CHAPTER 8

I toss the knife into my tote, shove open the door, already dialing as I cross the street.

It rings.

No answer.

My heart climbs into my throat?—

And then—bless the color pink—she walks out the door, head down, checking her phone.

“Mariela!” I say her name too brightly. Too loudly.

“Paty? What are you doing here?”

Well, for one—I’m hiding a murder knife in my tote.

For two—I lie.

“Oh! I was just… on my way to Pilates,” I say, gesturing to my hot-pink leggings like I’m totally normal. “Thought maybe you wanted a ride to work?”

She tilts her head, then smiles, clearly relieved. “That would be amazing.”

She climbs in. I exhale like I’ve just come back from the dead.

And it’s chaos in here.

Crumbs. An open protein bar on the floorboard. A cracker perched on the dash like it stood night watch.

My license plate notepad fell on the floorboard and creased several of the pages. I’ll have to rewrite it.

Also—I still have to pee.

Regret. So much regret.

“Oh my gosh—I’m so sorry,” I say, scrambling to gather wrappers. “There was… a rogue squirrel. Climbed in through the sunroof and went for the snacks. You know how those squirrels are.”

I sound ridiculous.

She laughs. “It’s fine. My car’s a mobile recycling bin. I’ve got six bottles and at least two cups I’m scared to open.”

I release a nervous chuckle but I still want to vacuum my soul.

The ride isn’t what I expect.

Mariela looks... fresh.

Her hair is smooth. Her blouse neatly pressed and her lip gloss is glossing like never before.

She looks like a woman starting over.

Like she slept.

At a red light, I sneak a glance and exhale a sacred sigh of pride.

It’s working.

The locks. The alarm. The totally illegal stakeout.

I’m showing up and telling her she’s not alone. That we’re not going down without a fight.

After drop-off, I text Benjamin I’ll be in late.

He replies:bring coffee.

I ignore it.

I’m a prosecutor. Not his barista.

By the time I get home, my bladder is full-on rioting and I barely make it to the bathroom.

The mirror shows a woman who lost a fight with granola—and sleep.

But twenty minutes later, I’m showered, dressed, and armed with under-eye patches that are going to work overtime today.

I spritz my custom perfume blend across my neck—one wrist, then the other. Two sprays. Always two.

The scent hits and something clicks into place.

Like flipping a switch from chaos to competence.

This is my battle armor. My signal to my brain that the time for spiraling is over.

The thoughts settle and the panic quiets.

Focus mode: activated.

On my way out, I text Mom a quick good-luck message:

Paty: Hope your shadow prince brings extra clones today. Tell that crow cousin to stop brooding and get therapy.

She sends back a winking emoji and the wordsChapter fifty-four is getting spicy.

So glad for you, Mom.

The courthouse looms ahead like it always does—all heavy stone and judgment. I climb the steps, already mentally organizing my files for today’s lineup.

And then I hearthatvoice.

Low. Warm. Rough like gravel wrapped in velvet.

“Fuck you, Rourke. Eat dog shit.” He passes me with his phone pressed to his ear, not missing a beat. “Morning, Counselor.”

Holy forearm muscles, Batman.

He spoke to me.

He actually spoke to me.

Warm chills run down my spine, straight through my blazer, short-circuiting every sensible thought I had queued for the day.

Detective Roger Blackwood.

The only thing more unsettling than a stakeout, a knife, and a nearly-missed victim?—

Is him.

I open my mouth to respond—something cool, something sharp.

TGIF, am I right?

Instead, I choke on my own spit.

Like a professional.

I cough violently, humiliate myself in stereo, and speed-walk past the security checkpoint, eyes locked on the floor and cheeks the same shade as my blush-pink pantsuit.

Please, Hair Gods, let my split end prevention payoff to distract from the fact that I just drooled over a homicide detective.

We met last year during the Watson case. He testified.

It was probably the worst case I ever worked.

The ones with kids usually are.

But my case was solid and so was Roger’s testimony. The man will never walk free again.

His wife was devoted to the very end. Until she was found hanging by her neck in their house. She had been there about two weeks before someone called in the smell.

Suicide note was practically a love letter to the monster.

I’ll never understand it.

I may or may not have replayed Roger’s direct examination... more times than someone with two functioning brain cells should admit.

Everyone at the DA’s office knows him.

So do all the women. If the water cooler talk is to be believed. But I’m not judging.

He’s tall, tan, and terrifyingly competent. I’m sure… in many ways.