"Then you should've stayed in the car."
She went still suddenly. Listening. Then her hand found my arm in the dark—not pushing away, just holding on. The voices from the bedroom had gone quiet. We could hear the shower start.
Charlie cracked the closet door an inch, peered out, then was across the room before I could stop her. She reached the connecting door in three silent steps, lifted her camera, and got her shots. Dozens of them, the shutter barely audible.
When she finally lowered the camera, she shot me a grin over her shoulder. Triumphant. Unrepentant.
"See? Simple."
"You're out of your mind."
"I'm good at my job."
She was. And that was going to make this assignment hell.
We got out of the suite while the shower still ran, ditched the cart in the service hallway, and made it to my SUV without incident.
Once inside, she pulled off the wig and shook out her real hair, already scrolling through the photos on her camera. "These are gold. Morty's going to love me."
"Morty's going to get you killed."
"Morty's going to pay me." She connected her camera to her phone, started uploading. "Relax, Marine. We got the shot. No one saw us. Mission accomplished."
"That's not how this works."
"That's exactly how this works." She glanced up from her phone, smirking. "What, you didn't enjoy yourself even a little?"
Enjoy. She thought I'd enjoyed that.
I'd been trapped in a closet with her body against mine while she committed felonies, and my brain had decided that was the perfect moment to stop thinking about exit strategies and start thinking about what sounds she'd make if I put my mouth on her neck.
Enjoyment wasn't the word I'd use.
"We need to talk about your suspect list," I said, steering back to safer ground.
"Fine. But I'm starving. Illegal activity works up an appetite."
THE DINER SHE CHOSElooked like it hadn't been updated since Reagan was in office. Red vinyl booths, checkerboard floors, a jukebox in the corner playing Patsy Cline. Charlieordered pancakes and bacon. I ordered coffee and the largest omelet on the menu.
While we waited, I pulled out my notes. "Walk me through anyone who might escalate to violence."
She poured syrup over her pancakes when they arrived. Took her time answering. "Walsh is the obvious choice. Councilman I exposed six months ago—kickback scandal, backroom deals, the whole package. He resigned, disappeared, and now he's trying to make a comeback. He's got motive, resources, connections." She shrugged. "But honestly? He's too political. Too calculated. This feels messier than his style."
"Who else?"
"Gerry Kiser. CEO with alleged mob connections. My story cost him a major deal, brought federal attention. He's dangerous and has the resources."
"But?"
"But if he's as smart as everyone says, he's not adding 'murder a journalist' to his problems right now." She stabbed a piece of bacon. "Deborah Hoyle—socialite whose underground gambling ring I exposed. Lost everything. Publicly hates me. But she's a mess, not a mastermind."
"Desperate people surprise you."
"True." She chewed thoughtfully. "There's also an ex. Travis. IT guy. We hooked up a few times about six months ago. I ended it when he got clingy. He didn't take it well."
My attention sharpened. "Define 'didn't take it well.'"
"Showed up at my coffee shop 'coincidentally' multiple times. Sent sad texts. Posted a lot of heartbroken bullshit on social media." She waved her fork, dismissive. "Pathetic, not psycho."
