“You’ve been saying that for about four hours. You’ll know why beyond the obvious reasons tomorrow. You always do. Bedtime, Agent Love.” His arm settles around me and I let him guide me into the bedroom. A few minutes later, I’m in his T-shirt, he’s in pajama bottoms, our phones are charging, and we’re in bed, lights out. Kane wraps his big body around me, almost as if he thinks I’ll run back to Purgatory if I get the chance. But I won’t.

He’s right, I think, as my lashes grow heavy. I’ll know why this Jamie thing is bothering me in the morning. And I’ll feel like an idiot for not figuring it out sooner. Maybe he’s–I’m sticking with “he” right now because it feels right in my gut—maybe he’s even someone I know. He did leave me a jar of blood. Or not. Maybe it wasn’t him who killed Emma and left me that jar of blood at all.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I wake to the buzzing of my phone, my lashes lifting, disorientation coming fast and hard and then fading. I’m in bed, on my back, and the room is dark, which may or may not be compliments of the blackout blinds. Kane is draped partially across me. I decide right then that he’s a much better bedmate than my shotgun Cujo, which I’ve favored since moving back to New York. But then, Cujo was lost when my mother’s house burned down. I forcefully shove aside the decision to rebuild as I have for weeks. So much so that I shut my eyes again, holding onto the moment. My phone has stopped ringing. Good. This mattress, with Kane’s body as a blanket, are the best. The very best. Maybe even better than chocolate. My phone starts ringing again. I groan and reach for it, glancing at the caller ID to find my boss calling. It’s also eight in the morning.

I answer the line. “Director Murphy.” I glance at Kane, who tilts his face skyward and groans softly before throwing away the blanket on his side. “Isn’t this your day off?” I ask, refocusing on the call.

“Why did I hear about your new case from someone else, Special Agent Love?”

“It’s Thanksgiving,” I reply, fighting the tartness that wants to slide into my tone. “I was going to call you tomorrow on my way to the autopsy.”