by Elle Keaton
He was so screwed. Nothing about his life was good for a relationship, and there was no way Micah was anything but a relationship.
His cell phone rang. He thought about ignoring it but would have to answer it later and face even more questions.
“Yeah?”
“Yes.” Mohammad said.
“For Christ’s sake, ‘Yes’?”
“Were you planning on filling me in?”
For a horrifying moment, Adam thought Mohammad was referring to the sex he had just had.
“I had to hear the details from Lieutenant Nguyen regarding the questions they had for you about the fire at Micah Ryan’s house.”
Adam was losing his edge. He had completely forgotten about his boss in the aftermath of the fire and his worry about Micah.
“Oh. Yeah. I completely forgot to call you back, huh.”
“Yes.”
He filled Mohammad in on what had happened since the abortive break-in. Also about him and Micah going to visit Jessica Abrahams’s family.
“I didn’t go in any kind of official capacity; I went as moral support because Micah asked. Micah didn’t even know what I do yet, just that I’m a Fed. It hadn’t come up.”
They hung up. Mohammad had made absolutely no further reference to Micah or whatever shenanigans he suspected they might be up to. Mohammad was up to something. Adam hadn’t worked with him for almost ten years to learn absolutely nothing about the man.
Micah reappeared. He was bundled up in the sweatpants and long-sleeved shirt that Adam had left out for him. Micah wasn’t a small man, but he wasn’t as broad as Adam. The sweatpants were in danger of sliding back down his narrow hips, and Adam knew there was no underwear involved. Micah had also put on an old UCLA sweatshirt of Adam’s, completing his deflated Michelin Man look. Or the guy who gets poked in the stomach all the time, that guy. It was cute. And remarkably sexy. Jesus Christ, he was in trouble and he was an asshole.
Micah’s stomach rumbled, and he blushed, his cheeks pink like that time in the Booking Room. “Sorry,” he whispered. “I guess I’m really hungry. All I got in the hospital was cherry Jell-O. I hate cherry Jell-O.” Adam couldn’t resist; he leaned over and kissed him thoroughly.
Twenty-Seven
They failed Thanksgiving. They’d been holed up in Adam’s motel room since the day before, ignoring phone calls and watching bad TV. Micah was curled up under the covers and Adam was doing a terrible job of trying to pretend he wasn’t quietly freaking out over whatever they were doing while still enjoying the domesticity. Micah’s lungs seemed to be recovering fine. He’d stopped coughing and his breathing sounded clean.
Adam had hoped they were safe from visitors. He hadn’t told Ed where he was staying, but when the knock on the door came, he remembered that the SkPD knew exactly where he was—and, by inference, Micah as well.
It was Sara Schultz, who punctured their cocoon. Sara was resplendent in a dark blue vintage 1950s-style dress, a long black wool coat with faux-fur collar, and a pair of heels that she teetered dangerously on top of, bringing her nearly to Adam’s height. This was frightening. Sara was taking no prisoners and no excuses. They had twenty minutes to get dressed and out the door or she was going to move everyone to the motel for celebrations and use Adam’s hotplate for a warmer.
Adam was…bemused. He had never celebrated the holidays. His dad had never believed in them. At college, he’d gone to friends’ a couple of times, but once he started working, well, people committed heinous crimes no matter the time of year, so he usually worked through.
Micah was horrified, babbling about green beans and apple pie while comically trying to jump into his jeans. He’d just gotten out of another shower, so he was still damp. If he wasn’t careful he was going to end up face-first on the motel rug. He would probably catch some kind of secondary infection from that. Legionnaires’ disease, maybe.
They made it to Sara’s in under thirty minutes, which Adam thought was pretty good, even if he’d had to talk Micah off the ledge over not bringing anything.
“There is going to be plenty to eat without green beans and apple pie. No one is going to notice, I swear. There’s nothing open in this town today, anyway,” Adam told him, pulling away from the curb while Micah was still buckling himself in.
Micah looked at him sideways. “You think I was going to buy beans and pie?”
“I don’t know, but whatever you were going to do, there is no time, and where were you going to cook?” He hated reminding Micah that his kitchen was a crime scene. “Can we leave before she comes back for us?”
Sara’s bungalow was cute and tiny and filled with about five hundred people, all laughing and talking. Clearly they all knew each other. Micah was immediately swept away by Sara, fussing over him and needing to assure herself he was in one piece. Micah plainly loved the attention. Adam had no idea what he was doing at a thing like this.
He hid in the kitchen with his cell phone.
Ida picked up almost immediately.
“I have no idea what I am doing here.”
Ida should have been an interrogator. She was an expert, like an old-timey butcher who was trained well and knew where to make the cuts for a perfect prime rib. A gruesome analogy? The woman was a world-class information gatherer.
“Adam, what am I going to do with you? Talk to me; what’s happening? Mo has told me some, but not enough. And I’m so sorry about your father. I know you weren’t close, but it is never easy.” Ida’s quiet, rough voice soothed him. She’d had a scare a few years earlier with lesions on her vocal cords. Thank God they turned out to be benign, although now she sounded like she smoked two packs of cigarettes a day.
“I’m at a Thanksgiving dinner.” No need to explain any further. He’d spent more holidays at their house than any other. They didn’t exactly celebrate, either, but they did gather the local L.A. flock of the unattached, orphans, and outcasts who had nowhere to be when all the stores were closed. Okay, it was L.A., so most stores weren’t closed, but things could still get depressing.
“Oh, Adam. Is it a family gathering? Is your friend there, the one Mo told me about?”
“’Mo’ needs to learn to keep his mouth shut.”
“My wish is Mo’s command, young man; besides, he knows I worry about you. This is what you do: Get your butt back out there and mingle.”
“Mingle.”
“Talk to people. Share childhood stories. Trade recipes.”
Adam pulled his phone from his ear so he could stare at it in disbelief.
“Ida. I’m good at investigating people and discovering their heinous secrets, not kitchen chat.”
She sighed, long and gusty.
“All right, then, tell me about your ‘friend.’” Adam could hear the air quotes loud and clear. “Mohammad seems to think it is pretty serious.”
“As I said, Mohammad needs to learn to keep his mouth shut. There’s nothing to tell. It’s nothing, a casual thing while I’m here.” Lying to himself was painful. Out loud it sounded like sacrilege.
A group of infiltrators chose that moment to barge into the kitchen, hands full of crockery, arguing about which football game to watch or whether they should replay the Macy’s parade. Adam clicked off without saying goodbye. Ida was used to his bad manners.
The kitchen was tiny, like the rest of the house. Adam was trapped at the wrong end of the horseshoe-shaped room. A huge Sub-Zero fridge had been installed where there used to be a door. Opening the refrigerator meant he had to find something useful in it, not use it as a shield.
Predictably, the thing was stuffed to bursting. Adam stared at the contents, and they stared right back. Celery, apple cider, several dishes covered with foil and plastic wrap, three cartons of eggs. It was a good thing Micah hadn’t brought anything.
“Here, dude, can you put this in there?” Adam stood up from his inventory of the vegetable bin and narrowly missed dropping whatever dish was being shoved at him.
“Uh, Joey?
” Adam’s brain stuttered. While he was staring at the young nurse from St. Joe’s, he absently took the dish from his hands.
“Hey, Adam, I saw Micah in the living room! Didn’t know you were here! So…” Joey smiled mischievously. “You are the boyfriend? Dang.”
Shaking his head at the man who apparently could only speak in exclamations, Adam smiled, trying to squash the uneasy feeling in his gut.
“I’m here to take care of my dad’s property. I’m based out of L.A. Got to get back to work soon.” Of course he’d left all his stuff in a storage unit, not like he had anything to go back to.
“Oh yeah, you’re a big-shot investigator, I remember one of the cops in the ER telling me that. Rumor has it you’re here because of the girl who was found dead. Your dad, huh? He lived in Skagit?”
“Gerald Klay.”
Yep, like ripping a Band-Aid off. All the chatter in the kitchen stopped as Joey yelled, “Get out, you are pulling my leg!”
Which was worse? Talking about his ties to Skagit, or whatever he had going on with Micah? There was a circle of hell he hadn’t yet considered.
“Joey James!” Sara’s voice cut across the thick silence. Joey cringed, turning toward the kitchen doorway, or what Adam was now secretly calling the portal to safety.
“Now that you have announced Adam’s business to the biggest group of gossips in Skagit,” she ran her fierce glare across the motley crowd in the kitchen, “do us all a favor and shut your trap. Start getting the tables set up.”
“You know I love you, Sara Schultz!” Joey yell-whispered over his shoulder as he edged out of the kitchen and away from her deadly gaze.
“I love you, too, Joey James. Any more from you and you’ll be at the kids’ table!” She sighed and shook her head.
The rest of the crowd pretended they had heard and seen nothing, quietly putting their dishes on the crowded countertop and filing out.
“Sorry about that. About Joey. He’s the best, he …”
“Has no filters?” Adam hazarded.
“Exactly.”
The rest of dinner went smoothly. Sara seemed to have put the fear of dismemberment into most of her guests, thus his relationship to Gerald Klay was not up for discussion. There were plenty of other things to talk about: the body that had been found, and why Micah’s home had been vandalized and then set on fire.
While Adam had been hiding in the kitchen, Brandon and his wife Stephanie had shown up. Adam managed not to growl at him, since it was perfectly clear to anyone who had eyes that the beautiful Stephanie held all his attention. Even Adam had to admit they were a striking couple, both over six feet tall, and Stephanie was unabashedly wearing four-inch heels. Adam appreciated women who were not afraid to rise above the crowd.
Stephanie politely introduced herself, apologizing for Brandon’s protective behavior. Adam waved her concern away. “I get it, I do. I’m glad someone has Micah’s back.”
“I heard from Joey that you’re here on an investigation?”
Adam again wondered how Joey had heard the rumors about Adam investigating the death, and made a mental note to interrogate him later. Do the little shit good to quake in his boots a bit.
Sara had her living room crammed with a variety of card tables; the couch had been pushed against a wall to make more space. She had everyone get up and move after each course, even Adam. He managed to make small talk and keep his eye on Micah, who for some reason never ended up at one of the tables he was sitting at.
He fucking mingled.
Twenty-Eight
Thanksgiving was a nightmare. If Micah didn’t love Brandon like a brother he would have killed him. Even so, maybe the only reason he didn’t was because he knew how much Stephanie adored him. However he managed it, Brandon kept Micah away from Adam during the entire dinner. What, did he think Adam was going to toss Micah to the ground and ravage him in front of Sara’s Thanksgiving dinner guests? His face heated. Looking up from his plate, he accidentally caught Adam’s gaze. Adam winked and licked his lower lip. Dear God.
The dinner went on for what seemed like hours before Sara had the teens clear the plates and serving dishes into the kitchen. They all moaned, but Micah knew she had already made a deal with them: They got to take their pie and head downstairs to where she had set up a gaming system. Once they were down there the adults would leave them alone, plus they got to stay overnight so their parents, or guardians in one case, could stay or go as they pleased.
Sara was incredible. Soon enough the living room was transformed from a dining area into a cocktail lounge. She had lowered the lights, left out only the smaller side tables, and lit a wood fire. It crackled and popped like a sappy holiday commercial. The low acoustic holiday music set a remarkably romantic note.
Micah shuffled around awkwardly. He wanted to sit with Adam, but Brandon was hovering. If he sat now, Brandon would be right next to him. Stephanie glanced over, a small smile coming to her lips. She stalked toward them, a huntress.
“Hey, Bran. Wanna go look at the stars for a minute?” she purred.
Good lord. Micah almost laughed out loud as he watched a helpless Brandon being steered out to the front porch where Sara had a porch swing hanging, ready for use with fuzzy blankets and an outdoor heater.
Strong arms circled his waist from behind. Adam rested his forehead against Micah’s shoulder. “Sit with me?” Adam asked, before taking Micah’s hand and leading him to one of the love seats near the fireplace.
Finally.
Twenty-Nine
Grudgingly, Adam drove out to Gerald’s property on Friday with Ed and Tim to work on the inside of the house and maybe figure out the cars. He could give no shits about the cars. He knew he should care, they were worth a lot of money, but he was not a car fanatic. He’d put them out of his mind as much as he could; there were other things he’d rather deal with. However, Micah had a meeting with his insurance agent to see what was covered and one with a contractor for an estimate. The fire marshal had declared the house structurally safe, at least.
The other guys met them out there. Adam found it much easier to go inside the house with all of them there. It was a weird relief to hear they were as horrified as he had been the first time he saw it. The only place that wasn’t full of hazardous waste was Gerald’s studio. Canvases were stacked along the walls, and his workbench was clear and orderly, paints set out as if he had planned to come back and work the next day, or soon, anyway.
Adam was surprised that the house hadn’t been broken into after the announcement of Gerald’s death. He supposed that anyone who might have tried had been put off by the mounds of trash and filth that stood guard. The pieces in the work area were nothing special, definitely the work of Gerald Klay but nothing like what he created at his peak. Those pieces were safe in town at the gallery he had regularly shown at, or on collectors’ walls all over the world. There were a few left on the walls of the house, Adam remembered them always being there. Those were the ones he would keep for himself. Adam shut and locked the studio door with finality.
The rain, which had been light on the way in, turned into a sheeting sideways downpour. There was no way to stay dry unless you were actually wearing a Ziploc bag. Everything dripped. The eaves of the house gushed because the gutters were backed up. The Doug fir and cedar branches that extended over the yard dripped huge, fat raindrops that unerringly hit the back of Adam’s neck every time he climbed the front stairs. The sky was dark, so it was difficult to tell what time it was. Adam was wet to the bone. He had, at least, worn his waterproof boots, but the rest of his gear was not made for this weather. Ed and the guys seemed to be fine, decked out in the latest fisherman fashion. Don even had a huge yellow rain hat. Adam envied him.
Despite the miserable weather, no one suggested they leave. They all wanted to help Adam. It was surreal. Sometime in the past eighteen years these guys had grown up. Adam was thirty or more years younger than most of them, but back in the day he had been the one making
sure none of them drowned in their own vomit, that the ashes were out at the end of the night, and that no one had their car keys.
It had kind of started out as a joke—his dad made his friends give their keys up to him the first time when he was about twelve. Some friend of theirs had died attempting to navigate the winding Fir Island roads after a long night drinking. A joke had become tradition, and somehow Adam had become the kid in charge.
And his dad wondered why he had wanted to go into law enforcement.
Buck, car guy and part time Norse god, came by a bit later. Adam led him to the outbuilding with the guys all trailing along behind them. Their excitement was palpable. Buck had, of course, already seen the cars, but this time he’d brought a camera and some other stuff he needed as well as his big tow truck. Buck explained that appraising cars could be difficult, especially if they had already been restored or otherwise modified. These, however, and he practically shivered when he said it, had all original serial numbers. They could bring big money. The Pontiac a little less because of the damage to its soft top. As is, Adam could expect about $15,000. He about choked on his tongue.
Buck was in his element—this was better than watching Antiques Roadshow. The guys hung on his every word. The other two cars, as is, would probably bring between $35,000 and $55,000 at the least. Each. Adam heard one of the guys, Tim or Don maybe, groan. Buck winked at him. And yeah, Buck swung for his team. What the hell had happened to Skagit while he’d been gone? It was nice, but somehow unsettling, that the Skagit he had loathed after he left was no longer the miserable village he remembered. It had grown up.
Buck backed his flatbed tow truck down the drive. He and another guy from his shop painstakingly set the cars up to be transported. Adam felt like he was watching an archaeological dig, only with cars. Buck warned him that he would need to do a title search and that could take a while. Even though the cars had clearly been on Gerald’s property for decades, he wanted to protect himself and Adam from lawsuits. Buck was a good guy, even if he was weirdly into cars.