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A heavy sigh, too heavy for what this conversation warrants, whooshes from her lungs in relief. "Good. I created it so the security would erode every day, starting on the day my prints triggered the system. I didn't want you to have it all until... until I was either confirmed dead or safe."

"I'm glad it was the latter," I chuckle, making both look at me. Clearing my throat, I push off the coffee table and pace the room. I can sense it, feel her eyes tracking my every move. "What's in the file?" I ask, hoping to distract her. She doesn't need to notice my slight limp and learn about my shit. Later. Maybe day two.

"It's nothing important." But the way she won't meet my stare says it's the exact opposite.

A loud pounding comes from the door and the FBI douche from earlier steps through. He stops a few feet from her but I keep my focus on her reaction to the intruder. One concerned look from her and the idiot is dead.

"Matt," she breathes.

"Who are you?" I ask, crossing my arms over my chest and widening my stance.

"Her boss. Who the hell are you?" he says, mirroring me.

As I step forward to snap his neck something triggers a memory, making me pause.

"Wait." I turn back to the couch; Fate’s eyes are the size of saucers. "This is the boss who asked you out before you left?"

"What?" Mac growls. He stands and moves beside me. From the couch, she shifts back and forth, monitoring the three of us. "You're her direct supervisor, Matt. You cannot date an employee."

"It's fucking wrong," I add for good measure.

Ignoring all the angry testosterone filling the large room, the idiot takes a step toward the couch, hand extended. Mac and I do the same.

"Listen," he says, staring at her and ignoring us. "I wanted to come see you. Make sure you're okay, safe, you know? Are you?"

The inflection in his tone says there's a lot more he wants than just knowing she's safe. Piece of shit. Not that I'm much better. I want a lot more from her too.

Those blue eyes shift to me and don't drop as she says, "I'm safe. For now."

"Right, right." With an unsure glance to me, he stuffs his hands in his pockets. "Which we can wrap up as soon as you're ready. Where's the file so we can go after this other son of a bitch?"

That stone-faced stare turns to him and she nods to Mac. "He has it now. I planted it on his computer before I left. All my notes, all the guy’s signatures. Once it's done decoding, y'all will have everything you need on him and the other organizations he works for."

Matt presses his lips together so hard they turn white. "Right. I guess all we can do is wait, then. Glad you're back." With that frigid sentiment, he turns on his heels and walks out the door. Through the window, I watch him pause on the porch and run a hand through his hair before pulling out his cell phone.

Odd.

"Where's my stuff?" she asks, drawing my attention back to her.

"You haven't told her?" Mac says, voice full of self-righteous indication.

I shrug and lean a shoulder against the wall. "I had about ten minutes with her before you and that dipshit out there showed up. So no, I haven’t had a chance to tell her."

"Tell me what?" she tries to cut in.

"Does she know about Dobby?"

"What about Dobby?" she says into her hands at her mouth. "Is he okay? Where is he?"

"Damn," I groan. "You're ruining all the surprises I have up my sleeve. Leave me something to tell her the next three days, would ya?"

"Where's Dobby?" she asks again.

“He needed him more than me,” Mac says with sympathy in his tone.

I need to cut this off before he can go into the long story of me needing a cuddly friend to help me through that first month of rehab and the following months of obsessing over her whereabouts.

"In my room," I say with a grimace, wondering how it’ll be received. But her face lights up, a blip of hope and happiness flashing across her features, and I don't stop my feet. Before the door fully opens, Dobby squeezes through the small crack and bolts for the living room.