The Given by Vicki Pettersson

to the base of her spine. But then she remembered Kit standing there, and instead of giving an admiring nod, she shook her head. “Some P.I.”
    Kit couldn’t stand it anymore. She whirled and left Barbara there, a small woman in a red velvet booth contemplating a love that was epic and enduring and true . . . and one she’d clearly never known in the entire length and breadth of her mean and bitter life.
    Y ou did something to her,” Kit told Grif as they sailed from the casino’s parking garage back onto Vegas’s main drag. Kit had actually allowed Grif to take the wheel of her beloved Duetto, a testament to how much she trusted him . . . and to how much vodka she’d downed due to nervousness and shock. Besides, she was still working through her thoughts on Grif’s abrupt return to her life. It seemed like a magic trick to her. There, gone, then back again. Poof.
    â€œHand to God,” Grif said, lifting his palms to the sky, and Kit pointed, directing them back to the steering wheel. “I never met any Barbara McCoy.”
    â€œHer name used to be Barbara DiMartino.”
    Grif jerked his head. “Sal was married to a woman named Theresa when I was alive. Barbara came . . . after.”
    No she hadn’t, Kit thought, turning away, watching as the neon glare of the Strip was snuffed out in her rearview mirror. Barbara had married the old mobster only months after Theresa’s death, and Kit would bet the car she was sitting in that Barbara had been lurking around before then. “What if she was part of the reason you were killed? After all, someone spread the rumor that you hurt”— raped —“the twelve-year-old niece of a mobster.”
    They’d discovered that nugget of information last summer. It was a ludicrous lie . . . but one that’d gotten him killed.
    Grif hummed, considering it. “I only worked that one case for the DiMartinos. Beyond returning little Mary Margaret unharmed, and getting dry-gulched for the effort, I had no dealings with that family whatsoever.”
    Kit said nothing, because she hadn’t been there . . . but she did know women. She could read them inside and out, and Barbara had all the markings of one who’d been scorned. A woman didn’t hate a man in the way she hated Grif unless he’d all but crushed her.
    There was more to consider, more to ask, but it was late, and Kit was exhausted. Grif was, too. She saw it in the slump of his wide shoulders, and the circles stamped beneath his eyes, though she could tell from his frown that he was still stewing over Barbara. That’s why she was surprised when he asked, “We going home?”
    Silence swelled in the car.
    He’d said it without thinking, his tired brain lagging behind his mouth. Kit ignored the slip, knowing that if they were going to work together there were bound to be others— home and honey and Kitty-Cat —all the things that had once marked him as hers, and vice versa. Swallowing hard, she told herself she’d take them as they came. She’d also protect herself this time, and surround herself with people and places that did the same . . . but for Kit that meant home. She nodded, and silence reigned from there on out.
    Kit lived in Paradise Palms, a mid-century neighborhood in the middle of Las Vegas, and situated behind the city’s oldest existing mall, the Boulevard. Though Paradise Palms had few rivals for its retro-style homes and spacious streets, it was no longer the crown jewel of the Las Vegas Valley. The brick facades were crumbling at the edges, and the once sweeping lawns were dustier as the desert attempted to reclaim its territory. Its central location also made it a favorite of both gang and police patrols.
    Yet the function and form of the neighborhood was solid, hearkening back to a simpler time. Butterfly rooftops, sleek lines, and large glass panes—Kit