Page 33 of Take Her

I’d taken my sweet time heading back to the office, keeping an eye on my little moth, wondering just what she was going to get up to without me.

Seemed like she didn’t need lunch. She was too busy snooping.

I tried to watch for anywhere she could’ve planted a bug of her own, but she didn’t lift up a lamp, or the desk phone, or go into the liquor cabinet.

She went through every other goddamned thing though, and the more of my possessions she touched, the more I was filled with rage, tempted to call Mrs. Armstrong on her flight and have her make them turn her plane around. I’d made a show of waiting in the lobby, looking irate enough to stave off anyone else’s interest in conversation, while watching her on my phone, up until she’d started pawing at my pictures of Isabelle, and that was the last straw.

“I—just—” she stammered, practically caught red handed.

“You?” I asked, striding forward and looming over her. “Just?” I asked, with a tone of derision.

She let go of a huff of breath, facing me and my disappointment head on. “I’m sorry.”

I made a growling sound, but then realized she thought I’d only caught her with the picture—not that I’d seen her systematically rifle through all of my other belongings. I would have to temper my irritation accordingly—for now.

“There’s no need for you to touch my things, Ms. Ferreo.”

She appeared wounded at the mention of her last name. “You can call me Lia,” she said quietly.

“I would rather not,” I said, then swept into my inner sanctum to do actual work, instead of worrying about her.

I kept at it until seven, coming out of my office with my coat and fully expecting to be alone.

I was surprised that I was not. Lia was still sitting behind her desk, only this time with her phone in her hand, words running across the screen—reading on the company clock.

“Why are you here?” I demanded.

She shrunk back. “You were still getting calls, sir.”

“Voicemail exists for a reason.” I stalked past her for the door, only to hear her call after me.

“I don’t feel like I learned much today, sir.” She was standing now when I looked back and her tone was slightly accusatory.

I inhaled, ready to unload into her with both barrels—I didn’t care who at the FBI heard—when my phone buzzed in my pocket.

There was only one text I was waiting for—I pulled it out immediately.

Got you your Camry driver’s deets.

A residential address, and an apartment number, scrolled up the screen.

He’s Chad Showber. A private investigator—divorced, paying a ton in child support and alimony, and he has a shitty credit score.

No connection to any alphabet soup that I can see.

I exhaled roughly, and decided to withhold my wrath, until I met this poor gentleman tonight, around, say, three.

Any Ring set-up or cameras around the building?

I texted Sable back.

Not tonight there won’t be ??

she texted back with a kiss emoji.

Wire me my usual?

On it

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