Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 128307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
We head back to the apartment. The air between us is thick with everything. I’d like to tell Grayson that I’m here for him, that he’s not going through this alone, but then I remember that this isn’t about me. It’s about him and the steps he needs to take to heal.
“She still loves you,” I say quietly.
His grip on the steering wheel firms, but that is the start and end of his reply.
“I asked her if she had ever loved you, and she said, ‘Of course I love him. It’s Grayson. He is impossible not to love.’” I float my eyes over the scenery outside, hiding their watery appearance. “She said love, Grayson. Not loved. That’s why I took her spark plugs. It will only take you confronting her once for those feelings to come rushing back in.” I wet my suddenly dry lips as I remember the way my heart thumped when I first spotted him on the stoop of my apartment. “Love doesn’t die. You just learn to hide your feelings for what you believe is the greater good.”
When silence teems between us for the next several seconds, I glance over at Grayson. He appears to be watching the road, but I feel his eyes on me. He flicks them between the road and me until we arrive at the undercover parking lot of our building.
The cause of my weary bones is undeniable when I follow him to our apartment. The sun is dipping below the skyline, painting the living room windows with streaks of orange and violet. When we veer past Adeline’s apartment, I’m tempted to tell Grayson about how she wasn’t sick, but I think better of it. He has enough on his plate right now. He doesn’t need more.
Grayson unlocks the door, and I follow him inside. The scent of coffee and dried ink on paper greets us.
“Hungry?” His voice is casual despite the tension still hardening his jaw.
“Starving,” I admit. I haven’t eaten all day, and I am beyond famished.
We move around the cramped kitchen, falling into an easy rhythm. I wash the vegetables we chopped earlier this week while Grayson heats oil in a pan. The sizzle of the olive oil fills the silence. It’s domestic, but also intimate, and it sharpens the ache in my chest.
Grayson nudges me with his elbow, grinning when I grunt as if side-swiped by a truck. “I think they’re clean.”
I laugh after taking in the drowned vegetables. The carefree nature of my reply even surprises me. “You can never be too cautious. What looks shiny and clean can harbor something nasty on the inside.” I didn’t mean for my reply to come out so cautionary. It just occurred.
I glance at Grayson in silent apology before placing the vegetables in the microwave to steam, and then I gather the pre-cut chicken strips from the refrigerator and hand them to him.
We work so well together that you’d swear we’ve done it for years.
In a way, I guess we have. It’s just never felt so personal.
Once dinner is ready, we sit at the island with our plates piled high and eat in companionable silence. The food is simple—chicken stir-fry tossed in a saltless but garlicky sauce—but it tastes like comfort. Like home.
As we eat, Grayson’s shoulders relax, and the smile I struggled to conjure up over the past few hours occasionally pops up. We slide back into the comfort of being workmates and friends, and the awkwardness melts away as familiar banter and a shared focus take over.
He describes details of Kendall’s case and how he contacted the NY task force for information about a misplaced document for inquiries made during the first seventy-two hours of her disappearance. Then he moves our conversation to the sting that brought Cameron back into his life.
“Samuel is a CI.”
I choke on a strip of onion. “An informant? Since when?” I don’t give him the chance to answer. “We heard him discussing running Agents Perez and Donatello off the road.”
“Allegedly.”
I glare at him in silent warning that I’m five seconds from stabbing him with my fork.
Grayson laughs, and all my worries simmer. I made a huge sacrifice by encouraging him to pursue Cameron, but this—our connection—will withstand anything. I’m certain of it.
For a second, I process what he’s saying. “Samuel is a CI. He’s been working with the bureau.” I’m not asking questions, though Grayson nods as if I am. “So he’s not the big fish they thought he was.”
“He’s the bait,” Grayson interrupts. “And I have a feeling the person who hooked him doesn’t want the bureau’s murky fingerprints all over his case.”
The answer to his riddle hangs in the air, heavy and impossible. Then it hits me. “The detective at the Lamaze class.”
Grayson stares at me in surprise. “You know about the undercover at the class?”