Page 45 of Brother's Keeper

The need for clothes made the dresser my first stop. I flung the wet towel and icepack onto the bed as I opened the topmost dresser drawer. Shivering while digging through folded shirts and pajama pants, I heardthe door creak. I didn’t turn, pretending to be engrossed in Nash’s selection of sweats.

“Didn’t expect to find you in here,” he said, walking up behind me as I unbuttoned my shirt and let it drop on the floor.

I tugged a blue hoodie from the drawer, then pulled it over my head. I was stuffing my arms into the sleeves when Nash’s warm hands slipped around my torso.

“It’s a nice surprise, though.” He tried to pull me in, but I broke away, smoothing the front of the shirt and giving the hem band a final yank.

I kept my head down and busied myself with the search for pants. After a few moments of unsuccessful rifling, Nash touched my shoulder.

“Fitch?”

I whirled around to face him, and my brows pinched as much as they could with one side of my face swollen and stiff. “Why did you give me the getaway potion?” I demanded.

His look of confusion stabbed pain in my gut. “In case you were in danger,” he said slowly. “So you could get… away…” He trailed off, going quiet until realization dawned. “You were listening.”

I nodded.

Nash nodded, too. “Then you heard what I said. It’s my bar, and I say who’s welcome here.” He gripped my arms, holding me steady as he met my reluctant gaze. “Youare welcome here.”

He meant it, which made it that much harder for me to ignore the reassurance he offered and ask, “Can you drive me home?”

“Home?” His expression strained.

Forgoing the pants, I scooped my damp shirt from the floor and draped it over my arm. “The houseboat,” I replied. “The docks. I’d go myself, but my car’s at the motel.”

“It’s late,” Nash said, backpedaling. “Why don’t you stay here tonight, and I’ll take you in the morning?”

God, I wanted that. Everything in me begged for it. But Pippa’s concerns had worried me, too. I wasn’t even mad at her because everything she had said rang with bitter truth.

I shook my head. “I need to get back. Donnie’s probably worried.”

“You could call him—”

“I could call a cab.” That came out sharper than I intended.

Judging from his wince, Nash felt the sting. His shoulders slumped through a long sigh. “Let me get my keys.”

Nash didn’t ask whatI intended to do about Jax’s goons, or missing Ripley, or Maggie. He remained as quiet as a hired chauffeur, dropping me off in the parking lot by the docks and leaving with the scarcest goodbye. He was hurt, probably angry, but I was too tired and wounded myself to dig into it.

At the houseboat, Donovan was fast asleep, apparently not worried enough to wait up, and Maggie was reposed on the couch painting her toenails. With both options for beds occupied, I stumbled in and laid on the floor, wet from the waist down and sore all over.

The next morning, I woke to Maggie trampling me in her search of our barren cabinets and reminding me I needed to replenish the groceries. Between a trip to the supermarket and a lengthy afternoon nap, I wasted most of Saturday.

Sunday morning, Donovan and I rescued the Porsche from where it had been leftbehind at Lazy Daze. I told him as little as possible about what had happened at the motel. Unlike Nash, he had follow-up questions and a few ideas about what I should do next.

Since my brain had been too rattled by Jette’s assault to form any productive ideas, I took Donovan’s suggestion to try to scout the gang’s known hideouts and see if I could stumble onto where Jax’s lackeys might be keeping Ripley. I knew they weren’t at Bitters’. I was the only one storing a prisoner there.

While at Lazy Daze picking up my car, I realized Donovan and I had not been the only ones to move out. All the gang members’ old rooms were vacant except for the one housing a family with a young child who I startled with my shouts and pounding on the locked door.

I canvassed the warehouse where Grimm had dumped the storage unit victims, and a few nearby buildings in the industrial district. I even stopped by the Blooming Orchid and found Isha frostier than ever and even less helpful than she had been with Holland’s investigation.

Out of options, I ended Sunday in a slump that was not improved by the knowledge that Jax had been transferred to Thorngate over the weekend and was no longer within reach. My hopes were further dashed when I arrived at work Monday morning to the news that the stinky shapeshifter had not, in fact, made the move to prison. He escaped en route in the middle of the day Saturday, doubtlessly aided by his cronies who would have been dead Friday night if I hadn’t spared them for the sake of gathering information.

Information I hadn’t gotten and was beginning to fear I never would.

“Where wereyouSaturday afternoon, Farrow?” Tobin squinted across the cramped room at me.

“At home, thanks for asking,” I replied.

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