I stirred the ice in my cup with the straw. “At least until he can drum up some bogus charge.”

“I don’t plan to be around that long. I’m thinking, I’ll go home, have a quick and painful reunion with my family, then find some excuse to get Lance alone long enough to knock him out and do Marc’s snatch-’n’-grab.” Jace grinned and Marc ignored the reference. “I might even be able to talk him into going somewhere with me willingly. In which case, we all get in on the snatch-’n’-grab. It’s more fun with a group, right?”

That time his grin was all for me. And I couldn’t resist shooting one back—if only because his plan was actually good. Much better than my “sneak through the woods, create a distraction, grab the guilty party, and run” idea. And Jace’s was much less likely to get us caught. Or at least more likely to give us a head start. Hopefully we’d have an hour or more before anyone realized Jace and Lance were missing, rather than just late.

Finally, Marc nodded, and neither of us missed the appreciative lift of his left brow. “Okay, sounds like a plan.”

We decided I should Shift into and out of cat form one more time before Jace called his mother, because there was no way to disguise the sounds of the process, and if she heard me, our ruse would be over before it had even started.

The second set of Shifts was a little easier, but only because my recent meal had given me more energy. My right arm still hurt like I was being tortured for information, but by the time I sat up again in human form, my left arm had healed to a thick but raw-looking pink scar. It would have taken several days for it to heal that far on its own.

I talked Marc into removing the stitches while Jace called his mother, to save time.

“Jace?” Patricia Malone’s voice rose into the dog whistle range in surprise. Evidently her son didn’t call very often.

“Yeah, Mom, it’s me.” Jace crossed into the bathroom and sat on the closed toilet seat but left the door open. He couldn’t stop us from overhearing, but wanted at least the illusion of privacy. I could only imagine how uncomfortable that conversation must be for him.

“Are you…? What’s wrong?”

Marc used a tiny pair of scissors to clip the first stitch, then tugged it from my skin with tweezers. It felt weird but didn’t hurt. With any luck, I’d regained full use of my left arm.

“Nothing. Well, Brett’s dead.” Jace leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and stared at the bathroom wall. “Do you still want me to come home? For the funeral?”

“Of course. Will you, please? It would mean so much to…Melody.”

Jace sighed, and I heard genuine reluctance in the sound. I couldn’t imagine how nervous he must be. Nor could I imagine having a father figure who hated me, and openly lamented not killing me as a kitten.

“Is Cal okay with it? Did you ask him?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Jace,” Patricia snapped. “I don’t need to ask him if my own son can come home. You’re always welcome here. When can you come?”

Jace lifted his head and met my gaze as Marc pulled out the third stitch. I nodded, the best I could do to tell him he could back out if he wanted to. We could find another way. He shook his head; Jace was fully committed. “I’m already here.”

Patricia Malone burst into relieved, overwhelmed sobs, and Jace slid one strong hand over his eyes to hide the tears he didn’t want us to see. Marc busied himself with the fourth stitch, but I could tell by his determination not to look up—and by the fact that he pinched my skin along with the thread—that he was listening, too. And that he was not unaffected.

“Where?” Patricia asked, when she had herself under control. “Where are you?”

“I’m…around. I just…I wanted to make sure Cal’s okay with this before I come over.”

His mother clucked her tongue. “I told you he’s fine with it.”

“No.” Jace wiped his eyes and frowned at nothing. “You didn’t. I don’t want to make things worse.”

He was telling the truth. But he was also setting it up perfectly. Malone would be less suspicious if he knew Jace was reluctant to come in the first place. And it wouldn’t hurt if he thought his stepson was afraid of him. Malone could not know what a serious threat Jace had become, or he would never let his guard down enough to let Jace leave his sight.

“You won’t. Come home, Jace.”

Jace hung his head, hiding most of his face behind his hand and the small phone. “I’ll be there in an hour.”

He sat in the bathroom for several minutes after the phone call, then he closed the door and I heard water running in the shower. And I might have heard him crying softly, though I couldn’t be sure.

“He’ll be fine,” Marc whispered while the water ran. “He’ll do his job. Better now than ever.”

“I know.”

Marc was working on the last zag of my massive new scar when the bathroom door finally opened. Jace stepped out in a clean change of clothes from his carryon, wearing his business face—completely void of emotion. Which is how I knew he was both nervous and eager. And dreading every second of the most personal assignment he’d ever accepted.

“How long will it take you to get there?” I’d slept through most of the drive to the motel, so I had no clue how far we were from Malone’s home base.

“About fifteen minutes.”