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“Doubtful.”

Gage looks between us with dawning regret, which I consider excellent news.

“So,” Maisie says. “You hack.”

“I prefer digital trespassing.”

She taps the desk. “Ethical?”

I flash Gage a knowing grin. “Morally practical.”

Her fingers pause. “Seven and a half.”

“Holy shit,” Gage murmurs.

“Don’t interfere,” Maisie commands without turning away from me.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You’re terrified of her,” I stage-whisper.

“Deeply.”

She doesn’t react to either of us, which somehow confirms it.

A dozen more questions follow. Money. Mom. Work. Whether I lie when it’s convenient. Whether I get violent when I’m angry. What I’d do if Gage told me something I hated about him. The questions aren’t warm. They aren’t cruel either. They’re precise.

Finally, she leans back, fingers steepled. “How did you two meet?”

I glance sideways at Gage, a warning written all over him that very clearly says don’t. But I blame him. He’s the one who warned me about Maisie’s bullshit detector.

So, of course, I cup a hand beside my mouth and lean toward her. “Did he tell you we met over a dead body?”

“Jules!” He grabs my shoulders from behind, his hand clapping over my mouth.

Maisie’s gaze sharpens.

I lick his palm.

“Ugh!” he responds just as I predicted, reaching for the tissue box.

“He brought the shovel.”

“Jubilee—”

“Okay, two shovels. And a raccoon. And an endangered shrubbery.”

Gage finishes wiping and catches my arm, tugging me back into my chair. “Mother of fuck.”

“Hey,” I boop his nose. “You’re the one who cyberstalked a hacker and texted her the next morning about hydration and criticized whiskey and cereal as breakfast options.” I dart my finger between him and me. “Please. Tell him who’s more unhinged here.”

The corners of Maisie’s lips quiver. “Eight and a half.”

“YES.”

“Stop helping,” Gage growls.

Maisie folds her hands again. “Start at the beginning.”