He was going to be fine—provided he was smart enough to hang around with that attorney. God, if you were lucky enough to find love like that? Only a fool would turn that shit down.

Jim took to the night sky as if he’d been born to it, his wings carrying him through the cool air, the wind hitting his face and fingering through his hair, his team of two right behind him.

Next battle he was going to be quicker on the dime. And he was going to use his new weapon against Devina to its fullest advantage.

Even if it killed him.

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 52

One week later . . .

As Grier got undressed in her closet, she hung her black suit up along with the others and found it impossible not to remember the way everything had been arranged before. Suits had previously been to the left of the door. Now they were straight ahead.

In just her silk blouse and her stockings, she padded around, touching her clothes, wondering which had been rehung that afternoon by her . . . and what Isaac had done after she’d left.

Closing her eyes, she wanted to weep but didn’t have the energy.

There had been nothing from him since the all-clear that night a week ago—which, incidentally, he’d sent via text instead of doing in person or over the phone.

After that? No calls, no e-mails, no visits.

It was as if he’d never existed.

And he’d left nothing behind. When she’d come back to this house, the business card that Matthias had given her as well as the strips of cloth from the muscle shirt and the file full of dossiers had disappeared. Along with both bodies and the two cars out in Lincoln.

Foolishly, she’d looked for a note, just as she had the first time he’d “left,” but there hadn’t been one. And sometimes, in the middle of the night when she couldn’t sleep, she went searching again, checking her bedside tables and the kitchen counters and even here in the closet.

Nothing.

The only thing she supposed he’d left behind was this closet put back together. But that was hardly something she could keep in her diary and take out from time to time when she was feeling melancholic.

In the intervening seven days, work had kept her going, forcing her to get up in the morning when all she wanted to do was pull the covers over her head and lie in bed all day: Every morning, she’d gotten up and gotten herself dressed and had her coffee and become stuck in traffic on the short drive to the Financial District, where their offices were.

Her father had been great. They’d had dinner together every single night, just as they’d been in the habit of doing before. . . .