"You're going to have to stop being this nice to me," I said. "It's ruining my reputation."
"What reputation?"
"Heartless commitment-phobe. Very carefully maintained."
"Terrible reputation. You should get a new one."
I turned in his arms. Pressed my forehead to his collarbone. Water ran down his back under my palms. His breathing was slow, even. Mine wasn't.
"The cuffs didn't scare me," I said quietly.
"I know."
"This scares me. The shower. The—-" I didn't have the word. Tenderness. Care. The feeling of someone taking care of you like you mattered beyond the sex. "This part."
"I know that too." He kissed the top of my head. "Get used to it."
"That's not how I work."
"I've noticed." He tightened around me. "Get used to it anyway."
Back in bed. Sheets that smelled like both of us. His arm heavy across my waist, pulling me close. I fit into the curve of him like I'd been doing it for years instead of days -—my back to his chest, his chin on the top of my head, his breath warm and steady in my hair.
I fell asleep trying to figure out when I'd stopped running.
THE PHONE RANG AT SEVEN-fifteen.
I was already awake, watching gray light filter through the blinds. Dominic reached for it on the first ring, voice alert before his eyes were fully open.
"Knight." He listened. His body went still beside me. "You're sure." More listening. "And the shell company?" A pause. "Copy that. We'll be ready."
He hung up. Looked at me.
"That was June. The man in your photo is Vincent Morello. Known associate of Gerry Kiser's organization. She matched him through an Interpol database."
I sat up. "Morello. Walsh was handing off to a man connected to Kiser's operation."
"That's not all. The shell company that owns the car that hit us, Pacific Ridge Holdings, traces back through two layers ofpaperwork to a political action committee connected to Walsh's campaign."
Two threads. Two separate investigations. Both pointing at the same name.
The sheet had fallen to my waist and I didn't bother fixing it. My mind was running, connecting months of scattered pieces into a picture that had been right in front of me the whole time.
"Walsh isn't just a corrupt politician," I said. "He's the bridge. City hall to organized crime. Morello is the link. Walsh facilitated the connection between Kiser's operation and the political cover they needed."
Dominic nodded. "June put it together. The federal investigation into Kiser has accelerated in the last few weeks. Feds are asking about political connections. Walsh knows you were at that party with a camera. He doesn't know exactly what you captured, but he can't risk any of it surfacing."
"So he panicked." I stared at the ceiling. Six months. He'd been watching me for weeks, trashing my apartment, trying to run me off a bridge -—all because of a photo I'd taken by accident. "He's not a mob boss. He's a politician who got in too deep and tried to handle it like a politician. First threats, then hired help that was sloppy because he doesn't know how to hire real criminals. The bridge near-miss. The bullet that didn't hit. He's been escalating because nothing's worked and the feds are closing in."
"And tomorrow is Valentine's Day. The ball at the Gilded Hart. His big comeback appearance."
I looked at Dominic. "Morty already has press credentials waiting for me at will-call. He arranged it last week."
"Press credentials."
"Real ones. My name. My camera. No wig, no fake ID, no borrowed uniform." I sat up straighter. "I'm walking through the front door."
"As yourself."
