I only found out about Archer’s assignment last night, and so far, they don’t know anything. He can’t even figure out what language they’re speaking. Don’t stress about it.
Sophia:
I don’t stress, Mayet. I plan. I adapt. And then I attack. Like a fuckin’ lady.
I snort and ignore Harrison’s watchful gaze in the mirror.
Me:
Cordoza’s been riding me, by the way. A lot. He’s been threatening me, and I’m not entirely sure he believes me when I say Archer didn’t kill Agosti.
Soph:
So? He won’t act on his threats. He likes you.
Me:
Leash him, Solomon! I’ve done my job. I declared it death by suicide, and I’ve ordered that asshole out of my building. If they toss Agosti into a drum filled with fire ants, I wouldn’t even care.
What I’m not okay with is Cordoza misplacing his suspicion and pointing it at my husband, especially when we set the scene as well as we did.
Sophia:
It’s in the rules. One family cannot attack another, not without causing a shift in the foundations of the entire organization.
Cordoza’s doing the right thing by riding you. That’s his job.
Me:
He’s pissing me off. I used to be fond of him. Now, I’m intolerant.
Sophia:
Instead of focusing on the bad, why not think of the good?
We saved seventeen innocent lives this week, Chief. And we made the world a better place by removing Anthony-consent is optional-Agosti from society.
Archer was with Cordoza at TOD. I promise you; he’s fine. And considering you married Malone—you weren’t BORN Malone—the rules remain unbroken. One family did not attack another.
I’ll follow up with Cordoza this morning to confirm he received the autopsy report, then I’ll move him along.
Archer landing this case is a blessing in disguise. He’ll get the girls to safety, and he’ll do it gently.
Better than some media-chasing detective who’d prefer public clout by splashing them all over the news. There are no loose ends, just like I said there wouldn’t be.
Me:
Your smugness is irritating.
Sophia:
It was a pleasure doing business with you, Vigilante. Oh, and while I’ve got you…
I wait for her next text and glance out the window as Harrison competently steers us down the hill. Music plays softly over the radio, a pop’y hit I know for a fact is on Aubree’s daily playlist, but even as my foot bounces to the beat and I lick remnants of butter off my thumb, annoyance becomes my companion. Because Soph takes forever… and ever… and ever to reply. Bubbles bounce on my screen, proving she’s still there, still typing, but nothing comes. I resist the urge to type out a fastwhat?Impatient for whatever it is she has to say. But then my phone dings again, this time, with a simple rock gifted from Archer.
From the man who has given me everything else.
Me:
