I take a steady breath as the door opens, and I’m ushered out of the room and straight into the other one.
For years, I’ve battled demons and nightmares and enough fear to fill Dodger Stadium.
But for the first time, the fear isn’t sitting right under my skin, waiting to claw its way out.
Not with Harrison watching me like a hawk. I know nothing is going to happen.
I’m safe.
I take a long, hard look at Hollywood’s pretty boy.
I worked with this moron for years. Knew him too well. The same man who once nearly had an aneurysm over a hangnail.
I hate that he ever had me trembling in my boots.
But more than that, I hate that he made me miss my call with the kids.
So, it’s fucking on.
I pull out the chair. It scrapes horribly against the concrete floor.
I don’t rush it. I let the sound drag.
Pierce jerks his head up. “Ava. Oh, thank God. You have got to get me out of here.”
Wow.
Someone’s delusional.
I sit slowly, then drum my fingers against the table, having not quite decided yet if I’m leaning into good cop or bad. “Why don’t you explain the notes?”
He scoffs, already irritated, like I’ve asked him to explain basic math. “They’re love notes. Jesus, what’s wrong with you? Can’t you take a little romance?”
“A little romance?” I tilt my head. “Do you think stalking is romantic?”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Ava. Who said anything about stalking?” He huffs. “I was trying to show you I can be just as romantic as your big, dumb lumberjack.”
He throws his hands up. Or tries to.
The cuffs snap him back short.
“Gah!” he yelps.
Is it wrong how much I enjoy that he did that to himself?
He glares at me, breath coming faster now. “Sending love notes isn’t a crime,” he shouts, his voice ricocheting off the concrete walls.
I flick my gaze to the two-way mirror. A reminder. Not for him. For me.
I have questions for Pierce Maddox. Harrison spent the last three weeks pulling at threads that went nowhere.
And Pierce is the only one with answers.
“When did you put the notes in my luggage?”
His mouth twists, disgusted. “I don’t do manual labor, Ava. You know that.” He sneers. “Someone else did it for me.”
I lean in. “Who?”
