She ignores me and scolds in her thick accent, “Isabella calls Josephine every day. Every single day!”

I busy my mouth with a sip of coffee and let her go on about how her neighbors of twenty years—another Italian family who my parents spend half their time praising their rosebushes and the other half lobbing Italian insults at over the fence—have respectful children who call twice a day and visit every Sunday, and have already given Josephine and her husband, Gus, six grandchildren. And how her heart is broken that neither of her children has had babies yet.

I say nothing because I’ve heard it countless times before. I’ve given up on promising my mom that I do want children at some point in my life, but that right now my career is more important. She doesn’t get it. Her jobs have never been anything more than a means to put food on the table. It’s as if she thinks that she can irritate me into getting pregnant.

“How are things at home? How’s dad?”

“Oh, you know. Busy fixing the coffeemaker.”

I sigh. “Again?” That basic twelve-cup machine has been “fixed” so many times that it only brews three cups of black tar now. I eye the machine on my counter, one of those high-end computerized gadgets that makes everything from espresso to cappuccino with the flick of a button. I considered buying one for them for Christmas but abandoned that idea when I looked up the price. I love my parents, but I’d need to take out a small loan to afford it. “Just go and buy a new one.” He’s going to lose an entire day, standing around in his garage, tinkering with it.

“And what, just throw this one away?” I can picture her scowl. “Your generation is all about throwing everything away . . .” I tune her out. Another battle not worth having. This is my life, though. These are Clara’s real parents. Not the sleek, sophisticated couple that raised Rain.

“How’s the weather at home?” I finally manage to squeeze in as I peek past the blinds to see the moisture from a light drizzle cover the glass. And beyond that, Luke, milling around his living room, his coat in one hand, as if he’s collecting things before heading out. I wonder where he’s going.

My mother’s heavy-accented voice pulls me away from him. “What kind of life is this that you can’t even tell me where you are? I don’t even know where my own daughter is! What if something happens to you?”

“You’ll be the first to know if something happens to me,” I assure her.

That sets off yet another rant, too fast for me to catch all the words, this one in Italian. She doesn’t usually harp on me this much. I know it’s because she loves me and I haven’t exactly made her life easy. She started sleeping with a Jesus statue by her bed the day I graduated from police college.

Luckily there’s a knock on the door. “I’ve got to go now, Mom,” I interrupt, checking the peephole to see Warner standing on the other side. “It’s my boss. I’ll call you in a few days.” I hang up before I get any more grief. It can be exhausting, talking to that woman. Someday she’s going to realize that I’m no longer that little girl who splashes around in puddles in her rubber boots and that I don’t make my choices based on her approval. Then maybe we’ll have a normal conversation.

“I could kiss you right now.” I step back to let Warner in.

“Because of my swarthy accent or because of this?” He drops a paper bag on the counter.

I stick my nose in, inhaling the fresh scent of a buttery chocolate scone. “Definitely this.” Warner learned of my weakness for baked sweets early on. Now he swings by the little shop at the corner anytime he’s stopping by my place in the morning. Which is more than I’d ever expect from a handler. Aside from regular check-ins after meets and surveillance from my cover team whenever I’m with my target, I don’t usually see or talk to them. I guess the Feds operate differently than your average city police force. Maybe they pay him to come by and check up on me.

“Bill tells me that 12 called last night?”

“Yup.”

“And you have a date tonight?” Warner pushes.

“Yup . . .”

His brow spikes. “That turned around quickly.”

“Crazy, right?” I lean over and scratch behind Stanley’s ear, avoiding Warner’s shrewd gaze. Hoping he doesn’t notice the dark bags under my eyes from lack of sleep. I tossed and turned, my body wrapped up in sheets, my mind wrapped up in Luke Boone, all kinds of insane late-night thoughts and hopes fluttering through my mind. Specifically, what could happen if we have it all wrong about him. What if he’s an innocent in all this?

“What do you think made him finally call?”

“Besides my beauty and charm?” I glance up to see the smirk. “Who knows? He’s a criminal. They run hot and cold, you know that. I can’t say what’s running through his head.” That’s a believable answer. We’ve heard it all before. Interrogate a suspect and you’ll get all kinds of skewed logic, crazy explanations for why they do what they do. Like, that murdering a father of two so they can make a grand cash off a stolen truck to pay their rent is completely reasonable.

Wanting the conversation to change course, I ask, “Will you be on tonight?”

“No. I’m heading to San Francisco for a wedding.”

“Oh yeah? Who’s getting married?”

“My girlfriend’s sister.”