Page 43 of Begin Again

That gives me pause. “You’re looking into their deaths?”

“That’s my job,” he says, leaning in just a little closer—almost into my space now, almost into my house. “And I’m here to make sure this doesn’t turn into a bigger mess than it already is. So why don’t you stop dancing around my questions and tell me everything you know?”

I hate that he’s good at this. That he’s reading me even as I try to do the same to him.

Before I can respond, the sound of tires crunching on gravel draws both our attention. A car door slams, and a moment later, Bennett appears in the driveway, his expression cautious as he spots the hulking figure on the porch.

“Who’s this?” Bennett asks, jogging up the steps gesturing to the giant in front of me.

“I’m just a friend, and I’m assuming you’re Bennett?” He turns slightly, no one at his back, a move that’s second nature to men who don’t like surprises.

Bennett narrows his eyes. “How do you know who I am?”

The man’s smile sharpens, just a fraction. It seems like an expression meant to make people feel like they’re already three steps behind. He tilts his head slightly, eyes flicking over Bennett in open assessment.

“Lucky guess,” he says, voice smooth, almost playful. A hypnotic voice that could lull you into a false sense of security if you weren’t paying attention. He then pulls out his badge again, flashing it like an ace up his sleeve. “I’m also the FBI agent who’s been tracking all your digital breadcrumbs. And let me tell you, you’ve left quite a trail.”

Bennett stiffens. I don’t have to look at him to know he’s already doing the mental math, running through everything we’ve done, every conversation, every search that might have put us on the FBI’s radar.

“You’re the one at the FBI who was looking into the poisonings?” Bennett asks, voice tight.

“Among other things,” he says, his tone casual but his gaze sharp as a blade.

I glance between them, the tension crackling in the air. I don’t like this. The way the agent stands there like he’s already figured us out, like we’re just a puzzle he’s piecing together at his own damn pace. I don’t like that he knows more than he’s letting on.

“So you’ve been digging into all of this, and now you’re here to what—interrogate us about what we know?” I ask, crossing my arms. My pulse is steady, my expression unreadable, but I hate the feeling that I’m on the defensive. “Why have you been looking into them? How did you find them?”

His hazel eyes lock on mine, and the intensity there hits me like a strike of flint against stone. Sharp. Unrelenting

“I’m here because someone, without the proper training, is connecting dots they shouldn’t be, and it’s putting people in danger. That includes you.”

The warning in his tone is clear. But it’s not the words that unnerve me—it’s the way he says it like he’s not just stating a fact but giving me a chance to back off before it’s too late.

For a moment, the weight of his gaze keeps me rooted in place, and I hate that I feel the flicker of heat rising in my chest. I hate the way my body reacts to him, to the confidence, to the challenge, to the way he looks at me like he already knows exactly how I’m going to respond. He’s frustrating, condescending, and entirely too attractive for his own good—or mine.

Bennett interrupts the moment, stepping between us. Not that I was about to let it turn into anything.

“If you think Aubrey had anything to do with this, you’re wrong. She wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

The agent shifts his focus to Bennett. It’s like watching a predator shift its attention, assessing a new variable in the equation.

“I don’tthinkanything yet. I’m here to find the truth, not jump to conclusions,” he says. “But the more people keep secrets, the harder that gets.”

“She’s not the only one with secrets,” I snap, my patience thinning. This man isn’t the only one that can push. “Cassie’s behavior has been shady as hell. Have you looked into Josie Lyon or anyone else in town? Maybe you should start there instead of barging in here and accusing us of—what, withholding information?”

The agent’s lips quirk into a half-smile. It’s a smile that says he’s enjoying this. That he likes a little fight.

“Noted,” he says. His tone is unreadable, making me wonder just how much of what I’ve said he buys. “But for the record, I’m not accusing you. Yet.”

Yet. The word lingers like a quiet promise.

“I’ll let you get back to your night, but don’t go far,” he adds. “I’m going to need more than what you’ve given me if I’m going to be able to keep my family safe.”

His family. The words catch me off guard for half a second. He’s not just some detached fed, cold, and calculating. This feels personal somehow. I just don’t know what it is.

As he turns to leave, the tension in the air doesn’t dissipate—it lingers, electric and unsettling. Like the static before a storm.

Bennett and I exchange a look, but neither of us says a word until his car disappears down the road.

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