The challenge in his eyes is clear. We've been partners too long, friends even longer. He knows me better than almost anyone. Knows I don't give up easily. Knows I can't stand loose ends or unsolved puzzles.
Knows I'm still thinking about her every waking moment.
"We have a business to run," I hedge, not ready to commit to what he's suggesting. "New clients who are expecting us to be professionals."
"We can be professionals and still get answers."
I consider his words, my emotions sharpening even as exhaustion clouds my judgment. The hurt she caused. The betrayal I felt. The confusion that still lingers.
But beneath it all, a nagging suspicion that Declan and Mateo are right. A fragment of memory that doesn't fit: Jade's eyes as she gave her final dismissal, the way they didn't quite match the coldness of her words. The slight tremor in her hand as she slid the mugshot across the table.
"It would be a mistake," I say, but there's no conviction behind the words.
"Probably," Declan agrees. "Question is, are we willing to make it?"
I stare at the security report, thinking of all the ways this could go wrong. All the ways she could hurt us again. All the reasons we should walk away.
"Yeah," I finally admit, the word rough in my throat. "I'm willing."
Declan nods once, satisfaction and determination replacing the resignation in his eyes.
"And if we're wrong?" he asks. "If she meant everyword?"
I close the folder with a decisive snap. "Then at least we'll know for sure. And this time, when I walk away, I won't look back."
38
JADE
The doorbell rings, cutting through the silence of the house like a knife.
I startle, nearly dropping the empty teacup I've been absently turning in my hands for the past hour. The sound is jarring, a reminder that the world continues to exist outside the bubble of grief I've wrapped myself in.
My first instinct is to ignore it. I haven't spoken to anyone in days, and haven't wanted to. But the persistent chime comes again, forcing me to move.
I check my phone, pulling up the security app that shows the camera feed at the gate. The screen shows a white delivery van with a familiar logo, the catering service I use. This evokes a painful memory of Declan, who sometimes insisted on cooking despite having a catering delivery service. "Sometimes you just need good home food," he would say.
I frown, not remembering placing an order. Maybe Gloria arranged it, worried about me after days of isolation. It would be like her to ensure I'm at least eating, even from a distance.
With a sigh, I press the button to open the gate, then drag myself to the front door. The least I can do is accept the delivery, even if the thought of food holds no appeal.
When I open the door, a woman stands there holding a paper bag emblazoned with the catering company's logo. She's about my age, with shoulder-length brown hair and dark eyes that study me with an intensity that makes me uneasy. Something about her seems vaguely familiar, though I can't place why.
"Ms. Sinclair," she says, her tone professional but tight. "Your food delivery."
"Thank you," I respond automatically, forcing a polite smile as I reach for the bags. "I think my manager must have ordered this, I don't remember..."
My words die in my throat as she pulls a handgun from the bag, pointing it directly at my chest.
"Inside," she says, her voice suddenly hard. "Now."
Time seems to slow. My heartbeat thunders in my ears as I back into the foyer, my hands raised instinctively. She follows, kicking the door closed behind her with a decisive thud.
"Living room," she directs, gesturing with the gun. "Move."
"Sit down," she orders once we reach the living room.
I sink onto the couch, trying to keep my breathing steady. "Who are you?" I ask, my voice steadier than I feel. "What do you want?"
