Page 6 of Silver Lining (The Diamond Trilogy 3)
“You own?” Does he own the church?
A huff of humorless laughter. “Ironic, isn’t it? A man like me owning the church. You’d think it would have gone up in flames the moment I signed the papers. Just more proof that there’s no god anywhere to be found in those pews.”
He forces more of the broth down my throat until I pull my head back again. This time it’s warm, salty soup that runs down my throat to pool at the hollow there.
His gaze is fierce, his touch gentle as he wipes me up. “No one knows I own this place. It’s buried under layers of shell corporations. It won’t be easy to uncover.”
Not easy but not impossible. And the U.S. government will have resources the average person does not. That means we’re sitting in an hourglass, each grain of sand falling, leading closer and closer to the time when we’re discovered.
What happens then? Nothing good.
“Your brothers.”
“I’m not involving them. This goes beyond what North Security can handle. Even sharing their last name is enough to get them questioned at this point.”
“They would want to help you.” The words come out hoarse, because I want to help him. The same way I tried to help my sister on that urgent plane ride to Paris. Clumsily, armed only with a sense of right and wrong, with a love not strong enough to block bullets.
He swallows hard. “It doesn’t matter what they want.”
Those are the words he says, but what I hear is, It doesn’t matter what I want. Everyone wants their family. Even someone from a dark past full of abuse like him. He’s alone.
That’s when I realize I’m alone, too.
Even if I manage to heal enough to stand up, to walk out of this church, I’ll never be able to go back to my family, not with this murder on my hands. It would be too dangerous for them. They would be harboring a fugitive. I’ll never see London again. Never see my mom or my dad again. A tear slips down my cheek, following the trail of cooled broth.
Pain detaches itself from the space under his hands and curls lower to rest on my belly. Not as heavy down there. When it settles, I can bear it.
My eyelids are heavy, though, heavier by the minute.
Sleep feels cool, like the water I craved. I still crave it, but my lips won’t form the words. I’ll drink later. There will be a later, at least.
The pressure lifts off the wound and tension runs out of my body like rain. A careful hand brushes a lock of hair away from my forehead and smooths it down.
That’s the last thing I feel before my head slips under the surface.
3
London
These stairs are going to kill me.
I know, I know. The cocaine addiction will probably get me in the end. But the three flights to my walkup in Red Hook are giving the coke a run for its money. At least the stairs get my heart pumping and fresh oxygen into my blood. A girl needs to be revitalized after an endless day ringing up bougie coffee orders and having her face blasted by the moisture from a steam wand. The scent of espresso drifts off my clothes as I make the third-floor landing. The scent of coffee grounds follows me even into my dreams. Hazard of the job.
The key sticks in the lock and I force it, mapping out the path to the shower. Kick my shoes off at the door. Shirt off by the time I’m through the postage-stamp living room with my ratty couch.
Do not pass go, do not get dinner, do not do anything but climb into the water and stand there as long as it’s hot. I kick off my shoes, drop my purse, and step into the living room.
I’m reaching for the hem of my shirt when I see it, see him, and freeze.
The couch isn’t empty.
There’s a dead body on it.
I should run screaming in the other direction. I should call the cops, sobbing and hysterical. Part of me knows this, but the bigger part of me is… curious. It’s always been my downfall.
A step closer. And another. The large mass of muscled man compiles into someone I know. It’s Adam Black. The man who kidnapped my sister.
The man who saved her, too.
My heart crawls up into my throat. What is he doing here, in my apartment? I know I locked the door when I left. Did he manage to pick the lock in this condition? With that much blood on his shirt, he didn’t fight his way in here.
I don’t have time to consider the implications of the still-intact lock on the door, not really. Not when there’s a dead man on my couch. A cold flash freezes the back of my neck, followed by a hot flush of panic. Smuggling diamonds is one thing. Dealing with a dead body is another. The police are out of the question for a man like Adam. For a woman like me.
