She nodded, and silence reigned from there on out.

Kit lived in Paradise Palms, a mid-century neighborhood in the middle of Las Vegas, and situated behind the city’s oldest existing mall, the Boulevard. Though Paradise Palms had few rivals for its retro-style homes and spacious streets, it was no longer the crown jewel of the Las Vegas Valley. The brick facades were crumbling at the edges, and the once sweeping lawns were dustier as the desert attempted to reclaim its territory. Its central location also made it a favorite of both gang and police patrols.

Yet the function and form of the neighborhood was solid, hearkening back to a simpler time. Butterfly rooftops, sleek lines, and large glass panes—Kit could practically see the mid-century scrawl of the signage that had once flanked the neighborhood’s entry. THE FUTURE IS NOW, TOMORROW HAS ARRIVED.

The phone rang just as they pulled into the restored carport.

“Oh, yeah.” Grif dug it from his pocket. “I grabbed your phone before leaving Barbara’s.”

Kit just looked at it. Then she lifted her identical one from the center console. “Mine.”

“Then whose—?”

Gasping, Kit lunged for the device but fumbled it, so it fell in the footwell. By the time Grif located it again, the ring had gone silent. “Shit!”

She snatched Barbara’s phone from his hands and lifted it so she could see the lighted screen. She pushed a series of buttons, then sighed. “It’s password-protected. We’ll have to wait until someone—”