“He used to talk about doing something like that with the hotel.”
Angelina nodded. “They show up with his handwritten invites and we give them a home. Then he puts them to work helping his clients.”
Shee leaned toward Angelina and whispered. “Why does the curly-headed one hate me?”
Angelina lowered her own voice. “Mick treats her like a daughter.”
“Ah. And I’m the real deal. She feels threatened?”
Angelina shrugged one shoulder.
Shee watched Croix dig, remembering when her father’s approval meant everything. She wondered how she’d stayed away so long. “So, what happened? Something during one of his good Samaritan missions? Did he have a stroke?”
Angelina shook her head. “A month ago someone shot him in the head. Not during a tussle, either. It was a hit. A sniper.”
Shee gasped. “What? Who?”
“I don’t know. You and Mick are the trackers, and you were nowhere to be found.”
Shee ignored the accusation in Angelina’s voice and stared at the ground, doing the math.
So close. Where was I four weeks ago?
She swallowed and fought to keep from slipping into a quagmire of her own regret.
“What do you know? Was it here?” she asked.
“No. He went to help a friend. It was a setup.”
“What friend?”
Angelina’s tone grew icy. “I don’t know. Mick wasn’t big on leaving trails. Called him Thor but I doubt that’s his real name.”
“Viggo,” said Shee, picturing her father’s enormous friend.
Suddenly, my whole world revolves around giants.
“You know him?” asked Angelina.
“He was on Dad’s team, back in the day.”
Angelina released a shaky sigh. “Okay. That’s something we can work with.”
“Big ole Viking—from Minnesota, I think.”
Angelina slapped a hand on Shee’s thigh. “Yes. That tracks. Someone sent an anonymous email from an untraceable IP.” She waggled a finger in Croix’s direction. “Whatever that means. That’s her end of things. The email told us Mick was in an Airbnb in Minneapolis.”
Shee gaped. “They left him lying in a coma in an Airbnb?”
“Yes.”
“That’s insane.”
“Yes. But it means someone wanted to help.”
“Viggo?”
“Maybe. I had Croix try to track down who rented the house. The owner could only say it was a woman’s voice on the phone.”
Shee nodded. “I need all the information. Everything you’ve got.”
“Naturally.”
“Why’d you bring him here? He’s not safe—”
“Yes, he is.”
“How can you know—”
“He’s dead.”
Shee caught her breath and, apparently sensing her horror, Angelina spoke quickly.
“Not really. We declared him dead and brought him back on the sly.”
Shee realized she’d tensed and rolled her shoulders to keep from twisting into a pretzel. “What’s the diagnosis?”
Angelina’s voice dropped to match the softness of her own. “He could come out of it. His brain is active. Doc says he finds it odd he hasn’t woken yet, but the brain is a mystery and all that medical jibberish.”
“Can you trust the doctor?”
She nodded. “He was on Mick’s short list of people to call if anything ever happened to him.”
Shee picked at the bark of the gumbo limbo, removing a peel and snapping it into smaller pieces.
Mick told her to come home two years ago. Said he’d handled everything.
Why didn’t I come back?
“Did Mick ever tell you who’d been after me and why he thought it was okay to come home?”
“No.” Angelina scowled.
Shee raised a hand and put it over her eye as if creating a makeshift eyepatch. “He might have been wrong. The person after me might have been who shot him.”
Croix stopped digging and pulled the buds from her ears. “That’s not it.”
Shee realized she hadn’t been hearing the tinny sound of Croix’s music. The girl had been eavesdropping.
“What’s not?” she asked.
“The stuff that drips out of your nose but that’s not important right now,” said Croix. She giggled and looked at Bracco, who snorted a laugh of his own without slowing his digging.
“Don’t get them started with the movie quotes,” grumbled Angelina. “They’re totally stupid together.”
“Make your point,” said Shee to Croix.
The girl stabbed her shovel into the ground. “You said it might be the same person, the one after you and the one who shot Mick, but that’s a negative, Ghost Rider.”
Bracco chuckled.
“Cut it out,” warned Angelina.
“Why do you think that?” asked Shee.
Croix sniffed. “Because he took care of your guy.”
“How? Who was it?”
Croix took a deep breath and then released it as if the weight of the world had settled on her shoulders. “He wanted to tell you.”
Shee stood. “That’s all fine and dandy but circumstances have changed.”
Croix sniggered. “Fine and dandy—?”
“Just tell me.” Shee took a step toward the girl to snatch the handle of the shovel from her. “This person hunted me for almost twenty years. He ruined my life. Tell me or I swear I’ll bury you in this grave with the old man.”
Croix took a step back, rising from the shallow ditch she’d dug herself. Shee thought she’d seen a flash of fear in the girl’s expression, but it shifted now to a smirk.
“If you finish digging, I’ll tell you,” she said, motioning to the hole.
Shee thought about swinging the shovel at the girl. Instead, she thrust out a hand. “Give me the gloves.”
Croix handed them over.
Shee jerked them on, her gaze never leaving Croix’s. “Tell me while I dig.”
Croix sat beside Angelina, who patted her leg.
“Tell her. This isn’t funny.”
Croix shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Shee stabbed the shovel into the ground. “I swear to—”
Croix held up her palms. “Seriously, I don’t know. He didn’t tell me. I just wanted a break.”
Shee looked at Angelina. Her friend’s
