Chapter 3

"What are you doing?" I asked, though I already knew.

"Checking." Rafferty's voice was tight. "If I married a killer, I'd like to know before morning."

He punched in a number. Even in a blizzard, money moved faster than weather. The Hale family kept a private security firm on retainer—ex-FBI, ex-CIA, the kind of people who could find anyone anywhere in under an hour.

"I need a rush job," Rafferty said into the phone. "Two names. First: Sister Agatha, a nun at—" He looked at me.

"St. Catherine's," I said helpfully. "Brooklyn."

"St. Catherine's Church, Brooklyn. Blind nun, would be in her eighties by now. Second: Graham Fenton. My wife's stepfather. Last known address also Brooklyn, sometime around 2009."

He hung up. Set the phone on the desk. Then he opened the top drawer, and his hand rested on something inside.

I knew what was in that drawer. A Browning 9mm. He kept one in every property.

"Rafferty," I said gently. "If I wanted to hurt you, would I tell you first?"

"Crazy people do crazy things."

"I'm not crazy. I'm your wife."

"Right now those two things aren't mutually exclusive."

We sat in silence. Him by the desk, hand near the gun. Me on the sofa, feet tucked under me. The fire popped and hissed between us.

Seven minutes.

The satellite phone buzzed. Rafferty grabbed it before the first ring finished.

"Talk."

"Mr. Hale, we've got results on both." The voice on the other end was flat, professional. "Sister Agatha Brennan, St. Catherine's parish. She was real. But she passed away in 2006. Three years before the date your wife described."

Rafferty's eyes snapped to mine.

"And the stepfather?"

"Graham Fenton. Sixty-one years old. Currently residing at Greendale Care Home in Newark. He was admitted in 2019 for chronic liver failure. Still alive as of last week—nurses' log shows he got into an argument with a staff member on Tuesday over his TV remote."

Rafferty blinked.

"He's alive," the voice repeated. "Very much alive."

"That's enough." Rafferty hung up.

Then he started laughing.

Not the polite kind. The kind that bent him over, one hand bracing on the desk. He laughed until he was out of breath, until his eyes watered, until he had to loosen his collar.

"Jesus Christ, Nora." He wiped his face, still wheezing. "You actually had me. I was ready to shoot you."

Nora. That's my name. Nobody called me that except him.

He crossed the room in three strides, grabbed my face with both hands. His palms were clammy. His eyes were bright—half relief, half fury.

"Why?" he demanded. "Why would you make up something like that?"

I looked down. Let my voice go small. "I wanted you to think I was more than just... this." I gestured at myself, at the designer dress draped over the chair, at the glass cage around us.

His grip softened. There it was—the tenderness that made Rafferty dangerous. He wasn't cruel all the time. If he were, this would've been easy.

"You are a decoration, darling." He tilted my chin up, thumb pressing into my jaw. "But you're a pretty one. And you tell good stories." His mouth curved. "I find that... entertaining."

Then he kissed my neck.

Slow. Deliberate. Right along the collarbone, where I'd layered the scented balm thickest. His lips dragged across my skin, and I felt his breath hitch.

"God, you smell incredible," he murmured against my throat. "What is this?"

"Something I mixed myself. Sandalwood and neroli."

"Mm." He kissed lower. My shoulder. The hollow above my clavicle. "You scared me tonight. That deserves a punishment."

His hands slid down my arms. I tilted my head back and let him.

After a while he pulled back, reached for his whiskey, and drained what was left. Shook his head like a dog coming out of water.

"Strong pour," he muttered, blinking hard. "My tongue is going numb."

"It's the altitude," I said softly. "And you've been drinking since noon."

"Yeah." He rubbed his jaw. Rolled his shoulders. Then a grin spread across his face—loose, sloppy, the kind of grin that came with lowered inhibitions and raised confidence.

"Actually, I kind of like it." He pulled me closer by the waist. "Makes everything feel... more."

He kissed me again. Harder this time. Hungrier. His hands weren't as steady as before, but he didn't notice. Or didn't care.

"Bed," he said. "Now."

I took his hand and led him across the room.