This feeling that engulfed them and held them to each other was powerful. Monica found it easy to be herself around Rob, though for so long she wasn’t sure who that was. She was so consumed with work and the children that she didn’t know what things made her whole.

He leaned against her doorframe, his dirty blond hair hanging in his eyes. His casual stance was pure confidence. The way his baby blues lit up when Monica was near made her want to run away with him and disappear into the night. Rob stepped aside and let her unlock the door while he peppered kisses on her neck from behind. Her attention faltered as she fumbled with her keys. When she finally unlocked the door, he pulled the giant bag from her shoulder and set it down inside.

“Damn, babe. What do you have in there? A dead body?” Rob asked.

“No, not today. Today it’s just clothes and accessories. All the essentials for a perfect date. Well, not my date, of course. Josie’s date. She’s a friend. Well, kind of a friend. She met this new guy, only he’s not new. She knew him before. Well, before some crazy shit went down. I was just helping her get ready.”

“Don’t even ask me to recap that,” Rob said, grinning.

Monica felt just a little reprieve from the suffocating guilt usually associated with Josie Banks. She’d done a good deed today. She’d been so excited when Josie called asking for assistance. Anything she could do to make amends with this girl, she would. If there was something Monica had practice with, it was dating. She’d been on so many in the last decade she’d lost count. While not all of them had been miserable failures, none of them had felt right. Not like Rob. He felt perfect and final, like the end of her searching.

“Can you believe I had to go shopping today because someone stole almost all of my underwear yesterday?” Monica yelled from her bedroom.

“What?”

“Yeah, I brought a load of laundry down to the basement but forgot my quarters for the machine. So I left it. Ran up here to get the money. By the time I got back down there, the entire basket was gone. Oh! I was so pissed off. I mean, who would want dirty laundry?”

“You have some weird neighbors,” Rob answered, troubled by the missing laundry.

“No shit,” Monica said absently, flipping through her mail.

“What movie did you get?”

“Some horror movie where everyone gets hacked up and no one gets out alive,” she answered. “I’m sure all the standard rules apply. Never say ‘I’ll be right back.’ Don’t go check out that strange noise.” Monica entered the living room and smirked at him. “And never, ever have sex. That’s a sure way to get yourself dead.”

“Those killers must be advocates for celibacy,” he muttered. “The idiots.”

“Well, we could just skip the movie and hump like bunnies,” she offered.

“Only if you can ensure our safety from psychotic serial killers, darlin’.”

“There are no guarantees,” Monica teased, unbuttoning her blouse as she backed slowly toward the bedroom.

“Well, ma’am. I’ll take my chances.”

As Tristan drove home, he found himself humming along with the radio despite not knowing any of the pop songs. If it weren’t so pathetic, he’d laugh at what this girl had turned him into. Though he still had his edge and always his pistol, he felt his sharp attitude beginning to retreat. It was a glimpse of the boy he used to be, before he’d been betrayed and hurt. He felt lighter and hopeful again.

He was in luck, finding a parking spot on his block. Tristan retrieved his gun from under the seat, secured his car, and lit a cigarette for the short walk.

It had been so hard to leave Josie’s apartment. He’d tried to be a gentleman, but when she pulled him by the collar and attacked his mouth, he’d lost all control. There, against her door, he’d ground his hips into hers, introducing every bit of his need. She rocked against him, and it was all he could do not to take her right there.

Josie had invited him in, begging to continue their evening. He knew what she wanted. Hell, he wanted it too, but not yet. Not before he could make her believe that she was worth it. Thankfully, Alex had come home, cutting through their sexual tension and wishing them good night. Tristan wanted to thank him and kill him at the same time.

“Fallbrook,” a familiar voice called out as he approached his building.

The sound of that voice made Tristan’s stomach drop and he immediately reached for his piece. He spun to find Padre parked on a bench outside his building. He was shorter than Tristan but just as intimidating. Always wearing a stiff button-down shirt and Dockers, Padre more closely resembled a Wall Street executive than a deadly assassin. His smile was sinister and sharply interrupted by a maroon scar that carved down the left side of his face. He was Tristan’s former assistant and a man who’d left the priesthood to carry out revenge for his murdered brother. He’d never returned.

“Nice hat,” Padre said, grinning.

“Fuck you,” Tristan replied.

They embraced in a one-armed hug and stepped back to a safe distance. In this business, people who were once your allies didn’t always remain that way.

“Long time, no see, vato.”

“I had to get out,” Tristan answered simply.

“Yeah, well, I guess I should be thanking you. I was promoted when you bounced.”

“Congratulations. I’m guessing this isn’t a friendly visit.”

“Moloney sent me to give you a message.”

The air shifted, a serious rope of threat surrounded the men, tying them to each other.

“So get on with it,” Tristan spat, losing his patience.

“He says no one leaves the operation alive, but he’s feeling generous. He’ll let you live if you find and kill this girl.”

Padre handed him a folded photo with torn edges. Tristan felt nauseous as he looked into the eyes of a young McKenzi Delaune. Using every bit of strength he possessed, he kept his face indifferent.

“This girl is dead.”

“Nah, man. Moloney says she’s alive and well. He has it on good authority she’s here in San Diego. I was just told to deliver that. Of course, there’s another employee looking for her, but if you find her first, you live.”

“I’m not spending my time chasing ghosts!” Tristan shouted at the man’s retreating form.

“I’m just the messenger, Fallbrook. Don’t make me come back here.”

Just like that, he was gone. Tristan knew this was not just a scare tactic. Moloney would never waste time or money on idle threats. The message was loud and clear. If Tristan didn’t deliver, they’d come back and take payment from his flesh.

It had been three miserable, sleepless hours since Padre left Tristan standing confounded on the sidewalk. He’d dropped a figurative bomb and disappeared into the aftermath’s smoke. Now Tristan lay in bed, the old photo of McKenzi still clutched in his fingers. An innocent, unscathed face stared back at him from the glossy paper. This is the girl he remembered, the girl he’d grieved for. In all honesty, this girl was dead. As if featured in one of those campy daytime soap operas, the part of McKenzi Delaune was now being played by a darker, forbidding Josie Banks.

He’d been a wreck since learning of the hit out on Josie. First, anger hammered at his chest and he tore through his apartment breaking everything within reach. It wasn’t a fit of calculated rage, more of an unrestrained therapy of destruction. Shattered glass dotted the floor, while his treasured books lay in a jumbled heap beneath an overturned shelf. There were holes in the drywall, a broken trail leading to his bedroom, where he’d finally collapsed. Maroon ribbons of dried blood twisted around his fingers and he scoffed at how symbolic they were. His hands were tied.

When his fury had dissipated, he was left only with mind-numbing fear. Not for himself but for Josie. Without a second thought, he knew that he would make any sacrifice if it meant that she’d go unharmed. He would never turn her over to that monster of a man, but that didn’t mean someone else wouldn’t. Padre had told him that there was another person out there looking for her. If they were on Moloney’s payroll, they were good. It wouldn’t be long before she was found.