Page 38 of Only the Wicked
With her softer tone, I sink onto the edge of the bed, the words catching in my throat. “I think I’m making the same mistake I made in Paris. Getting too invested.”
“Paris was different. You were blindsided. This is about—what? You like him?”
“It’s not that simple.”
I stand and pace past the window. “The intelligence says one thing…but when I’m with him…”
“You don’t believe he’s capable of it.”
“Exactly. And that scares me, Caroline. What if we’re wrong?”
Silence stretches across the line.
“Do you remember what I told you about Dorian?” Dorian—President Moore’s nephew. Caroline reunited with him after years apart. Their split splashed across every tabloid.
“You said powerful men are expert manipulators.”
“I said some of them are. But I also said the truly dangerous ones are the ones who make you forget they’re powerful at all.” Her voice drops. “Dorian’s father never let me forget his connections, his family name. He wielded it like a weapon. But Dorian, he wasn’t always like that. He’d talk to me for hours about books and travel, never once mentioning his degrees or pedigree. He made me feel like the only person in the room.”
“Yet you left him.”
“And eventually we reunited. Dorian is a good person, but he almost followed in his father’s path. If I’m honest with myself, both sides still exist in him, we’re just better at working through our differences. And he’s more like the man I first met.” She pauses. “The point is, Sydney, your instincts about people have kept you alive. If something feels off about the intelligence, maybe it is. But it’s also possible there’s more to him than he’s let you see so far.”
My chest tightens. “What if my desire for him to be innocent?—”
“Then you’re human. And empathetic intelligence officers are the ones who build the most fruitful connections.” Another pause. “Syd, you’ve always cared about a target’s well-being. That’s what makes you good at your job.”
The truth resonates and I knead the discomfort beneath my breastbone.
“I think I’m in trouble, Caroline.”
“Good trouble or bad trouble?” I catch sight of the hotel toothbrush on the bathroom counter, evidence of a night with more intimacy than I’ve experienced in years.
“I honestly don’t know.”
“Then figure it out. Explore. But don’t you dare apologize for feeling something genuine. For caring. And Syd?”
“Yeah?”
“If your gut says he’s innocent, maybe start asking who benefits from him looking guilty.”
Chapter
Twelve
Sydney
What’s your room number?
The winding path weaves between a manicured lawn and beautifully landscaped flower beds juxtaposed against stone and wood villas. He planned for us to meet in the lobby, but I’d like to get a look inside his space. I expect I’ll only see his suitcase, but there could be something useful. Notes left out on a table, a name jotted down on a notepad, anything.
A door up ahead cracks and Rhodes steps out, a backpack strap slung over one shoulder. He’s in hiking boots that rise above his ankles, navy twill shorts and a Foo Fighters T-shirt. The sleeves from a plaid flannel shirt wrap around his waist, turning him into a replica of almost any frat boy from my college years.
“I’m hearing after last night’s rain it’s going to be muddy. How’s your ankle?”
“It’s fine. I hit my knee hard, but it’s good today.”
The door locks behind him, and I keep my face neutral to mask any disappointment.
