He turns, mouth opening for what I’m sure will be another snide comment. I don’t give him a chance.
“Your supervisor—Captain Reynolds, isn’t it?—would be fascinated to hear how you’ve conducted this investigation.” The name drop hits its mark. Jenkins’s face pales slightly. “Particularly your creative approach to evidence collection and witness intimidation.”
Morris takes a half-step back, but Jenkins holds his ground. “Mr. Harding, we’re just doing our job—”
“Are you?” I move closer, keeping my voice low and measured. “Because from where I stand, you’re doing everything except your job. So here’s what’s going to happen: you’ll file your report, properly document the scene, and actually investigate this break-in. Otherwise, your next shift might be directing traffic in the worst precinct in Chicago. If you’re lucky enough to keep your badge at all.”
Jenkins’s jaw works, defiance warring with self-preservation. His hand twitches toward his belt again, but he thinks better of it.Smart man.
“We’ll need your statement, Ms. Consoli,” he says finally, his earlier swagger replaced by clipped professionalism.
Liv provides her account while Morris photographs the damage, his movements now careful and methodical. Jenkins takes notes without commentary, avoiding my gaze.
Ten minutes later, we’re in the hallway. Jenkins secures the crime scene tape across Eve’s door, his movements quick and efficient. Without another word, both officers retreat down the stairs, their footsteps echoing in the stairwell.
“Need anything from your apartment?” I ask as we descend the stairs.
Liv shakes her head. “Everything I need is in that duffel at your place.”
The casual way she dismisses an entire apartment’s worth of possessions catches my attention. “How long have you lived there?”
“Few months.” She keeps her eyes forward as we exit the building. “Since I came back stateside.”
The morning sun catches her profile, highlighting the sharp angles of her face. Something about her answer doesn’t sit right. “That’s not much time to settle.”
“I move around. Keeping things simple works better.”
We reach my car, but I don’t unlock it yet. “Where were you before Chicago?”
“Middle East.” Her fingers drum against her thigh. “Special contract documenting women in war zones.”
The image of Liv in a war zone sends ice through my veins. “You put yourself in active danger for a story?”
“For the truth.” She meets my gaze. “Those women’s stories needed telling.”
“You could have died.” The words come out harsher than intended.
“Not until I finish what I need to do here.”
Her response stops me cold. The ambiguity in her tone, the careful choice of words—it’s impossible to tell if she’s being flippant or deadly serious. I study her face, searching for any tell, but Eve’s expression remains carefully neutral.
“Was that supposed to be reassuring?” I unlock the car, watching her slide into the passenger seat.
Liv turns to me, her green eyes sharp with challenge. “Does it really matter?”
The question hangs between us in the confined space of the car. My fingers tighten on the steering wheel as I process her words. She’s right—it doesn’t matter where she’s been or what dangers she’s faced. We’re using each other now, plain and simple. I need her close to maintain control of whatever situation she’s stumbled into. She needs my protection and resources until she can slip away again. And I will only allow that when I wish to.
The reality of our arrangement has never been clearer. We’re not friends. We’re not enemies. We’re two people using each other for our own ends, and that’s the only honest thing between us.
Chapter 5
The fluorescent lights of my editing studio flicker to life, casting an unflattering glow across my carefully arranged workspace. Remy’s presence behind me feels like a physical weight against my spine.
“This is where you’ve been working?” His voice carries that familiar note of judgment.
“Not all of us need marble floors and crystal chandeliers.” I move to my desk, maintaining the casual demeanor I’ve practiced. My fingers brush against the worn edge of my desk, an anchor point as I turn to face him.
Remy stands in the doorway, his tailored suit a stark contrast to the utilitarian space. His dark eyes scan every corner, every shadow.
