“Thank you,” she said dully.
“So?”
Jo looked over. “I’m sorry?”
McCordle pointed at the screen of his phone. “Have you ever seen this man before?”
Taking a deep breath, she made herself look at the image of her former lover.
“No,” she said. “I haven’t.”
* * *
When you worked a nine-to-five job, it was amazing how much you couldn’t get done during the week. After Jo left McCordle, she filled her car up with gas. She went to the dry cleaners and picked up her single pair of dress slacks. She hit the grocery store, buying some basics and two bottles of Motrin. She retrieved a pair of shoes from the cobbler’s—that had been waiting there for three months.
So it was basically a Saturday happening on a Thursday.
And all the while, she waited for the FBI to call her.
By the time she returned to her apartment, it was almost two in the afternoon. Still plenty of daylight left, and it wasn’t like she had to worry about someone shooting at her. She already knew who her hit man was, and he couldn’t go out in the sunshine.
No worries there.
After bringing in her grocery bags and her dry cleaning, she locked herself inside with the dead bolt and the chain, and put everything away. Then she went through her mail, looking for bills. She had about two months of cash on hand, and a credit card with seventeen hundred dollars of airspace on it. Impending transition and death threats aside, she was going to have to start her job search immediately.
And her financial imperative was almost a relief. If she hadn’t had to worry about something, anything, she would have gone insane.
The FBI called at 4:34—not that she knew it was them from the number. It was only after she listened to the message left by the special agent that she learned who it had been. They wanted her to phone back right away. They wanted her to come to the field office—or the agent could come to her, whatever was easiest for her. They wanted her to know that this was a serious matter, requiring her urgent attention.
Jo put her cell facedown on the table and refocused on her laptop. She had updated her résumé a month ago—almost like she’d known what was coming, huh. So it was the work of a moment to upload it on Monster.com, and start searching receptionist jobs in Caldwell. Long-term goal of departure aside, she figured it would be important to stay put until… well, until her body decided what it was going to do. After that? Who knew.
“Damn it,” she muttered as she sat back.
Instead of resuming the job search, she went over to the CCJ website and browsed through the articles that had been posted in the previous five hours. Was Bill doing that now? It had to be him. No one else was in the newsroom and God knew Dick wasn’t good for anything other than being a dick.
Eventually, she ended up going into the archives and re-reading the articles and updates she had written. She also looked at the photographs of Gigante and his son together, and then Johnny Pappalardo dead in that alley. And mourned the dreams she’d enjoyed for such a short time.
She was still sitting at her kitchen table when the people upstairs came home from work at six.
And she was still sitting there when the sun went down and night came.
And still sitting there when the hairs on the back of her neck stood up at attention.
Without knowing what her instincts were picking up on, she rose to her feet and went over to the front window. She had closed the venetian blinds flat after the butler had left that morning, and she didn’t want to tip off whoever it might be that she was on the alert. Angling herself awkwardly, she tried to see out the gap next to the window frame. Yeah, nope. Plus with the lights on in the apartment, she couldn’t really see anything in the darkness outside.
Walking backward to her bedroom, she snagged her gun from her purse on the way. The lights were off in there, so she went right to her window and looked through the slats—
There was a figure.
Standing right there.
Jerking back against the wall, she fumbled with the gun, taking the safety off. Then she went for her phone, even though she wasn’t sure who to call. The FBI? No, McCordle. Unless… 911? But what was she reporting exactly—
The cell went off in her hand and she jumped. When she saw who it was, her heart pounded.
She was still trying to make up her mind whether or not to answer when voice mail kicked in. But instead of leaving a message, the caller texted her.
I’m outside. Can we talk?
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Syn had felt like it was important to approach Jo’s window by himself. He didn’t want to frighten her, and more than that… he didn’t want anyone seeing how emotional he might get. He’d listened to the voice mail she had left him earlier in the day about a hundred times, and each replay had carved another piece out of the inside of his chest.
She had sounded so alone. So scared.
He had tried to call her every hour, on the hour, and failed to press send each time. He had no clue what to say to her, and now that he was standing outside her bedroom window like a stalker, he discovered that physical proximity had not improved his vocabulary.
The scent of her registered first, that fresh meadow perfume entering his nose and running throughout his body. Then he heard the soft footfalls.
The latter stopped. The former continued to ride the air currents to his nose.
Syn turned and faced the female who had stolen his heart. “Hello, Jo.”
“What are you doing here?”
There had been no way of knowing what his reception was going to be, but he hadn’t anticipated so much anger.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call you—”
“What do you want.”
Not a question.
Syn frowned. “Are you okay?”
She walked forward, coming down the side of the apartment building, closing in on him. Actually, she was outright marching.
“I’m great,” she said as she halted in front of him. “And I’m also armed, in case you’ve come here to earn your money.”
As she pegged him with hard, hostile eyes, he took a step back. “What?”
“I saw the videotape.” Before he could ask for a better explanation, she snapped, “The one where you agree to kill me for Carmine Gigante Sr.? To make up for the fact that you didn’t do what you said you would to Johnny Pappalardo? Tell me something, how does a vampire like you manage to become a mob hit man without getting into trouble with the Brotherhood? It strikes me as a risky side gig, given the whole keep-us-a-secret thing.”
“I didn’t hurt you,” Syn said.
The laugh that came out of her was the very definition of sarcasm. “You didn’t shoot me—for sure. But the night is young, isn’t it. And you’re here to check and see whether I’m a vampire or if I’m still a human, right? So tell me something, Syn, what are you going to do if I don’t change. Are you the one who’s going to put me in my grave? I mean, it’s killing two birds with one stone, isn’t it. You silence a problem for the species and collect cash from the mob. It’s a smart move.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I? I watched the videotape. It’s on a cop’s phone incidentally—so FYI, they’re onto you. The CPD and the FBI. But hey, you can take care of that, can’t you. Just a little erase job on their memories and you’re scot-free. Or are you? What are you going to do about the videotape? The records. The reports. Things are going to be tricky if any of that falls into the media’s hands.” o;Thank you,” she said dully.
“So?”
Jo looked over. “I’m sorry?”
McCordle pointed at the screen of his phone. “Have you ever seen this man before?”
Taking a deep breath, she made herself look at the image of her former lover.
“No,” she said. “I haven’t.”
* * *
When you worked a nine-to-five job, it was amazing how much you couldn’t get done during the week. After Jo left McCordle, she filled her car up with gas. She went to the dry cleaners and picked up her single pair of dress slacks. She hit the grocery store, buying some basics and two bottles of Motrin. She retrieved a pair of shoes from the cobbler’s—that had been waiting there for three months.
So it was basically a Saturday happening on a Thursday.
And all the while, she waited for the FBI to call her.
By the time she returned to her apartment, it was almost two in the afternoon. Still plenty of daylight left, and it wasn’t like she had to worry about someone shooting at her. She already knew who her hit man was, and he couldn’t go out in the sunshine.
No worries there.
After bringing in her grocery bags and her dry cleaning, she locked herself inside with the dead bolt and the chain, and put everything away. Then she went through her mail, looking for bills. She had about two months of cash on hand, and a credit card with seventeen hundred dollars of airspace on it. Impending transition and death threats aside, she was going to have to start her job search immediately.
And her financial imperative was almost a relief. If she hadn’t had to worry about something, anything, she would have gone insane.
The FBI called at 4:34—not that she knew it was them from the number. It was only after she listened to the message left by the special agent that she learned who it had been. They wanted her to phone back right away. They wanted her to come to the field office—or the agent could come to her, whatever was easiest for her. They wanted her to know that this was a serious matter, requiring her urgent attention.
Jo put her cell facedown on the table and refocused on her laptop. She had updated her résumé a month ago—almost like she’d known what was coming, huh. So it was the work of a moment to upload it on Monster.com, and start searching receptionist jobs in Caldwell. Long-term goal of departure aside, she figured it would be important to stay put until… well, until her body decided what it was going to do. After that? Who knew.
“Damn it,” she muttered as she sat back.
Instead of resuming the job search, she went over to the CCJ website and browsed through the articles that had been posted in the previous five hours. Was Bill doing that now? It had to be him. No one else was in the newsroom and God knew Dick wasn’t good for anything other than being a dick.
Eventually, she ended up going into the archives and re-reading the articles and updates she had written. She also looked at the photographs of Gigante and his son together, and then Johnny Pappalardo dead in that alley. And mourned the dreams she’d enjoyed for such a short time.
She was still sitting at her kitchen table when the people upstairs came home from work at six.
And she was still sitting there when the sun went down and night came.
And still sitting there when the hairs on the back of her neck stood up at attention.
Without knowing what her instincts were picking up on, she rose to her feet and went over to the front window. She had closed the venetian blinds flat after the butler had left that morning, and she didn’t want to tip off whoever it might be that she was on the alert. Angling herself awkwardly, she tried to see out the gap next to the window frame. Yeah, nope. Plus with the lights on in the apartment, she couldn’t really see anything in the darkness outside.
Walking backward to her bedroom, she snagged her gun from her purse on the way. The lights were off in there, so she went right to her window and looked through the slats—
There was a figure.
Standing right there.
Jerking back against the wall, she fumbled with the gun, taking the safety off. Then she went for her phone, even though she wasn’t sure who to call. The FBI? No, McCordle. Unless… 911? But what was she reporting exactly—
The cell went off in her hand and she jumped. When she saw who it was, her heart pounded.
She was still trying to make up her mind whether or not to answer when voice mail kicked in. But instead of leaving a message, the caller texted her.
I’m outside. Can we talk?
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Syn had felt like it was important to approach Jo’s window by himself. He didn’t want to frighten her, and more than that… he didn’t want anyone seeing how emotional he might get. He’d listened to the voice mail she had left him earlier in the day about a hundred times, and each replay had carved another piece out of the inside of his chest.
She had sounded so alone. So scared.
He had tried to call her every hour, on the hour, and failed to press send each time. He had no clue what to say to her, and now that he was standing outside her bedroom window like a stalker, he discovered that physical proximity had not improved his vocabulary.
The scent of her registered first, that fresh meadow perfume entering his nose and running throughout his body. Then he heard the soft footfalls.
The latter stopped. The former continued to ride the air currents to his nose.
Syn turned and faced the female who had stolen his heart. “Hello, Jo.”
“What are you doing here?”
There had been no way of knowing what his reception was going to be, but he hadn’t anticipated so much anger.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call you—”
“What do you want.”
Not a question.
Syn frowned. “Are you okay?”
She walked forward, coming down the side of the apartment building, closing in on him. Actually, she was outright marching.
“I’m great,” she said as she halted in front of him. “And I’m also armed, in case you’ve come here to earn your money.”
As she pegged him with hard, hostile eyes, he took a step back. “What?”
“I saw the videotape.” Before he could ask for a better explanation, she snapped, “The one where you agree to kill me for Carmine Gigante Sr.? To make up for the fact that you didn’t do what you said you would to Johnny Pappalardo? Tell me something, how does a vampire like you manage to become a mob hit man without getting into trouble with the Brotherhood? It strikes me as a risky side gig, given the whole keep-us-a-secret thing.”
“I didn’t hurt you,” Syn said.
The laugh that came out of her was the very definition of sarcasm. “You didn’t shoot me—for sure. But the night is young, isn’t it. And you’re here to check and see whether I’m a vampire or if I’m still a human, right? So tell me something, Syn, what are you going to do if I don’t change. Are you the one who’s going to put me in my grave? I mean, it’s killing two birds with one stone, isn’t it. You silence a problem for the species and collect cash from the mob. It’s a smart move.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I? I watched the videotape. It’s on a cop’s phone incidentally—so FYI, they’re onto you. The CPD and the FBI. But hey, you can take care of that, can’t you. Just a little erase job on their memories and you’re scot-free. Or are you? What are you going to do about the videotape? The records. The reports. Things are going to be tricky if any of that falls into the media’s hands.”