Page 12 of Killer Clone

Hagen was happy for Ander. He and Alessandra hadn’t been together long, but they were already settling into the domestic life that Ander clearly craved. “I’m glad it’s working out for you.”

“It really is, you know? It’s funny. I think of all the fights Kelsey and I had before we broke up. Everything was a struggle. We argued about every little thing. But this is easy. Just smooth. It’s like we both wanted the same thing at the same time and found it in each other. I couldn’t be happier, man. Really.”

If anyone else had spoken like that, he’d have believed they were trying to convince themselves of something. But Ander had never struggled to face the truth. He’d always known what he wanted.

Even in the kind of day-to-day drudgery that domestic life entailed—feeding the kids, shepherding them around—Ander was in his element.

Hagen and Stella had forged their bond in moments of stress. He’d seen Stella’s determination, her courage, her intelligence, and found so much to admire in one beautiful package. He was lucky to have found her, luckier still that she’d found something in him.

But he didn’t think either one of them was “in their element.” And now they faced their real test.

Life and work together, like Ander and Alessandra, day after day.

Hagen had never let a relationship progress this far. This was a whole new challenge.

He rubbed at a spot on the floor with the toe of his shoe. “Good for you. I’m glad you’re happy.”

Ander grinned. “We both are, right? Stella’s a great catch. Way out of your league. Different game, really. She’s Roland-Garros, and you’re a pickleball tourney at the rec courts.”

Hagen didn’t appreciate the crack but sloughed it off. “Thanks, man.”

“What do you make of the new girl? Anja. You worked with her long in San Francisco?”

Shit.He’d known the conversation was coming, but still…

“No. A few months. Two or three, I think. She was coming in as I was going out. She’s good. She’s got a way of developing assets in the field.”

“Really?” Ander raised his brow. He clearly wanted more.

Talking about Anja as an agent was something Hagen could easily handle. “We had a case. My last one in San Fran. There were reports of a gang moving Colombian cocaine in nightclubs. We figured we’d need a good eight months to figure out who was doing what and gather evidence. Within a month, Anja had gotten three bartenders and half a dozen bouncers leaking information.”

“Oh, yeah? How’d she do that?”

“She can be…persuasive. She spoke to them, their families, dug hard into their backgrounds. Didn’t take her long to figure out each person’s weakness and decide whether they needed a carrot or a stick, a shove against the wall or an envelope filled with Benjamins. We wrapped the whole thing up in two and a half months. It was good work.”

Ander uncrossed his ankles and recrossed them. “And?”

“And what?”

“Hey, man. I’m just saying. Those googly eyes she was making at you? What was that all about?”

Hagen reached the end of the entrance hall and stopped. If Ander noticed Anja’s reaction to him, Stella certainly had. He spun on his heel. “Yeah, yeah. We had a thing. She was interested, and I was…there. Willing, I guess. She figured out my weak point.”

“What was that?”

Hagen hated how uncomfortable this entire conversation made him. He had nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to hide. Not really.

He rolled his neck. “I don’t know. She just got too close, you know? One night, I ended up talking about my dad’s murder, and I got so angry…I guess I wasn’t ready for anyone to see that side of me yet.”

“These things take time to process. You seem better now, though.” Ander’s solemn expression morphed into a knowing look. “Told Stella?”

“No.” He threw his hands up. “When? I was blindsided back there. But she’s probably figured it out. Not much gets past her.”

“No, it doesn’t. I don’t envy that conversation.” Ander chuckled. “Look at you. Always punching above your weight.”

The door opened, and Caspar Brennan waved them in. He tossed Hagen and Ander each a pair of nitrile gloves, which they caught and snapped over their fingers.

Dr. Brennan’s jacket was always too white, too pressed. And the halo of blond hair around his bald head was always neatly trimmed, the small tuft that remained above his forehead never out of place. As though the corpses the M.E. dealt with all day cared how he looked.

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