It feels unwise. Like I’m skating toward a treacherous cliff.
And also completely right.
“You with me?” he whispers into my hair.
I close my eyes, unable to speak the truth—that I’m already in too deep, that I’m already his in ways I shouldn’t be.
Instead, I curl closer. “Yeah,” I whisper. “I’m with you.”
His arm tightens, steady as a promise.
And in the quiet of the shuttered house, I know: It’s already too late to fight this.
I’ve fallen.
Chapter
Thirty-Four
Noah
Elizabeth Delacroix spots me from the tennis court.
Her match has just ended and she’s surrounded by three women in white skirts and pastel layers, all of them sheathing their rackets and reaching for water bottles. It takes about three seconds for all four of their gazes to swing my way.
Could be because she mentioned my name.
Could be because I clearly don’t belong to this particular country club.
I stay where I am, leaning against the hood of Alicia’s Rivian, arms relaxed, posture easy. Neutral. Not a threat, not a supplicant—just a man waiting.
From a distance, the resemblance between Elizabeth and Alicia hits hard. Both are lean, fit women with dark, glossy hair—Elizabeth’s pulled back for practicality. Elizabeth is in her fifties, but if I didn’t know that from Quinn’s file, I’d shave at least a decade off. Solitaire diamonds wink from her ears. A white visor and sunglasses shadow the finer details of her face, but the overall impression is polished, composed—exactly what I’d expect from a country club wife.
Her pleated skirt flares around still-toned legs, the whole look eerily close to a cheerleader uniform—if cheerleaders wore Cartier.
The women’s voices rise as they exit the court. From here it sounds like laughing goodbyes. One of them pulls Elizabeth into a hug. She stiffens, pats the woman’s back like it’s an obligation instead of instinct, and the message is clear: she’s not a hugger. Not unless she chooses to be.
When her friends peel away toward the clubhouse, Elizabeth heads for me. I push off the car, straightening.
“Noah Bennett?” she asks, voice crisp. No greeting, no small talk. Just confirmation.
“That’s me.”
She scans the lot, taking in cars, possibly scanning for anyone who might listen. Then she points toward a covered gazebo just off the courts. “Let’s talk over there. I only have fifteen minutes.”
“Thank you for agreeing to meet me,” I say.
“I appreciate you staying away from my home,” she counters.
There’s a blade hidden in that line. She’s used to wielding it.
“The police aren’t as considerate,” she adds, without prompting. “It’s not that I mind the questions, Mr. Bennett. I want to assist the investigation. But I have children. Neighbors. I don’t want them seeing the police on my front steps.”
Her voice wavers on the last words, just enough to betray what the sunglasses hide.
“I understand,” I say. “As I mentioned on the phone, I’m working on the case.”
Inside the octagonal gazebo, she settles on one of the benches, crossing her legs. I take the one directly opposite, giving her space and a clear line of sight to the parking lot.