Page 238 of Sexting His Assistant

“I don’t know his real name,” the man says. “I was contacted through a middleman. I was paid to search the apartment, take anything from the brother’s bag, any phone, any papers, any drive. I wasn’t supposed to touch her.”

Pavel looks at the tablet. “He was also present the night of the garage attack.”

My breath catches.

Luka does not turn around.

Pavel continues, “We confirmed it from the partial footage and the vehicle records. He was the getaway driver.”

The man starts shaking his head. “I didn’t shoot anyone.”

Luka says, “You drove the men who did.”

“I didn’t know they would shoot,” the man argues.

Luka says, “You followed a car into a private garage with armed men and thought they were going to deliver flowers?”

The man flinches.

Pavel says, “The payment trail matches both jobs. Same channel. Same handler.”

Luka’s voice drops. “Who paid you?”

The man closes his eyes.

Luka says, “Open your eyes.”

The man opens them.

“Who paid you?” Luka barks.

The man’s mouth trembles.

For one second, I know the answer will be Roman.

It has to be Roman.

Every road has been leading there. Alina, the gala, the dance, the warning, the secret card still hidden inside my purse upstairs.

The man whispers, “Misha Hale.”

26

LUKA

The man says, “Misha Hale.”

For a second, I don’t move.

I hear the name. I understand the name. My mind receives it clearly, but something in me refuses to accept it in the same way the body rejects poison.

Misha.

The man I have trusted longer than almost anyone alive.

The man who stood beside me through deals, funerals, fights, and the kind of nights that separate friends from useful acquaintances.

The man whose little sister is standing somewhere above this room in my house, recovering from a head injury because someone broke into her apartment and struck her from behind.