Page 42 of Web of Lies
"How about your parents?" It's a casual enough question, but I've noticed that she avoids the topic whenever it comes up. While I occasionally bring up my parents, Riley has managed to avoid the topic of her family with ease. I could have done my own research, of course, but I typically don't feel the need to do that with women I'm in casual relationships with. And when I'm seriously dating someone, I want to give them the chance to open up on their own terms.
She freezes, the spoon trapped between her lips. Her eyes dart back and forth before shifting back to mine. A flicker of hesitation flashes across her face before she exhales and lowersthe spoon from her mouth. "My mom died in a car crash when I was nine, and my dad was arrested and sentenced to ten years in prison when I was eighteen."
The information hits me like a slap in the face, leaving me momentarily stunned. I clear my throat and steady my voice, pushing back the rough sound. "I'm sorry for your loss."
Riley shakes her head in response. "It's life," she says, her lips curving downward into something that isn't a smile. Seventeen years or not, her eyes still hold her pain—it's the kind that never fully fades, only buries itself deeper. She lifts another spoonful of food to her mouth and looks away.
"And what about your dad?"
Her eyes flick up to mine again, and this time a short, breathy laugh slips out. "He hacked into an investment firm, stole a shit ton of money, and got caught."
"Oh, so your dad is a hacker too?"
"Yes," Riley admits without hesitation. "He taught me the basics, and eventually I developed my own style and methods."
"Interesting." I hum as I study how her mood shifts. Sadness lingers in her eyes, but her features soften into an almost amused expression. She misses her dad; that much is clear. But if he was arrested when she was eighteen, then his sentence must be almost over. In two years, he will be released, and they can see each other again. "Are you still in touch with him?" I ask, tilting my head, sounding more curious than I mean to.
"Not really. We only send each other birthday cards," she admits with a faint smile. "After his sentencing, his lawyer sent me a letter, warning that we should keep contact to a minimum so I wouldn't get into trouble."
"That makes sense."
"Yeah, but I still miss him sometimes." Her sigh carries more weight than her words. "The first few years were hard, but once Ijoined Hunt and met Evelyn and some of the others, life started to feel easier. More colorful again."
"I imagine." I nod slowly. "I meant what I said yesterday. I want to help you. You've… become important to me, Riley." Her eyes widen, her lips parting slightly, that spark of surprise softening into something warmer. "I won't lose you to some lunatic," I add in a calm but firm voice. I mean it; the Butcher won't get her, not on my watch. She rolls her eyes and tilts her head down to avoid my gaze, but the faint flush on her cheeks gives her away. It's always the little details with her—the quick glance she throws or the way her hands tighten around the spoon.
"What information do you already have about the butcher?" I ask, changing the topic once again.
"Some," she says, bringing her spoon back to her lips and biting on it in a nervous gesture. She shifts quickly from being caught in her emotions back to thinking mode.
"Would you mind showing me?"
"What? Really?" At my suggestion, her face betrays a hint of surprise.
"Yes, I'm out on the street a lot. I know a lot of people who talk, so maybe I'll recognize something or someone in the information you collected." Her gaze shifts away from mine and darts around the room until it settles on an empty wall in my kitchen.
"Do you mind if I put everything up there?" She asks, and I furrow my brows, turning my head toward where she is looking.
"Up there? Why don't you show me everything on your laptop?"
"It's easier to get an overall view of the situation like this."
"Okay." I shrug. "Knock yourself out."
She shovels the last bite of food into her mouth, pushes her plate aside, and stands up. She grabs her laptop and the thickfolder of documents, flips it open, and begins sorting through the pages. In no time, she's plastering the wall with notes, photos, and maps—every scrap of evidence of the butcher that she must have found since starting her investigation.
Then, before picking up another piece of paper, she raises her arms and sweeps her hair into a high ponytail. The simple gesture does something to me. Blood pools between my legs and rushes into my cock. Digging my teeth into the inside of my cheek, I force myself to stay focused.
It's such a simple action, but every time she does it, I know she's about to get serious, and that's the part that gets me. It's not just the smooth stretch of her arms or the way her neck is exposed. Though damn, that alone could ruin me. It's a shift in her entire energy. She becomes focused and driven, as if her mind clicks into place like a weapon loading. It's hands down the sexiest thing I've ever seen. And I've seen her in many positions, most of which are flattering and some of which are downright sinful. But nothing compares to this.
"I'm done," she says, snapping me out of my thoughts. My gaze shifts from her to the wall, and I stand up, running my hands down the sides of my sweatpants to hide my bulge as much as possible. Stepping around the table, I join her and cross my arms in front of my chest as I scan the evidence in front of me.
"Does anything look familiar to you?" She asks, looking up at me.
"I don't recognize any of the names." I step closer to the wall and scan the medical records and missing persons reports. "But I recognize a few restaurants." I tap my finger on one photo. "That's one Noah and I go to pretty often. Is that the one you broke into?"
"No, it was a different one." She says with a sigh.
I nod and take a step back, letting my gaze sweep over the evidence as my eyes jump from one item to the next. Each piecefeels important on its own, but together, they form a collection of hundreds of tiny fragments hinting at a larger picture that refuses to come together.
