“Maybe you won’t be needing the apartment for long.” Pat waggled his eyebrows.

“Maybe not.” The idea of waking up with Louisa every morning sparked hope inside Conor. After the turmoil of the past week, all he wanted was some quiet time to get to know her. If only the cops would find the killer, then everyone could begin the healing process, including Louisa. He hoped she’d give him a second chance to explain why he was such an idiot that morning.

“I’ll be back in a few.” Conor gathered up the invoices and receipts. “I’ll drop these in the office on my way out.”

“Take your time.” Pat headed for the front door, keys jingling in his hand.

Conor hurried outside and jogged up the back stairs. Empty. That was the only word to describe the apartment. The professional cleaning crew had been forced to trash most of his belongings. The floors were scheduled for refinishing this week. Then the walls would be painted. An entire new kitchen had to be installed. Everything would be brand new, but Pat was right. Conor had no desire to live here alone any longer. Being with Louisa had changed his life. She’d changed him.

A distant woof from a neighborhood dog triggered a twinge of anxiety. He’d dropped Kirra off at the vet’s office on his way to the bar. They were going to run some tests. He checked his phone display for the tenth time, but he hadn’t missed any calls. If the vet didn’t call in the next hour, Conor was going to give the office a ring.

Kirra shouldn’t lose her second chance either.

With a last survey of the bare space assuring him that the apartment was ready for renovation, Conor let himself out and jogged down the wooden steps. Pat would need help with the lunch crush. Primitive instinct cramped his belly as his boots hit blacktop. Conor scanned the alley, the hairs on his nape quivering. No teens with guns or knives. Nothing at all. What the hell was wrong with him?

Something scraped. Conor froze, listening hard, but he heard nothing but the usual sounds of traffic and muffled voices. Conor started toward the door. A shuffling sound stopped him. He crouched and peered into the shadow under the stairwell. Oh shit.

He recoiled from the sight. Shaking his head, he leaned down again, just to make sure he hadn’t imagined the grisly sight.

No. He hadn’t. A body lay under the steps. A ragged gasp drew Conor closer.

It was the teen gangbanger who’d been after him, Hector Torres. He was still alive, but from the looks of him, just barely.