The Waterfall

“She should go to the police,” Sebastian said.

“She can’t, not with what she has so far. Jack Swift would pounce. The Capitol police would send up a team to investigate. The press would be all over the story.” Plato stopped, groaning. “You didn’t let her get that far, did you?”

“Plato, I swear to God, I wish you were still jumping out of helicopters rescuing people. I could sell the company and retire, instead of letting some dipshit busybody like you run it.”

“You didn’t even hear her out? I don’t believe it. Jesus, Redwing. You really are an asshole.”

Sebastian started down the porch steps. He was stiff, and he needed coffee. He needed to stop thinking about Lucy. Thinking about Lucy had never, ever done him any good. “I figured she told you everything. No need to make her go through it twice.”

“Lucy deserves—”

“I don’t care what Lucy deserves.”

Sebastian could feel his friend staring at him, knowing what he was thinking, and why he’d slept out on the porch. “Yeah, you do. That’s the problem. You’ve been in love with her for sixteen years.”

That was Plato. Always speaking out loud what was best left unsaid. Sebastian walked out to his truck. It was turning into a beautiful day. He could go riding. He could take a run with the dogs. He could read ghost

stories in his hammock.

The truth was, he was no damn good. About all he hadn’t done in the past year since he’d shot a friend gone bad was kick the dogs. He’d renounced violence, but not gambling, not carousing, not ignoring his friends and responsibilities. He didn’t shave often enough. He didn’t do laundry often enough. He could afford all the help he needed, but that meant having people around him and being nice. He didn’t have much use for people. And he wasn’t very nice.

“I can’t help Lucy,” he said. “I’ve forgotten half of what I knew.”

“You’re so full of shit, Redwing. You haven’t forgotten a goddamn thing.” Plato came and stood beside him. The warm, dry air, he said, helped the pain in his leg. And he liked the work. He was good at it. “Even if you’re rusty—which you aren’t—you still have your instincts. They’re a part of you.”

Then the violence was a part of him, too. Sebas-