"Oh my."
Mrs. Holloway stands in the doorway, tea tray in hand, cups rattling against saucers. Her eyes are wide, her hand lifting to press her pearls to her throat.
Shit.
Lisa releases my shirt and shoves me away, stumbling back a step herself.
Pretending that it's not a gut punch to see just how embarrassed she is to be caught with me, I straighten, running a hand through my hair, jaw clenched so tight that I'm surprised my teeth don't crack.
"I'll just..." Mrs. Holloway is already backing away, tray still clutched in her hands. "Give you a moment."
She disappears down the corridor, heels clicking on the hardwood. The silence she leaves behind is both deafening and toe-curlingly awkward.
Lisa recovers quicker than my ego likes. She runs a hand over her hair and smooths her shirt, and when she speaks again, it's detective Lisa, not the fiery woman who was two seconds from smashing her lips onto mine.
“I think I’ve got everything I need here,” she announces. “I can tell you’re itching to get away from me, so just go.”
It's so far from the truth that I almost laugh. The problem isn't wanting to leave her. The problem is that I'm about five seconds from losing control and pushing her back against that desk to finish what she started when she touched me.
I sigh. We both know she’s the one who wants me to go.
I lift my phone and keys off the table before stuffing them into my pockets.
Unable to resist, I pause at the door and look back at her. She's beautiful and pissed off, and I want her so badly that I can't breathe. Ignoring the daggers she’s staring at me, I throw her a wave over my shoulder and close the door behind me.
7
LISA
It takes three trips from my car to my desk to carry in all the files Beau put together on the Holloway fraud. A tiny, bitter part of me wonders if he did it on purpose. Maybe the bottom of these boxes are filled with reams of blank paper.
But he seemed just as surprised as I was to be working together.
Dropping the final box onto my desk with a thud, I take some joy from the way it makes Morrison jump.
“No butler to carry in your stuff, princess?” he calls loudly, drawing all the eyes in the office to me. When I scowl at him, he leans over, whispering to Holt, and they both laugh, at my expense no doubt.
I ignore them. I've got bigger problems than their bullshit today.
As I pour myself a large mug of tar-like coffee, my stomach finally feeling better, I eye the boxes with suspicion. They’re mocking me, and by extension, so is Beau. There are colour-coded tabs, highlighted sections and cross-referenced documents. These boxes showcase hours and hours ofmeticulous work, all organized so neatly, that it makes my type-A heart sing with joy.
Beau’s right, he’s good at his job. Very good. I hate that he's so good at it because it means that all of my comments were unfair and unjustified, and I owe him yetanotherapology.
Unable to avoid starting any longer, I sink into my chair and pull the nearest box toward me.
"Glad I didn't take that call," Holt comments, probably parroting the exact same joke Morrison made to him two minutes ago.
Rolling my eyes, I stonewall them, refusing to give them the attention they want. Instead, I trawl through the files, careful not to disrupt Beau’s meticulous system. There are bank statements, invoices, corporate registration documents, photographs of them leaving work, at the bank, on holidays. Every detail the prosecution will need to put Sandra and Bill away for a long time is here. It all needs to be double checked and recreated by me, but he’s done most of the leg work.
Unlike my colleagues, I don’t mind getting under the hood on a case like this. It might not be glamorous but at least Mrs. Holloway will get that satisfaction of proving she was right, or seeing her employees punished, even if they've blown all her money and she has no hope of getting it back.
My hands move through the paperwork, but my brain is struggling to cooperate. I read the same line three times and still couldn't tell you what it says. So, I shove the file aside and reach for another.
I know exactly what the problem is, I just don’t want to admit it. Beau’s handwriting is everywhere.
He’s made neat annotations in the margins, added sticky notes with smart observations, and connected related documents. Everything has been numbered and listed on amaster sheet. It's meticulous, and I adore it, except that every page I touch reminds me he exists.
Skimming my finger over the dried ink, I picture him sitting at a desk, in the dark, painstakingly putting this together. Checking that nobody's looking first, I bring the A4 sheet to my nose to see if it really smells like him or if that’s just my overactive imagination.