Donovan didn’t look at me. He’s not the one for you, Warren T. Fox’s reedy voice whispered in my head. I didn’t want his words to be true, but it looked like they were—at least for tonight. Besides, I had Tobias Dawson to take care of. Fletcher Lane had trained me to put the job first, ahead of my own wishes. Distracted assassins got sloppy, and then they got dead. I especially needed to focus this time, since I had a couple of innocent people to protect. One problem at a time. I’d deal with Donovan and his conflicted feelings about us later.

“All right,” I said. “You watch out for Warren and Violet. I’ll get Finn to help me with Tobias Dawson.”

Donovan nodded. “I think that’s for the best.”

There was nothing else to say. Not tonight. So I got out of the car. The detective didn’t look at me as he threw the vehicle in reverse, turned around, and drove away. I stood there and watched the fog and darkness swallow him up.

For some reason, my heart felt as icy as the rain drizzling down around me.

23

23

I’d just finished pulling a blackberry cobbler out of the oven around noon the next day when I heard the sound of tires crunching on the gravel outside. I padded into the front living room and peered out a crack in one of the curtains. A silver Aston Martin crouched in the driveway.

I unlocked the front door, then went back into the kitchen.

A minute later, Finn stuck his head inside the room.

As usual, he wore an impeccable suit, this time in a dark charcoal gray. His cheeks were ruddy from the ever-present drizzle, and water droplets glistened in his walnut hair. He carried his laptop in a black leather waterproof case.

“About time you got here.” I dumped a tin pan full of orange-cranberry muffins onto a white plate. “Coffee’s on already.”

Finn helped himself to a mug of the hot chicory brew. He took a couple of sips, then moved a basket of sourdough rolls out of the way so he could set his laptop on the kitchen table. “Looks like somebody didn’t get any last night.”

I glared at him.

Nonplussed, Finn threw his arm out and gestured at the kitchen. “C’mon. I see a cobbler, muffins, rolls, a chocolate cake, and what I assume are strawberry preserves. You always cook more when you’re upset.”

He had me there. The situation with Donovan Caine hadn’t been resolved to my liking, and it had affected me more than I’d realized. Why couldn’t the detective just accept me for what I was? Morals. They always ruined everything.

I’d gotten up early with nothing but time to kill until Finn showed up. So I’d started cooking. But the mixing, stirring, and baking hadn’t relaxed me nearly enough.