THEY GAVE US A SUITEupstairs while the building locked down.
The Gilded Hart's management was in damage control. Heartline's people were thorough. Federal agents would be here within the hour, and June had the evidence packaged and ready to hand over. Walsh, Morello, and the two security men were being held separately in conference rooms on the second floor. The ball continued below, most guests unaware that anything had happened beyond a brief commotion near the kitchen.
The suite was still. Heavy curtains, thick carpet, the muffled sound of music drifting up through the floor. Charlie sat on theedge of the bed with her camera in her lap, scrolling through the photos. I leaned against the wall by the window, running the debrief in my head.
My knuckles ached. I hadn't noticed during the fight. Standard. The adrenaline metabolized slowly, leaving me hyper-aware of small things: the hum of the heating system, the distant clink of glasses from the ballroom, the steady click of Charlie's camera as she reviewed each shot.
Seven days. Threats, break-ins, shredded photographs, a car that tried to kill her, and a politician with a gun he couldn't hold straight. Done.
"The Walsh-Morello photos are clean," she said. "Both sets. Six months apart, same handoff. June can match them to the federal timeline." She paused on a frame, zoomed in, nodded. "And the ones from the basement. Walsh holding the gun, his security on the floor. That's witness intimidation, assault, and about six other charges June can stack."
"Good."
"Good? I just handed the feds a career-ending corruption case and you're giving me 'good'?"
"Very good."
She laughed. Short, startled, a week's worth of tension breaking loose at once. She set the camera aside and looked at me.
The adrenaline was fading and what replaced it wasn't the post-crisis crash I'd seen on the couch three nights ago. It was steadier than that. Calmer. Her eyes were bright, her breathing even, and she was looking at me the way she had since she'd stopped pretending.
"I love you," she said. "Which is extremely inconvenient and I blame you entirely."
My chest did something I wasn't going to examine in detail.
"Inconvenient," I said.
"The worst." She stood up. Crossed the room to where I stood by the window. "You disarmed a man in three moves and I hit someone with a serving tray and now I'm standing in a hotel suite telling a man I've known for seven days that I love him. My life is absurd."
"Charlie."
"I'm serious. I love you. I love that you slept on my terrible couch and held me when I fell apart and refused to let me use you to hide from being scared. I love that you pushed a linen cart and posed as my date and never once tried to stop me from doing my job. And I really love that you just took a gun away from a man like it was nothing, because that was extremely attractive and I need you to know that."
"Charlie."
She stopped.
I reached for her. Pulled her in close, one hand on the back of her neck, the other at her waist. She came easily. "I love you. Every reckless, stubborn, brilliant part." I pressed my forehead against hers. "The cameras. The wigs. The serving tray. I'm not going anywhere."
She kissed me. Slow and deliberate. The kiss of someone who'd made a decision and wasn't taking it back.
When she pulled away, she was smiling. Real. Open. The version of Charlie I'd only seen when she forgot to guard it.
"I'm not running," she said.
"I know."
The job was done. I could hand the file to Cass, debrief, walk away clean. I'd done it a hundred times.
I kept my arms around her.
Seven days. I'd lasted seven days before I lost a fight I'd stopped wanting to win.
