"And this invoice here," Lisa says, pointing to a highlighted line item on the spreadsheet in front of her. "This is one of the fake companies?"
Mrs. Holloway nods along, eyes glistening.
"Wembley Consulting," I confirm. "Doesn't exist. The money was transferred onwards immediately to here."
When Mrs. Holloway makes a small, wounded sound, I reach over and squeeze her hand briefly before passing Lisa the next document.
As I hand it over, our fingers brush. It's nothing more than a graze, barely a touch, but the tingles that dance across my skin are dizzying.
Fuck.
Stifling a groan, I pull back too fast, covering my reaction to her by reaching for another file, but I hear her breath catch, hear her pulse jump, and from the corner of my eye, I clearly see the wounded look on her face.
"This is all so overwhelming," Mrs. Holloway says, looking between us with watery eyes. "I knew we were losing some money, but I just couldn't figure out where. I didn't even know you could create fake companies."
The protectiveness I’ve felt since taking this case resurfaces again. She doesn’t deserve this. I’ve seen every part of her business. Her employees are paid well and treated fairly. She consistently sponsors community events, children’s sports teams, and prints at cost for charities.
How dare anyone take advantage of her?
"We'll make sure anyone who’s stolen from you is held accountable," Lisa assures her, stopping short of promising her she'll get her money back. Chances are, it's long gone, squandered on fancy holidays, new cars and designer clothes. I doubt it's sitting in an investment account waiting to be returned. "And at least you found out now rather than in another year's time."
I say nothing. I'm too busynotlooking at Lisa's mouth,notnoticing the shine of lip balm on her lower lip. Cherry. I can taste it on the air, and suddenly, I'm back in that hotel room, licking it off her lips and swallowing her moans.
Christ. Shifting in my chair, I blink hard, trying to clear the images from my mind and pinch the bridge of my nose.
"Ithink," Mrs. Holloway says, mistaking my long blinks for tiredness. She rises from her chair with the careful movements of someone whose joints ache, "I should make us all some tea. Or coffee, if you prefer, Detective?"
I glance at the clock. Lisa’s been here an hour already, and I’m not sure how much longer I can last.
"Tea is fine," Lisa says sweetly. "Thank you."
Mrs. Holloway heads for the door, already knowing what I want after long hours of working together.
"You don't have to get us anything," I say, but Mrs. Holloway waves me off with a small smile.
"Shh. I need to keep busy," she says. "Let me be useful while you explain this mess to the Detective." She pats my shoulder as she passes, a gentle, grandmotherly gesture, and then she slips out of the office. The door clicks softly behind her.
And the room immediately shrinks to just her and me.
Without Mrs. Holloway as a buffer, the silence feels heavier. Lisa’s still looking at the bank statements, or pretending to at least, while I stare at a spot on the wall just over her left shoulder.
"Five thousand in a single month," Lisa says quietly, shaking her head as she studies the figures before looking up at me with a weary sigh. "And that was just the most recent one. It's awful. They've taken so much from her."
She folds her hands in her lap and looks at me with an earnest smile.
"You've done a great thing here. This is really detailed. We can definitely use it to build a case."
Aware I'm being defensive, I can't stop my default reaction. "Surprised?"
Lisa straightens, looking genuinely stunned. "I'm not. I meant… I didn't mean…"
Narrowing my eyes, I double down on choosing to be difficult despite knowing deep down that’s not how she meant it.
"She'd still have some of that money if anyone had listened to her when she first reported it,” I point out. “Holt basically told her to go away.”
Lisa goes still. It's the truth. She might not want to hear it, but it is. If I see that guy again, he’s going to get a piece of my mind.
"She came to you guys first, but nobody took her seriously," I continue, knowing I should stop, but I can't. Instead, I shatterour brief, awkward, almost truce because knowing she won’t even go to a wedding because I’m there stings more than I want to admit.