Envy

as she put her arms around him, they didn’t go far—the guy had to top out at around two fifty, maybe two seventy- five.

As the man hugged her back, that laser stare locked on Veck. Like he knew everything his dinner guest wanted to do to his daughter.

Oh, shit . . .

Tucking Reilly under his arm, her father came forward and put out a palm that was big as a hubcap. “Tom Reilly.”

“You both have the same name,” Reilly’s mom said. “It’s meant to be.”

Veck blinked for a sec.

Reilly laughed. “Didn’t I mention I was adopted?”

Fuck the adoption. He didn’t give a shit what color her parents were, or how it had happened. He was just praying that her father never, ever found out what had happened on his little girl’s dining table the night before.

“Detective DelVecchio,” he said, leaning in for the shake. “Sir.”

“Pleased to meet you. You want a drink?”

“Yeah, that’d be great.” Maybe they could just run an IV of Johnnie Walker into his arm.

“Game’s on.”

“Oh, yeah?”

Just as Reilly’s mom was shutting the front door, Veck glanced outside onto the lawn. That feeling of being watched dogged him still—to the point where he wondered if you couldn’t catch paranoia like a cold.

Maybe someone with a persecution complex had coughed on him.

“This way,” her father said, like he was used to leading people.

Shaking himself back into focus, Veck fell in line with Reilly and the four of them walked back into a wide- open stretch of modern living, where the kitchen and the family room were all in one big space. The plasma screen was tuned to ESPN, and he knew instantly which chair was her father’s—it had the New York Times, Sports Illustrated , and the remotes lined up next to it on a table. Armchair beside it? The Economist, The Joy of Cooking, and the phone.

“Sam Adams okay?” Mr. Reilly asked from the bar.

“Perfect.”

“Glass?”

“I’m a bottle man.”

“Me, too.”

As Reilly and her mom chatted up a storm, Veck sat down with the other Tom in the room and thanked the good Lord that the television was on. It gave her father something to stare at other than him.

Veck accepted the lager that was handed over, brought it to his mouth and took a swallow—

“So have you and my daughter set a date for the wedding yet?”

The choking came fast and furious as air and beer fought for lane space in his throat.

“Daddy!”

As Reilly started in on the oh-no-you-didn’ts, her father threw back his head and laughed. Clapping Veck on the shoulder, he said, “Sorry, my man, you looked so damn stiff I had to loosen you up a little.”

Veck did his best to grab some oxygen. “Hypoxia—good strategy.”

“Thought so.” The guy twisted around toward his wife and daughter. “He’s going to be fine. Not to worry.”

“Don’t harass the guest, honey,” the mother said from by the stove. Like the guy was a lion playing with a piece of meat.

“Fine—but if he doesn’t start breathing normally again, I’ll give him CPR.” Mr. Reilly leaned in. “I also know the Heimlich. So you’re safe with solid food, too.”

“I’m so relieved,” Veck said dryly.

Jim stood outside the pool of light thrown by the house, watching Veck and Reilly with what had to be the woman’s parents. The bunch of them ended up at a square table, sitting down to what looked like Italian food. Lot of talking. Lot of laughing.

Veck was a little reserved, but that was probably SOP for the guy—especially given that it was clear he was interested in his partner: He was all about the clandestine looks, shooting them across that table when people were focused elsewhere.

This was everything that was good in the world, Jim thought. This was the Barten house without the tragedy, a happy family just going about their business in the world. And this blissful, simple existence was exactly what Devina loved to destroy.

This was what everyone had to lose.

Jim cursed and rubbed the back of his neck. Shit, maybe his boys had a point, maybe he was getting too distracted with the Sissy thing. It didn’t feel like that was the case, but that was Eddie and Adrian’s point—if you were all up in your head about something, you lost your judgment.

But come on, he was focused on Veck. He was with the guy: Devina so much as sneezed in that detective’s direction, Jim was going to be on her like a plague.

So how was he not working this? How was he compromised?

He went for his smokes, took out a coffin nail, and lit up. He was utterly cloaked, so it wasn’t as if anyone was going to see the orange glow.

Man, think of the damage he could have done in XOps if he’d had all these bells and whistles back then—and now he knew why God didn’t give people superpowers. Humans were dangerous enough as it was. . . .

Time ground by, although he knew that from his watch, not any kind of stars or moon. The cloud cover was thick and the grumble of thunder off in the distance made him wonder whether he could be not just invisible, but waterproof—

From out of the corner of his eye, he caught a shadow darting from tree to tree. The thing was low to the ground and moving fast, exactly the way Devina’s minions liked to roll up into a fight.

Falling into a defensive stance, he reached for his weapons—and found none.

Fucking hell, fucking perfect. Here he was in the ’burbs without backup, with nothing but a house frame and some clear glass windows to keep the target out of the demon’s reach: Because, friggin’ hothead that he was, he’d left without his gun.

At least if Eddie and Adrian were here, the three of them could divide and conquer.

Not compromised, his ass. He’d been so caught up in the drama that he hadn’t taken care of himself, or Veck.

Shit.

The shadow moved to another tree . . . and came out onto the lawn.

Jim frowned and eased up. “Dog?”

As a little happy bark rippled over to him, it was clear that what he was seeing was not a mirage: More than the information his eyes provided, in his chest, he knew that was his animal.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

As the wiry-haired stray came over, his limp hampered him only a bit, and Jim was abruptly reminded of the first day he’d met the dog at that job site.

Where Jim had died for the first time.

That had been the start of it all, hadn’t it. And he’d had no idea where it was going to take him.

Sinking down on his haunches, he gave Dog some good stroking. “Are Eddie and Adrian here?”

The chuff that came back at him seemed like a “negs” if he’d ever heard it.

“Well, I’m glad you are.”

Dog planted his butt on the ground at Jim’s feet. Even though the creature was smaller than him by about a hundred and ninety pounds and nearly six feet, Jim had the sense that he was being protected, not the other way around.

“You’re not really a dog, are you.”

There was a stretch of silence. Then another chuff—which seemed rather noncommittal.