You're about to walk into a potential trap. You know that, right?
Stone's warnings had been playing on repeat in my head all day.
"She confessed, then vanished. Classic manipulation."
"We found spy equipment in her desk."
"She's dangerous. Meet her in public if you have to meet her at all."
He was right. I knew he was right. Every tactical part of my brain screamed that walking up to her door was suicide.
But I couldn't stay away.
Because beneath the lies and the deception and the spy equipment, I'd seen something real in her eyes when she'd confessed. Something that looked an awful lot like love.
Or maybe I was just a fool.
God help me, probably both.
I got out of the car before I could talk myself out of it. Walked to her door on legs that felt steadier than they should have. Knocked at precisely eight o'clock.
My hand rested near the gun holstered at my back. Just in case.
She wouldn't. She had chances before. She wouldn't.
The door opened.
And there she was.
Julia. Alive. Real.Here.
She looked exhausted. Beautiful, but under a lot of stress—her eyes big and vulnerable, hair falling down in messy waves, wearing jeans and a casual sweater like she wasn’t trying to impress anyone.
"You came." Her voice was barely above a whisper. Relief and fear warring in her expression.
"You called." I kept my tone neutral. Controlled.
For a moment, neither of us moved. We just stood there, her in the doorway, me on her threshold, three feet and enough lies to last a lifetime between us.
"Can I—" She stepped back. "Come in. Please."
I walked past her, hyperaware of her proximity. Of how easy it would be for her to—
Stop. Just stop.
The apartment was exactly as I remembered. Clean. Organized. The Julia Russell apartment, not Julia Russo's real home. Another layer of deception.
"Can I get you something? Water? Coffee? I have—" She gestured helplessly toward the kitchen. "I don't know. Something."
"I'm fine."
"Right. Of course." She wrapped her arms around herself. "I'm sorry. I don't know how to do this."
"Do what?"
"This." She gestured between us. "Face you after—after everything."
I leaned against the wall, arms crossed, studying her. Looking for the lie. The con. The angle.
