I don’t bother cushioning the moment. There’s no point.
“I should ask you the same,” I reply.
The desk sergeant slides a stack of paperwork toward me. I don’t look at it. By tomorrow morning, this entire incident will have been quietly filed away and forgotten. I’ll make sure of it.
Rowan Hale is officially released into my custody.
It’s an absurd sentence. One that shouldn’t exist. And yet, here we are.
Her gaze flicks toward the exit, calculating. For a second, I think she might walk straight past me and pretend I’m not standing there at all.
Instead, she steps closer, lowering her voice. “How did you even know I was here?”
I lean in just enough that the desk sergeant can’t hear us clearly. “Let’s take this outside, shall we?”
Rowan bursts through the station doors and drags in a breath like she’s been underwater. The night hits her all at once—cold, sharp—and for half a second she just stands there, chest rising too fast.
Then she turns on me. Her glare could start fires.
“Why are you following me?”
“I’m not,” I say evenly. “But it’s a good thing I had eyes on you, isn’t it?”
Her mouth twists, ugly and furious. “You’re stalking me.”
I let out a short, humorless laugh. “You were parked in a no-standing zone on a prostitution strip. You weren’t exactly invisible.”
“I was working,” she snaps.
“On what?” I press. “Tell me.”
She gives me nothing.
“Rowan,” I say, my voice tightening despite myself, “you’re treating your future like it’s disposable. You realize a conviction like that could end any chance you have of practicing law?”
“I don’t care.”
The words cut clean. I stare at her a beat too long.
“This is your life,” I say quietly. “Youshouldcare.”
Her eyes flash. “Why? So I can be a good little law student who believes in a corrupt system that protects the guilty and punishes the innocent? Is that what you want?”
The air between us goes razor-thin. She lifts a hand to her mouth like she can shove the words back inside herself. Color drains from her face. She knows she said too much. Knows she cracked something open she meant to keep sealed.
I already know. I just want to hear it from her.
I keep my voice low, controlled. “Why are you so angry?” I ask. “Tell me.”
“I’m not angry,” she says, and the calm in her voice is lethal.
Her lips part, then press together again. She looks past me, breathing hard through her nose, fighting herself. Holding something vicious back.
I don’t let her retreat.
“What were you doing on Baker Street?” I ask.
I’m met with her silence. I step closer. Not touching or crowding her. Just enough that she feels me there.
