“Richard,” I manage. “He thinks he’s protecting Stella.”
His jaw flexes, eyes dark with understanding. “And you?”
I let out a breath that feels like it’s been trapped in my chest all day.
“He’s an asshole.”
The space between us crackles, heavy with all the things I can’t fix tonight—ex-husbands, past mistakes, the creeping shadow of an investigation that’s starting to feel way too personal.
Noah reaches the top step, close enough that I can see the light catch in his dark eyes.
“I’ll head downstairs,” he says quietly. “You and Stella—figure out dinner. I’ll go pick something up when you’re ready.”
* * *
I nod, forcing a breath past the knot in my chest. “Thank you.”
He lingers a second, like he wants to say more, then turns and disappears down the hall, back toward the basement and the security monitors.
I stand there for a moment longer, then turn back toward my office.
The files sit on my desk like loaded weapons.
Tomorrow.
I’ll deal with them tomorrow.
For now, my daughter is home.
Later, after she’s in bed, I can run down the miles on a treadmill. Punch a boxing bag if needed. For now, I need to fight the urge to shatter something—and remember that fear and fury aren’t the same thing as weakness.
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
Noah
The upscale apartment building has the usual amenities—parking, a pool, and a steady stream of twenty- and thirty-somethings rushing through the lobby on their way to work.
I’m here early, positioned near the entrance, hoping to catch Jeri Masters—the witness who’s stopped answering calls and opening her door. I’m not ready to call her missing. Not answering during random visits doesn’t qualify. Neither does ignoring an unknown number.
Still… it’s enough to raise a flag.
And if Alicia had hired an attorney, I’d expect them to be doing exactly what I’m doing—knocking on the witness’s door, trying to understand her version of events. More than that, trying to gauge what she actually remembers.
Because there’s something that doesn’t sit right.
To notice Alicia and the victim in a conference room with over a hundred people, Jeri would’ve had to know who she was looking at—or have a reason to pay attention. If that’s the case, how does she know them?
The apartment isn’t a doorman building, but there is a lobby with a front desk. From what I can tell, visitors can access the elevators to the apartments from the lobby, the parking garage, or from a side door. The person behind the front desk looks like she’s barely out of college, hair in a ponytail, wearing a rumpled white button-down shirt and a crooked name tag. She’s busy scanning packages—which is probably a big part of her job.
On a whim, I head her way instead of toward the elevators.
“Hi,” I say.
She looks up from the package she’s holding and gives me a warm, friendly smile. “Hi. If you’re here for your package, we’re getting through them as fast as we can. The person yesterday went home sick. If you want to give me your name?—”
“That’s okay,” I say quickly. “I don’t live here.”