This was crossing lines. Professional lines. Mission lines.
Say no. Tell him it's not appropriate. Maintain boundaries.
"Yes," I heard myself say. "The offer still stands."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. What time?"
"Seven? I'll text you the address."
"Okay. Any dietary restrictions I should know about?"
"Just a weakness for Italian food and good wine."
I could hear the smile in his voice.
"I can work with that."
"Great. See you at seven, Julia."
"See you at seven... Quentin."
He hung up.
I sat there, phone in hand, heart racing.
What did I just agree to?
Dinner. At his place. Just the two of us.
This was a terrible idea.
A dangerous idea.
An idea that crossed every professional boundary and compromised my mission even further.
But maybe—
Maybe being at his home would give me access. To his private files. His personal computers. Evidence that could clear his name or confirm his guilt.
You're rationalizing. You just want to see him.
Both things were true.
I gathered my laptop, headed home to change.
To cook dinner for a man I might be falling for.
A man who might or might not have killed my father.
A man I was supposed to be investigating, not having romantic dinners with.
This is such a bad idea.
But I was going anyway.
Because I needed answers.
