The Taken

He inclined his head, and slumped into his corner chair. “You’re the reporter.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Toldja.” He pointed to himself. “P.I.”

She tilted her head. “But you never said who hired you.”

Yep, she was a strong one. Sharp, too. “Someone interested in the Rockwell case.”

“She wasn’t a case to me. She was a friend.”

“Probably why she left you this.” He threw her notebook on the table between them. He’d discovered it in the corner where he’d felled the blond man the night before. Even if Grif hadn’t seen the man stealing the journal on the gas-station security cam, this would have been proof positive that he was both girls’ killer.

Or would have been, if not for Grif.

Recognizing it, Craig let her cup clatter to the table, sloshing caffeinated gold across the shiny top. The spill looked like one of those Rorschach tests Grif’d had to take when entering the army. He wondered what it said about him that this one resembled a black angel carrying an enormous scythe.

“I found it on the floor.” He jerked his chin. “Open it to the last entry.”

She did, immediately. It was interesting, Grif thought, the way curiosity wiped away her fatigue. Maybe that was the spine holding her up, the wire threading her resolve. Whatever it was, it sparked the moment she spotted it, the name Rockwell had circled when Grif had allowed her to re-dress for the Everlast.

“This is why they took my notebook!” She looked up, met Grif’s gaze, then back down again. “Oh, Nic! You’re so smart.”

“So smart she almost got you killed.”

Not that he could talk.

Kit shook her head, not listening. “We were working on a story. She was meeting with someone who could provide us information when she was killed.”

“What kind of information?”

“Powerful men in compromising positions,” she said cryptically. It reminded him of Frank.

“You should go to the police.”

“You said you were going to call the police.”

Grif shrugged. “You fell asleep before telling me your cop friend’s name.”

Her eyes narrowed, though the notebook still had her attention. “I gave him this list yesterday. But this narrows it down to one.”

Grif thought of the plasma seeping into her home, curling about her flesh. “I’m sorry to break it to you, but your friend can’t help you. You have to run.”

“What?” She looked up, face wide with shock.

“Get out of town,” he said shortly. “Change your name. You got money?”

“Yes.”

“Use it. Buy yourself a new identity. Invent a new life.”

“Wait a minute,” she said, leaning over the table that wired strength back. “I’m not the one who committed a crime. I didn’t kill anyone. I stumbled onto a story, followed a source, and have clearly found something that’s more than what it seems. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Don’t matter, Katherine—”

“Kit.”

“What?”

“My name is Kit. Only my family calls me Katherine.”

Grif tapped out a smoke. “They could call you Howdy Doody for all I care. You’re still marked for death.”

She fell back at that, and Grif sighed. Too harsh. And too knowing. But he needed her to wise up, and fast. “I’m talking about the squiggly your friend drew in that notebook. Whoever killed her, whoever attacked you, saw it. It made you a target.”

“Then there’s something to it.” She lifted her chin.

“Look, I’ve seen this before. You want to change your future? You gotta change it now. In this case, alter everything about yourself.” The memory of the dooming plasma circling her ankles revisited him. It was gone for now, but he imagined it roaming outside like a wolf, searching for a way back in.

But Kit shook her head. “My life is here.”

He shrugged. “Not much longer.”

“That a threat, Mr. Shaw?”

“It’s Grif,” he said, slumping. “Only my family called me Mr. Shaw.”

“Cute.” She made a face, then crossed her arms. “But I’m not leaving. I’m going to get answers for Nic. I need to find out who killed her, why, and I’m going to make them pay for my busted door. Nobody enters my house without invitation,” she said, and looked pointedly at him.

Grif didn’t want to look impressed, but it was hard with her staring him down, tough and determined-looking. Like a lion-tamer. Like she’d said … cute.

“Guess I’ll stick around then, too,” he finally said, lifting his cup. He tried to sound spontaneous, but it was a decision he’d come to in the deep, lonely night. He couldn’t save her just to allow her to die later.

“I don’t even know you,” she snapped, as if wielding a whip.

“You didn’t know me last night, either. And you still don’t know who attacked you.”

She frowned. “You think they’ll be back?”

“You think they’ve left?” he said, and she winced again. Best to be straight, though. She needed facts. Facts were bricks. Maybe she could build herself a wall with them, too, one tall and wide and strong enough to keep her alive when he was gone. Knowing Sarge, that would be soon.

Which brought him to the other thing he’d decided in the long hours where no one on either the Surface or in the skies had been talking to him. Sarge and company had stripped him of his celestial powers, leaving him only with the tools to sense impending death. They’d dumped him here as a freak—neither Centurion nor mortal—with holes in his memory and orders to watch a fated murder.

But Grif had altered fate, and not with wings, but fists. With the part of him that had free will. The part that was human.

So Grif had decided to block out his death senses, temporarily ignore his angelic side, and use whatever remaining time he had on this mudflat to take care of a little business. A murder that had been haunting him for decades.

“Ah, here comes the catch,” Kit said, studying his face.