Page 72 of The Meaning Of You

“A slave to fashion then?”

I huffed. “Only if it’s crafted from some rare wool farmed in the mountains of some developing nation, and spun by a one-hundred-and-four-year-old grandmother who sells it to some not-for-profit foundation that clears minefields on weekends.”

A laugh burst from my throat. “He sounds like a true gem.”

Mads nodded. “He is. And he’s going to pee himself with excitement when he hears I had an actual living man stay the night.”

My belly knotted at his words. “You’re going to... tell him... about us? I mean about me?”

Mads laughed. “Oh my god, you should see your face. Don’t panic. I’ll only tell him that I offered you a bed out of the kindness of my heart, and he can do with that what he will, which is jump to conclusions left right and centre because that’s Gazza. It’ll be fun to watch, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. Besides—” He cocked a brow. “—there’s nothing to tell, right?”

I ignored his less-than-subtle challenge and focused on my coffee. “Tell me what you found.”

Mads’ gaze lingered just long enough to ensureIknew thatheknew I was evading the subject, and then he started talking. “I found this in the box.” He slid a copy ofThe Three Musketeersmy direction.

I picked it up and studied the cover, remembering my own surprise when I’d found it in the box the day the police droppedit off. Davis pretty much stuck with modern-day thrillers and police procedurals, but I hadn’t thought much more of it at the time. Davis was an author. I was well used to it raining books in our house and vehicles on a regular basis, and most didn’t rate more than a passing glance from me. I looked up at Mads. “So?”

He arched a brow. “Is it Davis’s?”

“I assume. It was in the car with his things, after all.” My gaze narrowed. “Davis had a ton of books. Why do you ask?”

Mads hummed non-committally. “Take a look at the inside cover.”

I did, my eyes widening at what I found scrawled there.J. L. My gaze shot up. “Holy shit. Justin Leonard?”

Mads shrugged. “Keep looking.”

I fanned slowly through the pages. “What am I looking f—oh shit. Guess I found it.” About a third into the book, a hole had been cut big enough to hold a small notebook. I tipped the notebook into my hand and stared at the shiny cover depicting a tumble of white roses.

Fear trickled down my spine and I locked eyes with Mads. “What the fuck is this?”

Mads’ green eyes sparkled gold as the first rays of morning sun hit his face. “Excellent question. Open it.”

My heart climbed into my throat. “Is it crazy that I’m kind of terrified to look?”

Madigan reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze. “It’s okay.”

I lifted my gaze to meet his and drew on that quiet strength. Then I took a deep breath and opened the notebook.

It took a few seconds to digest what I was seeing. “What the hell is this?” I flipped through the pages but they were all the same. Lines of random letters punctuated by the occasional four-digit number that at first glance looked like it might be ayear, since they counted up one by one from the first page to the last—twenty years in total.

Mads shifted forward on his seat, bringing our knees together, the heat from that one tiny touch so startling it caused me to inhale sharply. He shot me a puzzled look. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” I refocused on the notebook, the heat of his gaze burning holes in the side of my face. “Assuming this is Justin’s, then it looks like a code of some sort. Whatever it is, it’s important enough to go to these lengths to hide, so a client list maybe? I might’ve said bank account info, maybe income or deposits if he is laundering money or stashing it away in different accounts, but there’re too many letters to be a simple number substitution.”

Madigan’s gaze dropped from my face to the notebook and I could breathe again. “I agree,” he said.

I flicked once more through the pages. “It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve run into underworld figures choosing hard copy rather than digital to keep track of sensitive information. Even the best systems can be penetrated. I’ve worked on handwritten ledgers from organised crime going back decades. Lachlan said virtually no one met Justin in person, so he was obviously super cautious.”

“And yet he met with Davis?” Mads pointed out.

I grunted. “Yeah. Go figure. A forgeranda fanboy. But it doesn’t surprise me. Davis connected easily with people. They generally loved him. Me?” I shot Mads a wry smile. “Not so much.” The memory of being wrapped in Davis’s arms in our bed for all those years made me smile. “Davis had a way of making you feel safe.”

Mads’ hot eyes tracked my face once again.

“He was a good man,” I finished hoarsely.

“And with good taste too,” Mads added, nudging my knee with his. “He chose you, after all.”

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