Cursed by S.J. Harper

leaning against the counter, eyeing me.
    I wonder how much of the conversation he heard.
    I hold up my phone. “My friend Liz. She has a handsome, successful, and honorable guy wanting a commitment.”
    “There must be something seriously wrong with him.” Zack tilts the beer he’s holding to his lips and takes several long swallows.
    “That’s what Liz is afraid of.” I stroll over to the sliding glass doors that lead onto the deck. There’s a grill on one side, along with a table and a few chairs. On the other, a built-in fire pit and two love seats. The entire area is surrounded by a waist-high wall. Beyond that is sand and ocean. “Tell me something, Zack. Where did the money come from?”
    “For the house?”
    “Yeah.”
    “If we’re sharing secrets now, I have a question for you.”
    “What?” I ask.
    “Your scent. It changed. I noticed earlier . . . It’s different from when I first met you. How do you explain that?”
    How do I explain that? The best defense is a good offense.
    “Scent?” I raise my eyebrows. “What are you—part bloodhound?”
    Color floods Zack’s face. “Keen olfactory senses,” he replies.
    If there are secrets shared tonight, they aren’t going to be about our supernatural origins.
    I look away, shrug. “It’s some new perfume. I made a detour to Nordstrom after I left the DA’s to pick up something. The idiot perfume girl sprayed me before I could stop her. I think the fragrance is
finally
wearing off.” I turn back around to face him. “I finished the salad. Should we light up the grill?”
    Our eyes meet for one long moment. Zack seems about to say something, but then simply walks into the kitchen and picks up the salad bowl. “When are you going to tell me?” he asks without turning around.
    “Tell you what?”
    “Your secret. I know you have one.”
    I fling it back at him. “You tell me yours first. How can you afford a house, like this, on the beach? And what’s the deal with your SF-86? Why is your application to the Academy missing? The only thing I can think of is that you were part of some unacknowledged Special Access Program. But you’ve been in the Bureau what, two years? That seems unlikely.”
    “You have been busy.” He turns to face me. “To get that far into my file? Well, you managed to gain access to some highly classified records.”
    I feel the color creep up my neck. His implication is clear. I’ve just admitted cutting a few corners of my own. “Point taken, though I
wouldn’t
do anything to jeopardize a case we’re working on.”
    “Neither would I.” He smiles. “Still, gaining unauthorized access to my records? You continue to surprise me, Agent Monroe.”
    “Zack, if our partnership is going to work, you need to come clean with me. I don’t
want
to go digging into your past. I want to be able to trust you.”
    Zack puts the bowl down, then stares into it. A full minute passes before he speaks. “Before I worked for the Bureau, I worked as a kind of government mercenary. Black ops, off the books.”
    There can’t be more than fifteen feet separating us, but the distance in his eyes makes it seem like miles. He’s someplace else, reliving the past he’s trying so hard to escape.
    “What department?”
    He shakes his head.
    “You can’t tell me.” Or won’t. “How long?”
    “Too long. I spent too many years on my own, in situations where rules don’t count and being morally flexible can do more than give you an advantage. It can keep you alive.” Zack finishes his beer, then sets the empty bottle on the counter. “I’d like to keep the past dead and buried. It would be dangerous not to.”
    “Dangerous for whom?”
    “For a lot of people, Emma. Let it go.”
    He goes back to the fridge. This time he pulls out a plastic bag. Inside is a huge London broil, soaking in marinade. “I’m gonna light the grill.”
    I can tell he wants to leave it at that. I open the sliding doors and follow him out. While he