He leads me to an office at the end of the hall. This isn’t his regular command post; it’s a storage room, floor-to-ceiling with boxes and loose case files. He closes the door behind us and sets his phone on the desk, screen up.
He stands with his hands behind his back, broad shoulders like a tank.
“Ms. Williams,” he asks in a deceptively calm voice, “do you know why you’re here?”
I make a show of looking confused, but my face is already burning. I want to lie, to spin something, but the best I manage is, “No, sir.”
He cocks his head. “That’s unfortunate because you’re a terrible liar.”
I wince. He waits.
“You could have asked me for access to the archives,” he drawls. “Instead, you disregarded protocol. You risked your job for files you shouldn’t even know exist.”
I keep my mouth shut. It’s the only strategy I have left.
Brent regards me for a long moment. “You’re not here for the experience. You’re not even here for the pay. You’re here for your father’s case.”
It’s not a question, so I don’t answer.
He moves closer, crowding my personal space, and takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger. His grip is gentle, but there’s nothing soft about it.
“You have Stanley’s eyes,” he murmurs, voice like gravel and silk. “And his stubborn streak.”
He lets me go, but the ghost of his touch lingers. I can’t meet his gaze.
He paces, slow and deliberate. “You know what I remember about your father?”
I shake my head.
Brent smiles, but there’s no mirth in it. “Stanley never quit. Even when it was hopeless. Even when he knew they’d execute him anyways.”
The words hit like a slap, but I keep my composure.Barely.
“I know what it’s like to fight for something impossible,” he says. “But you’re going about this all wrong.”
I finally look up at him. “What should I be doing, then?”
He leans back against the wall and folds his arms. “You should be honest. With yourself, and with me.” He’s studying me, not just my face but my posture, my breathing, the tremor in my hands, and my large, quivering breasts. He knows. He’s always known.
There’s a pause, then: “Show me what you found.”
I hand over my phone, the photos still open. His fingers brush mine, deliberate, then he scrolls through the images with a speed that says he already senses what he’s looking for.
“You’re good,” he admits. “These are the right files. You saw the discrepancies?”
“Yes,” I say, barely audible.
He nods, then sets the phone aside. “There’s more. A lot more. But if you want it, you’re going to have to work for it.”
My heart stutters as I gape at him like a fool.
“Wha—what do you mean?”
Brent smiles, all gleaming white teeth as he towers over me.
“You’ll see what I mean. But first, take off your panties, sweetheart. Like I said, you’re going to have to work for it.”
I freeze. The words are casual, like a doctor asking me to step on a scale, but there’s nothing clinical in his eyes because those blue eyes burn like hot coals. I stare at him, searching for a sign he’s joking, but he isn’t.
