Page 20 of Accidentally Kidnapping the Hitman

“I know.” Her voice is warm. “I do know that, Dean.”

“Okay.” Shaking out my arms, I stand up straight and press the phone to my ear again. Eyes open, I check there’s no one near me to eavesdrop. “Okay. But I can’t tell you this stuff over the phone, sweetheart. It’s not secure.”

I’m already gonna have to destroy this burner and text Wyatt from another number. Can’t be too careful in my work.

“Come to my apartment.” Just like that, Annie reels off her address—and the show of trust after everything makes my legs weak. “Come over right now.”

My mouth twitches at her bossy tone. She sure doesn’t sound like she’s scared of me. “Yes, ma’am.”

My hand raises as I step into the street, hailing the first cab I see.

Need to get to my girl.

* * *

Annie’s place is on the fourth floor of a brick building in the outskirts of the city—the kind of neighborhood with artsy theaters and student discounts in all the cafes, where kids draw on the sidewalks in colored chalks during the summer.

My chest loosens as I walk up the short path to her front door, past lavender bushes and a chipped garden gnome pushing a painted wheelbarrow through the flowerbeds. It’s nice. Nothing fancy, but it feels safe and friendly around here. I’m glad Annie lives somewhere like this.

It’s late, but the windows on the fourth floor are lit up. From down here, I can just make out the weird shadows of houseplants against the glass.

My heart drums as I press Annie’s buzzer.

The intercom clicks. “Dean?”

“Yeah.”

The door buzzes and I push my way through, then take the stairs two at a time. My skin is hot despite the damp t-shirt clinging to my skin.

Annie’s standing in her doorway when I reach the fourth floor, still dressed in her dark pants and cream silk camisole, but she’s switched her ankle boots out for thick fluffy socks and tied her blonde hair in a messy bun. She bites her lip when she sees me, fingertips bleaching where they squeeze the door.

I slow down and raise my palms, heart still thundering. I’m getting ahead of myself—she might not want me inside.

“We can talk out here if you want.” There’s a slight risk of being overheard, but it should be fine if we whisper. “Whatever makes you most comfortable.”

Annie thinks about it for a second, chewing on her rosy bottom lip—then sighs and shakes her head.

“No. Come inside. Maybe I’m a prime candidate for a true crime podcast, but… I trust you.”

Inside is warm and colorful, filled with plants and artwork and cozy knit throws. It smells like cardamom and vanilla. Annie spins to face me and fidgets as I toe off my boots by the door.

“Do you want a coffee? A water? Something else? Are you still hungry—”

“I’m good.” Annie jumps at the low rumble of my voice, but there’s nothing else for it. We need to talk, and putting this conversation off will only make it harder. “Do you have a room without any electronics?”

Annie scrunches up her face as she thinks. It’s adorable. “Um, the bathroom, I guess?”

That’ll do. “Can we talk there?” I spin a finger around the living room, pointing vaguely at the TV, the phone charging station on the bookcase, the speakers, the roomba that sits dormant in one corner. “I don’t trust the tech not to eavesdrop. Not with stuff like this.”

Annie presses her lips together, visibly freaked out, but nods. She slides her own phone from her pocket and tosses it on the sofa. “This way.”

I ditch my own burners too, then follow Annie through her small but sweet apartment, trying my hardest not to spy too much. Still, I want every fucking detail of her life here: what food she keeps in the refrigerator, which books are in those piles; which games she plays on that console. If she lets me stick around, I’m gonna absorb every piece of information she gives me, soaking it all up like a thirsty houseplant.

It’s too much to hope for—and yet when she turns her back on me, trusting me enough to lead me through her home, Ican’t help it. The knot loosens in my gut by a fraction, and my shoulders drop an inch.

“Here.”

We crowd together in a small bathroom with white and periwinkle blue tiles on the walls. Annie hugs her own waist by the sink, while I’m half-stuffed into the shower cubicle. The door clicks shut behind us.

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