Ilona Andrews: White Hot

“What have you been up to?” Mom asked.

I stuffed a chunk of soft taco into my mouth and chewed to buy some time. I would have to come clean. I swallowed. “I took a high-risk job.”

“How high-risk?” Mom asked.

I opened the folder and slid the ME’s report toward her. She read it. Her eyebrows furrowed. “We’re solving murders now?”

“Who got murdered?” Grandma Frida asked.

“Do you remember the animal mage I told you about? The one with a raccoon who was bringing juice to his daughter in a sippy cup?”

“Cornelius Harrison,” Bern said.

“Yes. His wife.”

My mother’s expression was growing grimmer by the second. She passed the ME report to Grandma.

Grandma glanced at the report and whistled.

“This is above our pay grade,” my mother said.

“I know,” I told her.

“Why would you take this?”

Because he’d sat in my office and cried, and I’d felt awful for him. “Because she’s dead and nobody cares. And he’s paying us very well.”

“We don’t need the money that badly,” my mother said.

“According to my sisters, we do.” I slid the photograph with dollar signs toward her.

Mom swung toward Grandma Frida. “Mom!”

Grandma Frida’s eyes got really big. “What? Don’t look at me!”

“You started this.”

Ha! Attack deflected and redirected.

“I did no such thing. I’m innocent. You always blame me for everything.”

“You started it and you encouraged it. Now look, she’s taking on murders because you’re guilt-tripping her to put food on the table. And what kind of message does this send?”

“A true-love kind of message.” Grandma Frida grinned.

Bern got up and leaned to me. “You want me to run the background on everyone?”

“Yes, please. I sent you an email. I’m going to the Assembly tomorrow, so something on Matthias Forsberg would be great.”

“Will do.” He took his plate to the sink.

“Your granddaughters don’t need a rich Prime to pay for their college!” my mom said. “That’s why their sister, their mother, and their grandmother work long hours. We pay our own way in this family.”

“Oh, come on, Penelope, you know I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Well, how did you mean it exactly, Mother?”

Grandma Frida waved her hands. “I meant it to be funny! Nevada’s been moping for two months now. She’s turned into that sad donkey from the cartoons, the one that always gets rained on.”

“I haven’t been moping. I told Rogan no and if I never see him again, it will be too soon.”

“Oh, please.” Grandma rolled her eyes.

“I mean it, Grandma. Let it go. It’s not like he’s beating down our door and proclaiming his undying love to me.”

And in my secret shameful moments I daydreamed that he would do just that. I had woken up in the middle of the night once, convinced that Rogan was outside. I almost ran out there in my nightshirt. Thankfully, nobody saw me before I came to my senses.

He’d never shown up. He’d never called. He’d never emailed. He hadn’t fought for me, not even a little bit. It hammered home the fact that I was right to turn him down when he stood in my garage, told me to pick a spot on the planet, and promised me he would take me there. Mad Rogan wanted a plaything. I said no and he moved on.

“He sent you those books!”

“You don’t know that.”

“Well, who else would?” Grandma Frida spread her arms.

“Maybe it was Augustine.” Yeah, hell would freeze over first. Augustine wouldn’t move a finger unless it helped his bottom line.

“You and Rogan aren’t done.” Grandma pointed her fork at me. “Just watch. Fate will throw you two together. One day you’ll just run right into him and boom! True love.”

“Well, if Fate ever does throw us together, I’ll be sure to punch her in the face.” I turned to my mother. “Are you with me on this case or not? Because if you want to fight with me some more, now is the time to do it.”

She looked at me for a long moment.

Oh. I’d just raised my voice at my mother for no reason.

“I’m sorry.”

“You told me yourself, it’s your business.”

“Mom . . .”

“Of course we’re with you,” she said. “But I don’t have to tell you this is a professional hit. You need to be careful.”

“I will be.”

“We don’t know what kind of pot you’ll be stirring. They’ll come after both you and him. They might come after us as well. Does your client have any House support?”

“No. He chose to live with his wife and daughter in Royal Oaks. He was very proud of his independence.”

“Any security on his residence?”

“Not really.” Technically, Bunny counted as security, but there was only so much one dog could do against killers with guns.

“Wife’s parents?”

“They’re not affiliated with any prominent families, as far as I know.”

“What’s your take on him?”

I grimaced. “He worshiped his wife. He’ll do anything for revenge.”

My mother nodded. “You may want to talk to him. His little girl will be safer here with us than with his grandparents.”

“Thank you,” I said.

She sighed. “It’s my job as a mother. I can’t make you stop doing something stupid but I can help you do it in the least dangerous way possible.”

I turned and headed toward the ladder leading to my room.

“Did you see how she got all hot under the collar?” Grandma Frida said in a theatrical whisper behind me. “She’s not over him.”

“I can hear you!” I climbed the ladder and pulled it back up after me. My little loft apartment greeted me—a large bedroom and a bathroom. When we’d originally moved into the warehouse, I really wanted my privacy, and the older I grew, the more I treasured it. I took off my suit, carefully put it in the garment bag, and hung it up in the back of my closet.

I wasn’t over Rogan.

When I kissed him inside the null space, I’d almost seen into him. For a few brief moments he wasn’t Mad Rogan. He wasn’t even a Prime. He was just . . . Connor. A man. And I wanted to know that man so badly. But he’d slammed that door shut as soon as he noticed it was cracked open.

I turned on the shower to let the water warm up, and stripped. Obsessing over something that would never be did me no good. Shower, clean clothes, sleep. I had a big day tomorrow and I’d need to do some research for it before bed.

The morning brought rain and Cornelius, who arrived at exactly 6:55 a.m. in a silver BMW i8. The hybrid vehicle, sleek and ultramodern, looked slightly odd, its lines varying just enough from the established norms of the gasoline cars to draw attention.

Of course he would drive a hybrid car. He likely never bought bottled water either. Bern had run all of the usual checks on him yesterday. Aside from that new mortgage, Cornelius was debt-free. He had excellent credit history and no criminal record, and he generously donated to an animal charity. He also had been right about House Forsberg’s involvement in his wife’s death. The story was getting no press. Even with Garza’s murder flooding all available news channels, a brutal slaying of four people in a hotel downtown was at least worth a quick mention. It hadn’t received one, which meant someone somewhere was actively suppressing it. If House Forsberg truly had nothing to do with it, they’d have no reason to keep it quiet.

Cornelius stepped out of the car. He wore a white dress shirt open at the collar, with sleeves rolled up, dark brown pants, and scuffed-up brown shoes that looked ancient. Comfort clothes, I realized. He must’ve chosen the outfit on autopilot and his subconscious made him reach for something old and familiar.