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Her eyes widen. I probably shouldn't have admitted that.

“You had me investigated?”

“I prefer vetted.”

“You mean creepy.”

“You signed a contract to move into a stranger's house for thirty days. I think we're both operating outside normal social conventions.”

Her lips twitch. She fights it. Loses. And I win another tiny smile.

Christ, this woman is too damn cute for her own good. And mine.

“Your work is good,” I tell her. “You don't sensationalize when the facts don't support it. You give people room to answer. You push, but you listen.”

The smile disappears.

Now she's studying me.

“You really did watch.”

“Three interviews. Read five pieces.”

“Which ones?”

I name them. Her expression changes.

Just slightly.

But I see it. She wasn't expecting me to take her work seriously.

I do. That's part of the problem. If she were some hack chasing clicks, I could dismiss her.

Layla isn't a hack. She's smart. Ethical. And very fucking good at what she does. Which means if she's found something she believes matters about Granddad, she'll follow it wherever it leads.

That thought hardens something inside me.

Thirty days.

That's how long I have to find out what she knows. Thirty days to convince her there's nothing there. Or stop whatever she's found before it damages the memory of the best man I've ever known.

Layla reaches for her bag.

“Well, since we're officially doing this, I thought we'd start by going over my access to the Rovers.”

“No.”

Her hand stops.

“No?”

“No.”

“Knight—”

“Our thirty days start now.”

“I know.”