“Did they take anything?”
“I don’t know, I didn’t get to see much.”
Carter runs a hand through his hair, frustration simmering. “You should’ve listened to me and agreed to more security.”
Before I tell him where he can shove that condescending tone, Eliza steps between us, toning down the argument, like sand over fire. “Come on, I’ll make you some tea,” she says gently. “It might take a while before they finish with the place.”
Cup in hand, half-listening to Carter’s call with Logan, my gaze keeps drifting past the edge of Central Park. From up here, I can just make out the block in the Upper West Side where Adam lives now.
I’ve never been to his new place, of course. That doesn’t mean I didn’t go on a little virtual tour online when Carter sent me the link. And possibly slip into an ill-advised daydream about having breakfast together on that small terrace by the kitchen.
It’s stupid, I know that.
And yet… Why am I wishing I were there instead? Waiting for news in his arms, rocking to the sound of soft words whispered against my skin?
The tension in the penthouse hangs low like a storm cloud. Everyone’s frowning, calling whoever needs to be looped in. My mom’s hysterical, frantically packing her bags in her Paris hotelroom to come back, yelling into the phone at me to move in with her.
Five agonizing hours of pacing and an uncountable number of calming teas later, Patrick finally calls.
“Security footage’s been wiped…” He sounds tired, and I instantly regret giving him a hard time earlier.
“Not exactly the good news I was hoping you’d lead with.”
“Yeah, sorry,” he sighs. “Agent Ruiz is here. She’s waiting for you.”
After one whispered argument with my brother, Eliza “decides” to hang back and get the extra bedroom ready for me. I can’t blame Carter for wanting her out of the chaos. This is not what she signed up for.
My stomach drops at the sight of the house. The street’s flooded with flashing lights and barricades. NYPD cruisers. Evidence collection vans. And, of course, the ever-hungry news vans, reporters circling like vultures.
We duck under the yellow tape in silence, ignoring the questions yelled at us. In the doorway, Agent Ruiz is already waiting, arms crossed, her gaze as stern as the blue suit she’s wearing.
She doesn’t bother with pleasantries. “I need to ask a few questions.”
Inside, the house is unrecognizable: black fingerprint dust smears everything, evidence boxes litter the floor, and harsh fluorescent lights flood every corner. People are roaming around in white coveralls, cataloging everything, and I want to scream at them. To throw everybody out.
The sick, slithering feeling of so many strangers stomping through my space crawls over my skin. I put on a good front for Carter about not moving out, but I don’t know how I’ll be able to relax or sleep again in this house.
My brother takes in the place in silence, grinding his teeth. “You can’t stay here.” His tone is non-negotiable. “Pick a place, and Logan will turn it into Fort Knox.”
“How homely,” I deadpan.
Carter glares at me, totally unamused. But he doesn’t understand. No steel door or bulletproof windows will fix the gaping hole threatening to tear my sanity apart.
At the base of the staircase, Agent Ruiz stops and turns to us, her sharp gaze assessing me for a beat too long. “Is there anything you haven’t told us about the attack?”
My brother jumps in, his voice clipped. “We’ve shared everything.”
I glance up the staircase. I can’t see the team, only hear muffled shuffling and camera flashes.
A dark feeling seizes my muscles. “Why areyouhere?”
I’m not an expert on police investigations, but this level of response doesn’t say common burglary. The FBI wouldn’t be involved.
Ruiz’s lips press into a thin line, her gaze calculating. She doesn’t say anything, but motions for us to follow her upstairs.
She heads to the first room, and I brace myself for any comments.
“Are any works in here valuable?” Ruiz waves to what’s inside.
