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Actually, that's bullshit.

My clothes take up approximately one quarter of the closet upstairs because Callie apparently needs seventeen different black dresses that all look exactly the fucking same.

She assures me they're different.

They're not.

There's food I like in the refrigerator. My coffee in the cabinet. My gun safe is bolted into the floor in a room Callie refers to as my murder closet.

It isn't a murder closet. It's an office.

She put a sign on the door.

ROMAN'S MURDER CLOSET.

I took it down.

She put it back.

I took it down again.

The third time, she used fucking screws.

It's still there.

My old go-bag is shoved in the back of our upstairs closet. It’s empty. Callie stores fake spiderwebs in it now. I haven't told her I know.

Bishop handled the flash drive. Whatever Mercer was willing to kill for is someone else’s problem now.

My phone vibrates on the counter.

BECK: You do it yet?

I ignore him.

Another message appears.

BECK: Hot Lips.

I flip the phone facedown.

A third vibration.

Motherfucker. I should’ve killed him years ago.

“Who keeps texting you?” Callie's voice comes from behind me.

I turn—and stop.

She stands in the kitchen doorway in a short black dress, thigh-high boots, and black cat ears on her head. Her blonde curls fall around her shoulders.

Green eyes meet mine. A slow smile spreads across her face. “Well?”

My gaze moves down her body, then back up. “Absolutely not.”

Her smile gets bigger. “You like it.”

“You know what happened the last time you dressed like a cat.”