My insides twist into a painful knot of confusion. Half of me believes him—he raised some pretty valid points that punch holes in what I’ve believed for years. The other half tears itself apart between trusting his words and clinging to Stacey’s version. The truth is, both Stacey and Rafael were there to witness my father’s death.
But Stacey was the one who took me to identify his corpse in the morgue, who helped me make funeral arrangements, who stood by me as I buried my father for the second time—properly this time. While Rafael was nowhere to be found.
You had just given his location to the FBI, of course he wouldn’t be around you at that point, you idiot.
I shove the stray thought away, pressing my forehead against the cold window, watching the city lights blur into streams of neon. My temples throb as I try to analyze what could have happened that fateful night, so I abandon the effort. My brain, the treacherous bastard, takes the moment of mental silence as an invitation to flash Rafael’s handsome face back at me—the taut intensity of his expression, the sinfully inky darkness in his eyes just before his lips claimed mine….
“We’re here.” The driver’s gruff voice jolts me back to reality, and I blink in surprise at my apartment building looming before me. That was quick. Or was I just so hopelessly tangledin my thoughts that time slipped through my fingers? I pay him with a mumbled thank you and slip out of the taxi.
As I jog up the sidewalk towards the entrance, the doorman spots me and opens the door for me with a polite smile. “Welcome, ma’am.”
The bright, twinkling lights of the darned Christmas tree distracts me again, and I mutter something vague to him as I walk towards it. I have a lot of history with this holiday. At first, I hated it and all it stood for. What it reminded me of.
My father’s first ‘death’ was around Christmas. A few days after that, when I discovered who I thought was responsible, I marched recklessly into that warehouse where I was almost sexually brutalized. Iwouldhave been if Rafael and the others hadn’t shown up when they did…
Then there was my first mission in Manhattan. Also during the Christmas season. The period Rafael and I briefly got together. One of the most chaotic yet blissful chapters of my life. Until everything went to shit and I got the news of my father’s second, very real death… and that the man I had come to love so deeply was supposedly the one who did it.
A part of me still loves him, the asshole, and I know I always will.
So yeah, who in my shoes wouldn’t hate Christmas after all that?
Now, though, I’m just… numb to it.
I turn my back on the cheerful tree and make my way to the elevator. Inside, I catch my reflection in the mirrored wall and wince. My hair is still a mess from his hands, my lips still swollen from his kiss. Katie’s going to take one look at me and know something happened.
Shit. We don’t keep secrets from each other. How the hell am I going to lie about tonight without giving myself away?
I’ll have to give her something—half of the story, maybe. Because if I say nothing, she’ll grow suspicious. She’ll dig anddig until she unearthseverything. And for some reason, I want to keep it private. Sacred, almost. Between just Rafael and me. Just us.
When the elevator opens up on my floor, I’m nowhere near prepared to face my friend. I quickly twist my hair into a severe bun, eliminating any evidence of Rafael’s greedy fingers. Then I smooth my palm down my shirt, inhale deeply, and linger outside the door a few extra seconds to gather whatever fragments of composure I can find before punching in my code.
“What took you so long?” Katie pounces the instant I walk through the door. “I was about to start blowing up your phone.”
I roll my eyes and flop onto the couch with an annoyed huff. “It took forever to find anyone with credible information. And when I finally did, guess where he worked?” My heart is pounding frantically in my throat, my palms slick with sweat as I struggle to keep my eyes on Katie’s. My head is starting to feel like it’s wrapped in a vice.
“A strip club? Cemetery? Monastery?”
I chuckle at her wild guesses, the tightness easing. “Okay, okay. Calm down with the guesses, Sherlock. He works at a club.”
Katie frowns, “That’s actually pretty ordinary. What’s the—oh no.” Her eyes balloon with realization.
“Yup. He works at one of Rafael’s apparently countless clubs in this godforsaken city.” Here comes the tricky part. “And guess who just had to show up as I was questioning my source?”
“Fucking Rafael?” she spits, eyes flashing with anger.
Irritation flares in my spine—not because Rafael interrupted my investigation as rightfully itshouldbe, but because of her tone when she said his name.
The fuck?
I rub my temple, sighing. I need a drink. “Yeah, him,” I mutter, pushing off the couch. I feel Katie’s laser-focused gazetracking me as I make my way to the fridge to grab a can of beer—the strongest alcohol we have at home. “Want one?” I offer.
“Forget the beer.” She waves a hand impatiently. “What happened with Rafael?”
“Well,” I rub the sleeve of my shirt over the top of the can and pop it open with a satisfyinghiss, “my source clammed up the second Rafael showed up, so I slipped out before he could spot me.”
I take a deep gulp of the bitter liquid, stalling for time as I gauge her reaction from beneath lowered lashes. Did she buy it? Funny how lies roll off my tongue effortlessly during missions, but with Katie, even half-truths feel like choking.
“You did the right thing,” she says softly. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. Sometimes running away isn’t cowardice—it’s self-preservation.”
