9
Grams studied Zeke,without expression on her brown, lined face. Today, she had gathered her silver-white hair into a long braid down her back and she wore a multicolored T-shirt with beige pants that stopped at her calves, showing off her thick-soled white gym shoes and purple-and-yellow-striped socks.
To keep BARS running efficiently and profitably required the Blackwell trifecta—Zeke led the business and oversaw the operations, Lynette managed the money and office, and Grams was their heart, their foundation.
The one he answered to when he screwed up.
He stopped a few feet away. “Sorry, Grams.”
She indicated the spot beside her. “Have a seat, she’ashkii yázhi.” My little boy.
Once he lowered himself onto the hardwood step next to her, a long, stomach-clenching silence stretched between. A master strategist, his Grams knew how to leverage quiet time to great effect.
A trait she shared with Special Agent Olivia Westcott. He could still remember how his body ached to see one hint of recognition in her eyes during their meeting in Asheville. How his breath suspended and his eyes locked on her face for the slightest quirk of her mouth to indicate she would keep their secret from the rest of the room’s occupants. How, when neither happened, his heart plummeted like a rock down a dry well.
Whether her lack of recognition was real or some sort of self-protection measure, he couldn’t be sure. All he knew was that she’d given him an out. One he’d be an idiot not to accept, because he didn’t need one more complication in his life.
So why had he all but forced Liv to work side by side with him?
He dug his fingertips into his forehead in an attempt to forestall the oncoming headache.
“Something occupies your mind,” Grams said.
He closed his eyes briefly, wishing he hadn’t promised himself to never lie to this woman.
“Yes.”
“Business or personal.”
A shaft of light stole over a large stained glass window above the chapel’s entrance door. The sun pierced through the window, projecting a kaleidoscope of colors onto the floor a few feet from where they sat. He never tired of watching the noonday ritual. But today, it did nothing to lift his spirits.
“Unfortunately, both,” he said.
“You have a decision to make.”
Her ability to discern trouble was downright frightening. “Yes.”
“Have you shared it with your brothers?”
He rested his forearms on his knees and stared at his clasped hands. “Not yet.”
“Are you concerned they won’t approve?”
“Phin won’t.” Cruz was iffy. Rohan would say his piece, then follow Zeke’s lead. “BARS has been offered a recovery job, one that’s riskier than anything we’ve done to date and straight-up illegal, but will somehow save lives and potentially establish a lucrative long-term relationship.”
“Illegal in what way?”
“The FBI wants us to recover”—he lifted his hands to do air quotes—“a stolen piece of art to appease an informant who can give them information that will stop something big. They won’t give me all the details until we sign a confidentiality agreement.” He lowered his voice. “Ash was there.”
He didn’t need to explain to Grams how that fact tore at his insides.
She grew silent for a long time, then in a voice that usually reignited his flailing confidence, she said, “You must trust your instincts.”
But not today. No fire, no spark. Only a cloud of darkness where his instincts used to be.
“What if I end up tearing this business apart?”
“Tearing the family apart, you mean?”