Page 67 of Cry, Little Dove

“You know that stupid saying that crazy pussy is always the best?” she asks.

“Sounds like nonsense.”

“Well, I think they’re onto something because crazy serial killer dick is by far the fucking best I’ve ever had.”

I laugh. “Shucks, you know how to flatter a guy.”

“No, I called youcrazy.”

“You also said my cock is the best you ever had.” I raise a brow at her. “Do you really wanna get into a discussion about who’s the crazier one? The serial killer or the woman lying to the FBI so she can continue getting dicked down by said serial killer?”

She giggles, cuddling into me. “Touché, curly. You win this one.”

When Cain brings me to his office, I realize I’ve never seen it before. Not properly. That time when Amanda visited, I was too distracted by my jealousy to take in the details.

It’s the smallest room in the house but it has distinct old money vibes with a cozy touch.

Centered on an oriental carpet in muted shades of red is a large oak desk with drawers. A metallic desk lamp stands next to a computer monitor on top of it, plus a wireless mouse and keyboard, and a leather-upholstered chair behind it. Two walls are occupied by massive, dark shelves, stuffed with medical literature.

“You made these, too?” I ask, pointing at the shelves.

“Naw, I inherited them from my mother. The whole study and all the furniture, actually. She used to lock herself away in here for entire nights, working.” He gives a mirthless chuckle. “And drinking.”

Unlike the rest of the home, which is decorated with hunting trophies, artwork, and landscape photography of local scenery, a sideboard by an armchair in the corner is dedicated to framed family pictures. It seems like he’s hidden them away in here.

Is it because they’re important to him or because they evoke too many difficult emotions?

Cain takes my hand, tugging on it as I pause to look at the pictures. Clearly this isn’t what he meant when he mentioned a surprise, but I slip from his grasp.

My heart warms as I pick up a photograph of a smiling, blond little girl on a brown pony and a grinning teenage boy with wild, dark curls on a larger, black horse. A tall man wearing a cowboy hat and boots holds the reins of the pony, smirking into the camera. He has a thick, dark mustache and sun-tanned skin.

“You and Amanda were cute kids,” I say. “You both seem happy in this picture.”

“A ranch is a fun place for children,” Cain responds diplomatically.

“And that’s your dad?”

“Yeah, Wyatt Morrow in the flesh.”

“Handsome fella. You look a lot like him. Same sharp jawline, same strong nose, same pitch-black hair. The curls as well. And he seems tall, too.”

“Folks used to say I’m the spitting image of him.”

I giggle. “I’m glad you don’t have a big mustache like him.”

“Not my style.”

The familiar click of Cain’s lighter comes from behind me before the smell of tobacco reaches my nose. A thin cloud of grey smoke wafts around me as I put down the picture and pick up another.

A family portrait.

“That’s my mother Charlotte,” he says and points at a stunning woman sitting on a fancy chair. It reminds me of a small throne. She has a regal aura to match, like I imagine someone from a line of noble lords and ladies from England to look.

Long, dark blond hair falls in soft waves over her shoulders, and her legs are crossed at the ankles. Her expression is stern, head held high and proud. She wears a beige two-piece suit with a skirt, an immaculately pressed blouse underneath, and a string of pearls nestled into the collar.

Amanda stands by her side, probably two or three years old. She holds Charlotte’s hand and is dressed in a ruffled, cream-colored gown, her hair in two neat braids. Cain is on the other side of his mother. He seems stiff, frowning as if he hates wearing that navy blue suit and a tie, but one person in the picture is decidedly more awkward than him.

His dad.

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