I glance away from him and look at the ceiling before I roll toward him onto my side. He doesn’t roll toward me. There’s more to this conversation than his side of the coin. “You’re wrong,” I say.

He finally rolls toward me. “What does that mean?”

“You think the cartel connection protects you, but your father was murdered. You can be, too. I can be, too. We aren’t protected.”

He sits up. “I’m not my father.”

I sit up. “Famous last words.”

He touches my face. “I need you to trust me, beautiful.”

“I do, but you aren’t as invincible as you think.”

“Good thing I have you to protect me, then. I’m not resistant to your protection.”

He’s not talking about my badge, not literally. He’s talking about my job, the one that drives my character, and his. “I’m not afraid of taking your protection, Kane.”

“I didn’t say afraid, Lilah. But maybe that is the problem. Maybe I should have. We’re engaged and you’re still afraid.”

“Afraid? Afraid of what?”

“Of depending on me or anyone else.”

I open my mouth to object and press my lips together. I’m not sure I can tell him he’s wrong. I have my own black box of bullshit that drives me and I know it. He knows it, too.

My cellphone rings, and frustratingly, because of my job, I can’t just ignore it. I dig the damn thing from the side pocket of my leggings to find an unknown number. I show it to Kane and then frowning, I answer the line, “Special Agent Love.”

“It’s Danica Day.”

“Danica Day,” I repeat, glancing at Kane. “This isn’t the number you gave me earlier.”

His brow shoots up. He thinks the Thanksgiving Day call is as strange as I do.

“Right,” she says. “I gave you my office number. This is my personal number. That jar of blood was just driving me nuts,” she says. “I snuck to the office before my family arrived and I had start to cooking. Bottom line. I’m here. I tested it. You were right. It’s pig’s blood.”

“This is not a surprise,” I comment, but the confirmation doesn’t sit as easy as I thought it might.

“Yes, well, I read up on the Umbrella Man last night,” she continues. “He used pig’s blood to make it rain blood over the victims. This just doesn’t fit that scenario.”

“And he’s dead,” I remind her.

“Well, yes, there is that. So obviously, someone was trying to send you a message. Do you know what?”

Distrust punches at me. Is she curious or is she trying to make sure I understand that jar of blood was a message? “Why don’t you tell me?”

“Well, I don’t know. It feels like a challenge though, don’t you think?”