Chapter Four
Dominic
Three flights of stairs in the dark, neither of us talking.
Charlie walked barefoot beside me, heels dangling from two fingers, the dark wig from the gala stuffed in her bag. I carried her things and kept my mouth shut and tried not to think about what had just happened in the backseat of my SUV.
Tried. Failed.
Inside, she dropped her shoes by the door and went straight to the bathroom without looking at me. The shower ran for twenty minutes. When she came out with wet hair and climbed into bed, I grabbed the blanket, claimed the couch, and stared at the ceiling.
I didn't want the couch. I needed it. My head was a mess, her voice still in my ears, her body still mapped against mine, and the assignment hadn't changed just because I'd broken every rule I'd set for myself.
I didn't sleep. By 0500 I gave up pretending and pulled out my laptop. Cross-referenced Charlie's case file against thebackgrounds Cass had sent over: financials, known associates, travel patterns for Walsh, Kiser, Hoyle, and Travis Yount. The data had holes. Too many holes.
Behind me, Charlie slept hard. No restless tossing like the first two nights. Whatever had happened between us, in the Conservatory, in the car, had burned off whatever was keeping her awake.
At 0630, the bathroom door opened. I didn't turn around. Kept my eyes on the screen, on the threat matrix I was building, on anything that wasn't the sound of her bare feet on hardwood.
"You're on the couch."
I looked up. She stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the main room, coffee mug already in hand, hair pulled off her face by an elastic headband. Wearing my dress shirt from last night. Sleeves rolled to her elbows, hem hitting mid-thigh, half the buttons undone. She'd apparently scooped it up with her things from the SUV.
She noticed me noticing. Didn't acknowledge it. Just raised her mug. "I made coffee. Don't read into it."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
She leaned against the counter, studying me over the rim. The air between us was charged. Not the warm, tangled energy from last night but sharper. The awkwardness of two people who'd crossed a line and were both pretending the line still existed.
"So." She sipped. "About last night."
"What about it?"
"We should probably talk about it."
"Probably."
She waited. I waited. Neither of us talked about it.
"Great conversation," she said. "Really productive."
"I thought so."
Her mouth twitched. The bratty armor was sliding back into place: the deflection, the sarcasm, the girl who didn't give a damn about anything too much. As if last night hadn't shifted everything between us.
I let her pretend. For now.
"I'm running the case," I said, turning my laptop so she could see the screen. "Backgrounds on all four suspects. Kiser's financials show he's been liquidating assets quietly, consistent with someone preparing for federal indictment, not someone spending money on a harassment campaign. Hoyle's credit cards are maxed. She's borrowing money from friends to cover basic expenses.”
"So she definitely can't afford to hire anyone."
"Not unless her intimidation budget is zero." I scrolled. "Travis Yount. IT support at a midsize firm downtown. Salary's modest. No unusual transactions. Social media activity is..." I paused. "Prolific."
"Sad-boy poetry and relationship memes. I know. I blocked him on everything."
