Page 75 of Brazen Deceits

His brows drop, followed swiftly by a look of pure horror. “That is not what this is. Not at all. It’s a fucking business.”

I snort, my eyes watering. “It might be a business, but you just promised me forever, with money as no issue, no secrets, just a lifetime of the five of us together.”

He watches me as I continue to chortle, my food forgotten. He shovels two huge bites of his shepherd’s pie into his mouth, nostrils flaring. Yanking a $100 bill out of his wallet, he tosses it on the table, before forking in one last bite and standing. “Consider the offer, Clara. I’ll see you back at the house.”

He’s gone before I’ve even wiped the tears out of my eyes. Forever. He’s crazy.

Taking a few bites of the fish, I discover the edges are perfectly crispy. It’s a shame Trips is missing out. I try a bite of his shepherd’s pie, and there are these tiny little onions—so good.

I’m alternating between the last few nibbles of both dishes, as I’ve been on a steady diet of yogurt and peanut butter without Walker, when someone slides into Trips’ chair.

“Clara, it’s been a while.”

Officer Tom Reed might be wearing jeans and a plaid shirt, but he’s unmistakable. I take my time chewing the beef I’ve pulled from Trips’ plate, needing a moment to think. He looks younger sitting across from me—probably not even thirty yet. Swallowing, I wipe my mouth with my napkin. “Hello.”

He eyes my half-drunk whiskey ginger but says nothing about it. “How are things?”

I shrug, dipping a fry and swirling it on the plate, not wanting to talk with my mouth full. “Things are fine. What brings you here? To my table specifically?”

He smiles, and it looks genuine, unlike all the practiced faces he gave me when I was locked in a box with him. “Would you believe happenstance?”

No. No, I would not. He shakes his head, reading my answer on my face. He throws up his hands. “It’s the honest truth. I was picking up some takeout and saw you and Westerhouse over here.”

“Trips left a while ago. Your food must be cold waiting for you.”

“I ate at the bar.”

I nibble at my fry, thoroughly slathered in ketchup, chasing it with my drink. Tom raises a brow but lets me have my alcohol. “I thought you took care of my stalker problem?” I ask.

He laughs. “You guys netted that up nicely for us, didn’t you?”

I eat another fry.

“You’re right. None of my business. Your ex was a piece of work. It’s better he’s off the street. But, you know, I could have sworn you and Westerhouse being a thing was just some weird piece of this chess game you all are playing with the law. My money’s on Lee or Pierce as your actual boyfriend.”

Tom leans back in his chair, obviously enjoying the sound of his own voice. “Then I see you and Westerhouse here, on a Friday, obviously on a date, having some sort of serious conversation. I’ll admit I stayed to watch—I was curious. Then you start laughing, say something about Westerhouse proposing, and he stomps off. So maybe there really is something there?”

He waits, wanting some confirmation from me. I give him nothing, trying to piece together why he’s even talking to me. He shrugs. “Fine then. Maybe there is something there, maybe there isn’t. So just in case, I figured I owed you a warning, as your ex on a platter led us to four other fucking pedophiles. Once we’ve rounded up the whole ring, I’m going to be front-page news. I’m even being promoted to a regional task force, all because your case landed on my desk. So here’s your reward: don’t get mixed up with the Westerhouse family. They’re rotten to the core, poisoned crown and all. And that apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”

I stab another tiny onion, chewing it, the gravy salty and full of some herb that Walker could name just by smelling the plate. “Thanks for the warning,” I say.

He stands up, offering his hand to shake. I wipe my sweaty palm on my jeans before clasping his. “Be careful,” he says.

“Always.”

He scoffs, strolling out of the restaurant. I watch, making sure he’s gone before I turn back to my plate. A shuddering laugh-cry escapes, but I bottle it back up. This isn’t the place.

Twice in less than a week, people in power, people who should see right through me, think I’m in on this, that I’m some kind of criminal mastermind. That I’m a part of this team instead of the fucking seam ripper tearing the damn thing apart while trying to find a safe little corner to stitch myself into.

Shit shit shit.

I’m just figuring out who Idon’twant to be.

Can these near strangers somehow see who I’m becoming? Do they know where I fit? They respect this version of me. They think I’m smart, strong, a leader.

If only I felt that way.

My dad shows up Wednesday afternoon to bring me home for Thanksgiving, parking awkwardly next to the new giant white panel van that showed up a few days ago. It somehow has Illinois plates.

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