If we don't rebuild the financial records before the year-end audit, the money laundering will show up in the ledgers. The illegal drug movements will be visible. The shell accounts will collapse under scrutiny. And none of it will matter whether the banker sold me out on those leaked pages or not. I'll bury myself with my own records.
Riley's my only chance. And she's already told me she can't do the one thing I need most.
The elevator doors open, and I step inside. As they close, I think about the way she looked at me when she refused. The defiance in her eyes. The certainty in her voice. She's not afraid of me anymore, not the way she was when she first arrived. She's learned to push back and stand her ground, to challenge me when she thinks I'm wrong.
And despite everything, I respect her for it.
But respect doesn't solve my problem. Results do.
And I need results before Christmas.
11
RILEY
Isit on the edge of the sectional couch in Rafe's living room, cradling a mug of coffee between my palms and staring at the fireplace. The flames flicker low, casting orange light across the stone hearth, and I watch them dance without really seeing them. My body aches from sitting at the laptop for hours, my eyes burn from staring at screens, and my brain feels like it's been wrung out and left to dry.
I wish this were hot cocoa instead of coffee.
The thought is childish, absurd even, given everything that's happened. But I can't help it. Hot cocoa means Christmas mornings with my mother in the kitchen, marshmallows melting into sweet foam, my sister complaining about how early we have to wake up for church. Hot cocoa means home. And right now, home feels like another planet.
I take a sip of the coffee and grimace. It's bitter, strong, and nothing like what I want.
Through the front window, I can see the neighbors across the street hanging lights along their porch railing. A man on a ladderstrings them carefully from post to post while a woman stands below, holding the coil of wire and calling up directions. Their breath fogs in the cold air, visible even from here, and I watch them work with a dull ache spreading through my chest.
They're getting ready for Christmas, decorating their house, planning dinners and parties and all the normal things people do this time of year. And I'm sitting here, a prisoner in a stranger's home, hacking financial records for a man who threatened to kill my family if I don't cooperate.
I set the coffee mug on the side table and stand. My legs feel stiff, my muscles tight from sitting too long, and I stretch my arms over my head, trying to work out the knots. The house is quiet. Rafe's somewhere down the hall, probably in his office or his bedroom, and I haven't seen him since we got back from the office this afternoon. That suits me fine. Every conversation with him feels like walking a tightrope, one wrong word away from falling.
The sex was hot, but this aftermath feels horribly awkward and I don’t know where I stand now.
I walk toward the front door, drawn by the sight of those Christmas lights. I don't plan to leave—I'm not that stupid—but I need air. I need to see something that isn't these walls, this fireplace, this endless loop of spreadsheets and transaction logs.
My hand reaches for the doorknob but before I can turn it, I hear, "Where are you going?"
I freeze. Rafe's voice comes from behind me, and I turn to see him standing in the hallway. He's dressed in the same jeans and sweater from earlier, his dark hair falling across his forehead,and his eyes are locked on me with that unnerving focus he always has.
"I was going to step outside," I say defensively before I can stop myself. "Get some air. Look at the lights."
"No."
"I wasn't going to run. I was just?—"
"I said no."
I glare at him, my hands curling into fists at my sides. "I can't even stand on the porch now?"
"Not tonight."
"Why not?"
Like normal, he gives me no rationalization or explanation and this time, I'm surprised when he decides to grab my arm and manhandle me. It's not the sexy "I'm gonna throw you down and mate you" sort of grab, either.
"What are you doing?" I ask, trying to pull free. "Rafe, I wasn't?—"
"Shut up and walk."
The command is cold, and I stop fighting. I let him guide me into his office, where he releases my arm only after I'm standing in front of his desk. He moves to the computer and taps the keyboard, waking the monitors. The screens glow to life, and I see a news website pulled up with a bold headline and a horrible picture of me.
