"—so much emotional processing, really takes it out of you—"
"Bailey."
I squeeze my eyes shut and burrow into his chest. "Goodnight!"
He's silent.
I can feel him looking at me. Can feel the weight of the question I didn't answer hanging between us like something fragile. Something that could shatter if either of us breathes wrong.
Then his chest shakes beneath my cheek. Once. Twice.
He's laughing.
"Impossible," he murmurs into my hair, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "Absolutely impossible."
I smile against his chest and pretend to be asleep.
Chapter Eleven
I'M STANDING IN DEVYN'Sstudy—our study,I remind myself, though the word still feels borrowed—watching him read through a stack of documents that arrived by courier ten minutes ago. Morning light slants through the tall windows, catching dust motes in the air, making everything look like an old photograph. Sepia-toned. Warm on the surface.
His expression hasn't changed. Stone, as always. But his shoulders have gone rigid, tension climbing up his spine like something visible, something I can almost reach out and touch.
"The Court has appointed a lead investigator," he says. "For Abigail's murder."
"That's good, right? That means they're taking it seriously."
He sets the document down. Looks at me.
"Amos Karp."
I remember him the way you’d remember a nightmare.
The details are fussy, but the feelings are vivid.
Amos Karp.
My gut clenches at the name. I don't have a reason—not a real one, not one I could articulate if someone asked. But the moment his name hits the air, I'm back at the wedding reception. That too-warm smile. Those eyes that watched mewalk down the aisle like he was cataloging every step. The way Devyn's hand had tightened on my waist when he appeared.
"The man from the wedding," I hear myself say. "The one who offered to be my friend at court."
"Yes."
"You told me to stay away from him."
"Yes."
"And now he's leading the investigation into the murder that happened in your house."
Devyn doesn't answer. He doesn't have to. The silence says everything.
"I don't like him," I blurt. Then wince, because that sounds childish. "I mean—there's something about him. At the wedding. The way he looked at me. It was..." I trail off, searching for words that don't make me sound paranoid. "Too interested. Like he already knew things about me that he shouldn't."
I'm rambling. I know I'm rambling. But Devyn isn't cutting me off or looking at me like I've lost my mind. He's listening. Actually listening, with that focused stillness that means I have his complete attention.
"Maybe I'm being crazy," I add weakly. "It's just a feeling."
"Your feelings aren't crazy." He says it like a fact. Like he's stating the weather. "My men have been watching him for some time now.”
