Page 60 of Tell Me Lies

“Yes, Mr. Miller.” She looked with those soulful eyes. “I’m really sorry. I should have known the parking spot was too good to be true. I didn’t even check for a reserved indication.”

I stood back, watching her admit to maybe the worse thing she’d ever done in her whole life, which probably was twenty-one or twenty-two years. When I was her age, I wasn’t apologizing for taking a reserved parking spot. No. I was plotting the takedown of the person who murdered my father. Though years ago, it still felt fresher than ever.

“So, what should your punishment be?” I asked the question—one I’d asked many criminals I came across. But this time, exhilaration ran through me. I just wanted to know what she’d say—how she’d respond.

Her eyes widened, and her cheeks blazed redder. Her lips parted, but nothing came out.

“Do you think you should get away with this? It was your negligence, after all.” I lifted my brows. God, it was too satisfying making this girl squirm.

“No,” she quickly said. “I don’t think I should get away with anything. But I admitted to the offense. Isn’t that worth something?”

“Is it?”

Her eyebrows furrowed, and the embarrassment she displayed moments ago turned to frustration. “It’s my first time parking in a faculty-reserved lot. And I apologized. So, yes, I think it is worth something.”

“Okay.” I was bored now. “If you do it again, I will have your car towed.”

I began to walk away, but her little hand reached out and just barely missed my elbow. I paused and moved my gaze to her hand, falling through the air and to her side again. Then my gaze met hers, pinning her.

“Uh … Mr. Miller, maybe I can buy you a Starbucks as a sign of my sincere apology and my promise not to make the same mistake again.”

She dropped her gaze to the floor, but I didn’t stop staring. Was she for real? A coffee as an apology? Truth was, if she weren’t my student, I might take her up on the offer. I was drawn to her, no question. I wouldn’t have stayed through the conversation if I weren’t. And I wasn’t just entertaining myself with her discomfort. No, I was drawn.

“What’s your name?” I asked, crossing my arms over my chest.

She looked up. “Anya Sanchez, Mr. Miller.”

Anya Sanchez. Hmm. I felt like I knew her somehow. Had we met before? No … I didn’t think so. True, being the youngest DA in the county and fairly good-looking lent itself to meeting more women than the average Joe. But I wasn’t a hookup kind of guy. No. I preferred one woman I could devour over the long term. There was nothing intimate about a one-and-done, which was not my nature.

“You know I can’t socialize with students, Anya, right?”

“Oh…” Her whole face was red now. “I’m sorry. Yes, of course I know that.”

“Good.” I had to walk away, or else I’d suggest more than just a coffee. “Just park where you’re supposed to and keep out of the faculty lots and we won’t have any more problems.”

“Yes, of course, sir.”

I grunted and walked away. I liked the way she said “sir,” a little too much.

Chapter Three

Anya Sanchez

A week passed since the weird interaction with Mr. Miller. He didn’t give me the time of day in class or otherwise. What an asshole. I didn’t know what I did, outside of trying to apologize for my mistake, for him to act so cold to me. Fine, I wasn’t trying to be friends with him. He was my teacher. But he was more than that, wasn’t he? He put my father in prison for life, and he still had no idea who I was. I would never tell him. At least I didn’t think I would.

But I wanted to get close to him. I didn’t know why. Maybe because, in some way, he saved my mother and me from living in fear of my father’s enemies. Life had gotten better the last eight years since my father was incarcerated—my mother and I were free. And there I was, taking my last credits to graduate with a degree in investigative journalism. My life would be mine.

I sat there in class and watched Mr. Miller tear apart a classmate on state court system procedures. He was a perfectionist, no joke.

“What is one way an innocent person can be held accountable for a crime he or she didn’t commit?” Mr. Miller fired off the question and pushed up his sleeves again, thick, tan forearms exposed.

Jesus. He was so good-looking. And a jerk. Why did those two always go hand in hand? Ugh, I needed to just focus on passing the class. I had no bandwidth to think about men, especially not an off-limits man like my teacher.

I raised my hand, sparks of electricity firing through me. No one else joined me, but Mr. Miller’s eyes scanned right over me, and he didn’t call on me.

“Come on, there has to be someone here who read the assignment.” Mr. Miller’s jaw clenched. “This is an accelerated class, so every single one of your hands should be up.”

I raised my hand higher, muscle tendons pulling in my shoulder and bicep. He had to have seen me.

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