Page 3 of Amber Gambler

“I need his help, okay?” I left the door cracked an inch so we could talk. “In a professional capacity.”

I just hadn’t realized that help was set to arrive before I brushed my hair or my teeth.

“You’ve stayed alive and out of prison this long by avoiding police in a professional capacity.”

“I know.”

“You’re making an exception because it’s Harrow.”

“I know.”

“It’s dangerous to let him back into your life.”

“I know, I know, I know.” I finished yanking on my clothes and burst into the room. “Don’t lecture me.”

Lectures were Harrow’s thing, not his. I didn’t need Matty piling on me too.

“Frankie.” He heaved a sigh up from the tips of his freakishly long toes. “I worry about you with him.”

This was a prime opportunity to ease his fears by explaining what I learned the night Lyle died. The night Harrow killed him. It had been Lyle—not Harrow—who reported me to the authorities when I was twenty. Desperate to save his nephew from my evil clutches, Lyle called in a tip to the Society for Post-Life Management. The Society, based out of Savannah, Georgia, was the ruling body for necromancers.

Despite not being a member of their club, I managed to fall under their purview but not their auspices.

As a result of the anonymous report, a sentinel, one of their enforcers, caught me performing services for a deceased client red-handed. The sentinel would have locked me up and thrown away the key if the spirit hadn’t helped me escape. The strike at me, which would have shattered us Marys, granted Lyle his wish.

I swore off Harrow to protect my family, and my freedom, after that near lethal brush with the Society.

Learning the truth all these years later left me sad for what we might have been but also bitter he made the decision to cover for Lyle, knowing it would end things between us, instead of explaining the situation to me.

Until I unraveled the confusing knot of feelings within me, I would stuff this tangle of emotion where the keen eyes of my siblings wouldn’t find it and start pulling on strings. “Iappreciate you looking out for me where he’s concerned, Mary, I do.” I wrestled my frizzy hair into a ponytail. “I promise I’ll explain later.”

“After you talk to Harrow.”

“After I talk to Harrow.”

“Come on.” He tossed me my steel-toe boots, and I sat on the bed to lace them. “We’re running late.”

As far as temporary truces went, I was willing to take it. “Busy day on the schedule?”

“Janie Faulwetter is bringing in her 1961 Cadillac Series 62 convertible for an oil change.”

“The metallic-rose one?”

“Pascal calls her the love of his life. I’m scared I’ll wake up in a Vegas honeymoon suite one day.”

“With Ms. Faulwetter or her Caddy?”

A snort blasted out his nose that made me smile.

“Get ready to run.” I indicated Badb with a jerk of my chin. “We won’t have but a second to escape.”

Usually, I gave her free rein while I was working, but today I didn’t want to risk Harrow catching her alone.

That required bribing her and some fancy footwork.

Counting out five ham slices from a pack in the fridge, I spread them across the counter. Badb wasted no time claiming her prize, giving us a slim window of opportunity to bolt. We slid out the door, and I threw the lock right as a steadytap, tap, tapstarted up on the other side of the wood.

“Forget running.” He looped his arm through mine. “There’s your daily cardio.”

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