Ghost shuddered against him, and Spratt pulled him close. “Dear boy. I wish you would allow me to help you.”
Ghost merely allowed the embrace at first, his lean body almost vibrating, but slowly, when Spratt only held him and ran a tender hand along the curve of his upper back, he relaxed. He leaned in closer, and his voice deepened, less of that sweet tenor and closer to a full-grown man’s voice when he said, “I don’t know what to do.”
“Shh. You’ll figure it out.” Spratt kissed him again, the top of his head this time.
Ghost didn’t say anything for a moment, only peered at him with a curiosity that made him seem older than twenty. He murmured, “I’ve almost told you. Several times. I—” His eyes widened. His lips parted. “I—I—shouldn’t have said that.” Almost inaudibly, he said, “I didn’t mean to say that.”
“None of us can live without trusting someone,” Spratt said, even as his heart began to thunder. It was working, as he’d known it would. Ghost was becoming dependent, coming to need him, coming to see how safe he was, here in Spratt’s home, away from the threats of Yelena Krayeva and her murderous offspring. He would talk soon enough. He’d explain where the woman was, explain her business, explain how he’d been roped in, too young and innocent to possess the tools necessary to survive free of her influence.
Ghost would tell him everything. Soon.
He reached out and ran his fingers through that golden hair, tugging on the strands. “You’re mine,” he said. “Mine to protect. You know that, don’t you? There’s nowhere you could go where I wouldn’t save you and bring you back.”
Ghost’s lashes lowered, his expression hard to read. A heartbeat later, he pressed his face into the palm of Spratt’s hand. Lovely. So sweet, so lovely.
“I know,” he said quietly.
“Good.” He dropped a last kiss on that button nose. “Now it’s time for you to return to the closet.”
Chapter Nineteen
While Tobias slept, Sullivan crept down into the living room, turned on a solitary lamp and his laptop, and tried not to panic.
It was only nine-thirty, but by rights he should be out cold, just as Tobias was; neither of them had gotten much sleep this week during the stakeout. But while they’d been cuddling in bed earlier, Tobias had recounted what he’d overheard from the cops by the stage. The mention of Yelena Krayeva, the mention of the mysterious Kellen that Tobias’s friend Church had confirmed was Krayeva’s lackey. Spratt’s reference to a caged animal. Sullivan wasn’t convinced that the deputy chief—soon to be actual chief—of police’s caged animal talk referred to Ghost, but it was suspicious either way.
Hardly traditional pillow talk, and it was enough to ensure that his mind wasn’t going to settle for a while yet. If he didn’t loathe the idea of Tobias waking up alone to find him gone, he’d go for a run.
What the hell had they stumbled into here?
He would have to bring Raina in at some point. If Klein realized Sullivan had figured out he’d lied about his identity, Klein might involve her, and Sullivan didn’t like the idea of her being blind to that risk. Not that he was looking forward to the reaming he was going to get over Tobias’s involvement in this. It would take her five seconds to realize that he and Tobias were sleeping together, too, and that would be another tick against him.
He had a feeling he was going to get fired.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
This was the part Raina had warned him about when he’d first taken the case. With subpoenas, he’d always had the law on his side, always had a pretty clear view of where to go next. Now every choice struck him as a potential landmine, and for the first time, he wasn’t sure he could pull this off. Maybe he deserved to get fired.
But even if he did, he sure as hell wasn’t going to quit. If Nathalie was alive, shitty detective or not, Sullivan was all she had, so after several minutes of feeling sorry for himself, he shook it off and tried to figure out where to go next.
He’d taken pictures of every car in the lot at the picnic, and he got those tag numbers started at the DMV. It took all of five minutes to look up the property records of the house where the woman and her children were living—it was still in the name of Matthew and Nicole Tidwell, so that the was the balding man sorted out. A brief search there only ratcheted his tension higher—Matthew Tidwell worked in Internal Affairs. The cop whose job it was to keep other cops clean apparently made a routine out of picking up prostitutes and consorting with guys who pretended to be other people.
In theory, Tidwell could’ve been picking up Ghost because he was a material witness who had valuable info about the Krayevs. He might’ve used Cindy Jackman’s car to pick him up because his truck was in the shop or something, not because he wanted to hide his own involvement. The conversation at the picnic could’ve been about a legitimate police operation. All of it could be on the up-and-up. In theory.
Except, of course, for Sullivan’s client’s involvement, the redheaded cop who was searching for a missing ten-year-old from an unsolved murder in 1992 loosely involving Yelena Krayeva. If it was legitimate, why couldn’t he do it at work? Why couldn’t he use department resources? If he was following up a cold case on his own time, why lie about his name? He had more clout as a cop than he did as a family member, so it didn’t make sense.
Also, how the hell had the redheaded man gotten away with pretending to be Nelson Klein for so long? Sullivan didn’t have to look far for confirmation that his client was a damn liar—it only took twenty
