“He’s a stockbroker,” Andrew says. “What is all this talk about him hacking?”

“He’s an investment banker,” I correct. “And I’d tell you, Captain America, but then I’d have to kill you. Consider him an FBI asset and leave it at that.” I glance at my watch. It’s now five o’clock. “Isn’t Micki’s diner open until like ten?”

“Midnight,” he says. “They’ve become a late-night Thanksgiving tradition around here.”

“Perfect. We’ll meet you there when you’re done here. We can eat and debrief. Or we can come to your house. You don’t have company, right?”

He scowls because we both know I’m talking about Samantha. A moment later, he escapes that topic when his cellphone rings. He glances at the number and the pink of his cheeks tells me, it’s the Wicked Witch herself. “Micki’s,” he says, then answers the call with, “Police Chief Love.”

“I wonder if she calls him that when they’re alone,” I say, glancing up at Kane.

“Probably,” he says. “Meanwhile, the only thing you call me when we’re alone is asshole.”

“With love,” I assure him as we grab our coats and get the hell out of there.

By the time we’re inside Kane’s Mercedes and on the road, our exchange has sent me back to the text message Emma had sent to Jamie: One more time for the history books.

I’d read it and believed they were talking about sex. But Emma was getting married in a few weeks, supposedly in love with her fiancé. So much so that him missing a holiday clearly upset her. I’m not naïve enough to believe that means she wasn’t sleeping with only one man. Or that she might have been seeking refuge with an old lover. But what if that text message with Jamie wasn’t a booty call? What if it was something else?

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Twenty minutes later, Kane pulls the car to a halt in front of Lucas’s dark house.

“Though I know you hate when people state the obvious,” Kane comments. “He doesn’t appear to be home.”

“Actually,” I say, popping my door open, “I could use a big dose of anything obvious right about now. I’m going to find out if he’s hiding from us or someone else, sleeping, or dead.”

“How about he’s just not home?” Kane offers.

“Right. That too.” I exit the Mercedes, straighten, my firearm at my side, tucked under my coat, and shut the door.