His eyebrows rose. “Food. Spoiled. Kitchen. Should we take it so it doesn’t rot?”
My nostrils flared. “Sure, let’s take a look.”
And before I knew it, we had yet another one of her suitcases filled to the brim with food that wasn’t going to sit well in her fridge for the foreseeable future.
As well as some food she hadn’t managed to use yet.
“Ooooh, she’s got the good snacks,” Scout said as he flung open her pantry.
I ignored him as I looked up along the walls at the perch points where I had the cameras. On the one hand, keeping an eye on this place could help us out. But if those assholes were to come back and find the cameras, Jasmine in particular would be fucked. While Scout shoved plastic bags filled to the brim with the snacks she had in her pantry, I debated in my head on whether to take those cameras down.
I looked at the cabinetry doors those asshats practically yanked off their hinges.
“All right,” Scout said as he carried three plastic bags of snacks in each hand, “ready when you are.”
I peered over at him before I raked my eyes up and down his presence. “Got enough food there, Scout?”
“Got enough sense there, Ghost?”
I snarled at him, but he just chuckled as he walked past me. “I’ll be down by my bike whenever you’re ready. I’m assuming I’m hauling one of those suitcases?”
“Yep.”
“I’ll grab one on my way out.”
“Thanks.”
And as I stood there, slowly turning and surveying the awful sight that was Jaz’s studio apartment, I drew in a very deep breath. I hoped with all my might she had a good explanation for why she kept her work laptop underneath her goddamn fridge.
Because I had to admit, I wasn’t sure why she’d withhold that information from me.
18
JASMINE
As much as I appreciated the sisters and their attempts to make this feel normal, I needed quiet.
My brain felt like it had been shaken in a jar for the last twenty-four hours. Between the raid, the masked man, the revelation about cameras, and the possibility that I was some kind of corporate sacrificial lamb, I could’ve sat in a dark room staring at a wall and called it productive.
The jambalaya had been too good to ignore, though. With two sodas and a rapidly declining sense of self-control, I’d justified two full bowls.
I’d never had jambalaya before.
Apparently, trauma unlocked new cuisine.
“All right,” I muttered as I dragged a chair closer to the mounted screens, “let’s see how good these cameras actually are.”
If they could watch me, then I could watch back.
I sank into the chair and leaned back just enough to prop my feet on the cheap excuse for a desk. The desk looked like it had been assembled in under ten minutes with missing screws, but the monitors? Those were high-end. Crisp resolution. Zero lag.
It was obvious where the money went.
I wrapped my fingers around my iced Coke and took a slow sip while the feeds stabilized. The living room camera came into focus first.
And there it was.
My apartment.
