“Soap, water, and some dwarven elbow grease,” Finn replied. “That woman’s a genius. Smells and looks just like it did the day I got it.”

There were only so many things you could do with soap and water. I didn’t think getting blood out of leather was one of them. I looked at Jo-Jo, who gave me a guileless grin I didn’t buy for a minute. I loved the two dwarven sister, but the longer I was around Jo-Jo and Sophia Deveraux, the more I realized I didn’t know anything about them. Not really. Not anything that seemed to matter, like the truth. Just as I hadn’t seemed to know the real Fletcher Lane, either.

You ready?” Finn asked again.

I stared at Jo-Jo a moment longer, then turned to him.

“Yeah. Let’s get out of here.”

———

Finn dropped me off at Fletcher’s house, agreed to meet me at the Pork Pit tomorrow, then headed back to his apartment in the city. I checked the gravel in the driveway and the granite around the front door, using my Stone magic to listen for disturbances. But all the stones gave off their usual low, quiet vibrations. No visitors today.

But I always checked. Even in my retirement, I couldn’t afford to lower my guard, especially not now with this mess with Jake McAllister going on. Because Jake had been royally pissed when the cops had dragged him away the other night. I had no doubt he was thinking about what he could do to hurt me, to get me to drop the charges against him. After all, he’d been ready to fry me with his Fire elemental magic just for what was in the cash register. Torture and murder wasn’t a big leap to make from there. Whether Jake actually made a run at me or not was still up in the air. But I’d be ready either way.

It wasn’t that late, but it had been a hell of a day. So I took a shower, threw on a pair of pajamas, and went to bed. I fell asleep almost immediately, and sometime later, the dream began…

I stood in the Pork Pit, chopping onions to add to tomorrow’s baked beans. Despite the harsh, stinging aroma, my eyes didn’t water. I never cried. Not anymore. Not since my family had been murdered. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t worry. My eyes flicked up to the clock on the wall: 10:05. A minute later than the last time I’d looked. Fear tightened my stomach until it felt as hard as the brick of the restaurant around me.

“He’s late,” I said in a soft voice.

“Don’t be a worrywart, Gin,” a teenage voice sneered behind me. “He always comes back.”