Page 48 of Winning Bid

I laugh. “You think I can eat right now?”

“You think I care if you think you can eat right now? I am going to make you breakfast, and you’re going to shove it down your throat whether you like it or not, and that will give us the strength to figure out what the fuck we do now. But you’re not going to think with a clear head until you’ve eaten and gotten some coffee in you, so march to the dinette table and sit your pretty little ass down, and I will bring you food. Go.” She points angrily at the table.

Well, shit. “Alright, alright,” I climb up off the floor and go to the table as she stomps to the kitchen.

Moss’ eyes go wide. “You are right. She is perfect for you.”

June is still in a snit, but it’s impossible not to catch the curl of her lips as she smirks a little. Moss joins me at the table while she works in the kitchen. I am in awe of her. How she can function right now is so far beyond me that I’m speechless.

For her sake, I try to form sentences. “What, uh, what did your spy tell you?”

“That Wachowski spoke to someone on the phone, and what I have already said is what she heard. She was uncertain about the context, and that keeps her safe for now. My informant is good. Solid. She has never steered me wrong before.”

“Banks and Wachowski all but said they had video,” I mutter, stomach twisting in on itself. “But until now, I could tell myself it wasn’t true.”

Moss takes a breath. “Could be that he is feeding her information.”

I frown up at him. “You mean he knew she was listening?”

He shrugs his huge shoulders. “Could be. But I would not bet my life on it if I were you. Wachowski has … a reputation. He plays games. Tries to make people act outside their best interest to trip them up. He could have been lying to make her report this?—

“And see if I go on the lam?”

“Da.”

I blow out a breath, trying to clear my head. But it’s still muddy. “Fuck.”

“Da.”

June projects from the kitchen, “It seems to me there are two paths in front of us. One where we flee the country and spend the rest of our days running from the law, and one where we face whatever this is. What do you want to do?”

“Well, I don’t want to go to prison?—"

“Duh.”

“And I want to spend the rest of my days with you. Come what may.”

She smiles up at me before pouring batter onto a skillet. “Good.”

“The problem is, I don’t know what that requires. If we flee, obviously, it’s to someplace without extradition, and that means passports, which are back in Boston, and fleeing is its own set of big problems. I’ll never see my family again. My friends … my home country. Not any of it. We’ll have to create a whole new life, new identities, new everything. I’m a lawyer in the US. I don’t have marketable skills outside of that, so I have no idea what I’d do to support us.”

Moss lifts a shoulder. “New identity? I can help. New job? That, too.”

“Thanks, but I feel like I shouldn’t even be going down this rabbit hole when I haven’t heard from Pym yet. He has informants in the BPD, too, and I would think if Wachowski is pulling some stunt, he’d be feeding them information, too, right? So, Pym should be calling. But he hasn’t. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Not to mention,” June begins, “I don’t want to raise children on the lam in some foreign country where I don’t know anyone, don’t speak the language, etcetera. I wanted to raise our kids here. I want them to have a normal life. What kind of life would they have if we’re looking over our shoulders all the time?”

Moss shrugs. “It is not so bad to raise children this way. My girls are thriving.”

We both stare at him for a solid minute before I ask, “You’re on the lam?”

“Is a matter of opinion. And jurisdiction. But I am wanted man in many places, and I raise my girls happy and healthy anyway. Children do not need to know the troubles of their parents. They need shelter, food, and love. Anything else is bonus.”

She sighs as she delivers a stack of pancakes, butter, and real maple syrup. “Point is, I want our kids to have normal, and Moss, forgive me, but I am not cool enough about murder charges to be able to give my kids normal under those circumstances.”

If the pancakes didn’t look picture-perfect and steamy, I wouldn’t have touched them. But they are, so after an unhealthy amount of butter and syrup, I dive into them. After the first bite, I once again find myself marveling at the woman I want to marry. “You can make these … like, anytime?”

“Well, yeah.”

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