Page 14 of My Reckless Biker

"And you didn't."

"No. I didn't."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not working for him." Her voice is level, matter-of-fact. "I know you think I am. I understand why you think that. But I'm not."

I push off the wall and move closer, leaning on the table so I'm looking down at her and she has to look up to meet my eyes. "You sat on that bike for forty minutes and didn't once ask where we were going or what we were doing. Most people would ask. Most people would want to know if they were being taken somewhere dangerous."

"Most people didn't grow up in Victor Crane's house learning not to ask questions they won't get answers to."

The response comes fast and sharp and true, and I can hear years of training underneath it, the skill of someone who learned early that curiosity costs.

"You're calculating right now," I say. "I can see it. You're thinking about what to say, how to say it, what'll convince me and what won't. Everything you do is strategic."

"Everything everyone does is strategic. You're calculating right now too. You're watching me for tells, listening for inconsistencies, waiting for me to slip up. The only difference between us is I'm honest about it and you're pretending you're not."

She's right. And the fact that she's right, that she sees through me as clearly as I'm trying to see through her, makes this harder than it should be.

I straighten, stepping back to give myself space. "Cain says your intel is checking out. Financial trails match what we know. Contacts are real. Nothing's setting off alarms yet."

"Good."

"But that doesn't prove you're not lying. Just proves the information you gave us is accurate. And accurate information can be bait."

"I know."

"So here's where we are." I cross my arms, need something to do with my hands. "I still don't trust you. But I'm starting to think you might not be lying, which is different than trusting you."

"I understand the distinction."

"Do you? Because when your father sees those photos from last night, when he reacts and things get dangerous, you're going to have to choose whether you stay or run. And that choice is going to tell me everything I need to know."

She stands and the motion brings her closer, close enough that I can see the exact color of her eyes, the way her jaw is set tight with something that looks like determination.

"I'm not running," she says. "I left my father's house with everything I'd need to disappear completely. New identity, cash, accounts he doesn't know about, a whole plan for where to go and how to stay hidden. I could have just left. Could have been gone and he never would have found me. But I didn't do that. I came here. I gave you everything I have that could hurt him. I made myself visible. I did all of that because I don't just want to run. I want him to know I left. I want him to know I chose something different. And I want him to fail when he comes for me."

Her voice is steady and certain and I can see the truth of it in her face, in the way she's standing like she's planted roots right here in this room and has no intention of moving.

And that's when the certainty cracks.

Maybe she's lying. Maybe tomorrow she proves exactly what I thought she was.

But right now I think she's exactly what she says: someone who got tired of being Victor Crane's daughter and made a choice that's going to cost her everything.

"All right," I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I intended.

"All right?"

"All right, you've made your point. I'm not saying I trust you. But I'm saying I'm listening."

Something shifts in her expression, relief maybe, or just exhaustion from having to prove herself over and over.

"Thank you," she says quietly.

"Don't thank me yet. The arrangement doesn't change. We're still going to be seen together. You're still going to have to play the role. I'm still going to be watching."

"I know."