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I glance over at Ford. He hates being called by his first name. But by some miracle, he keeps his expression neutral. Like me, Ford’s been in surveillance mode for the past six weeks: shaggy hair, beard, jeans, and T-shirts. But also like me, he’s cleaned himself up for this meeting: his dark hair’s neatly combed back, and he shaved. He looks neater than me, actually. I just took the clippers to my head, buzzing it short, and opted not to shave. Lionel was an army brat and has a thing about personal grooming. But it hasn’t mattered—he’s not budging.

“I agree with Ford,” I say. “Councillor Macklin and Vincent Creelman are known associates, and it’s likely both have funneled money into our client’s company. There’s no reason why we should stop watching them.”

Lionel’s eyes dart to mine as he leans back in his chair, his face tight with anger. “You weren’t supposed to be watching Macklin in the first place.”

Did he think I was going to take his side because of our history? Loyalty isn’t a one and done. You have to keep proving you’re worthy of it, and he hasn’t.

“Why? Because his hands are clean?” I snap.

“It doesn’t really matter what either of your personal opinions are on this.” Lionel’s voice is hard to match mine. “The point is, you were explicitly told not to tail the Councillor or Vincent Creelman.”

“It’s not a matter of opinion,” I say, trying to keep my anger in check. “We’ve got fucking receipts, Lionel.”

“Yes, and receipts are the reason we’re here. Twenty thousand dollars-worth of them, Griffin.”

I grit my teeth. “Jesus Christ.”

It’s been three weeks since the incident. But it’s only now that the accounting’s come back, which is why Lionel’s called this painful-as-fuck meeting. My stunt at Sequoia—a little smoke in the kitchen to trigger the sprinklers, plus an early pull on the fire alarm by yours truly—was costly. Water remediation’s no joke, and we used one of our preferred contractors, too.

But it was worth every penny.

“You know it was the right call,” Ford says.

“Is it about the money, Lionel?” I ask, at a fucking loss. “I’ll cover the costs myself. Would that make you happy?”

Ford shakes his head. “That’s insane. It was my call, too. The damages are a legitimate business expense. McCrae should be covering the costs.”

I’m serious about covering it. I don’t give a shit if I have to do it. Cash isn’t an issue for me, not since the couple of patents I filed after my engineering degree, when I was doing R&D at a tech firm. Before I discovered I didn’t care about fixing broken mechanical systems and cared more about fixing corrupt systems that hurt people.

“I wouldn’t change a thing about what happened at that restaurant,” I say.

Except for getting the intel too late to prevent her from going to the date in the first place.

While Lionel and Ford get into it again, I look back out the window. Down below, people look so small as they cross the street, going about their lives. So vulnerable.

Kind of like how Sasha looked through that window when Creelman grabbed her hand.

I have to fight the rage from coming back by taking a long, deep breath and pinching my eyes shut. When I open them again, I force myself to look directly into the bright late-morning sky outside, keeping my eyes open.

They burn, and not just from the light. I’m wrecked with exhaustion. I haven’t slept more than a few hours a night since that night, and if I weren’t so on edge, I could sleep for a week.

But every time I close my eyes at night, I see a woman in a soaking wet dress, her skin raised with gooseflesh, her eyes filled with fear while an alarm screams around her.

That asshole looking at her like she belongs to him.

I’m doing a shit job of compartmentalizing these days.

“I know you told us to back down on Creelman,” Ford says behind me. “And we have. Especially now that we can’t watch him in person.” That’s a direct dig at Lionel cutting our team. “But we happened to learn about this one because Griff knows the woman in question.”

I utter a silent curse in my head. I know what Ford’s doing—giving us good reason for having ignored our boss’s direct order. Keeping us from having to tell him we still have Creelman’s phone tapped. It’s smart, but I don’t like my personal life overlapping with work in any way. Shit gets complicated.

“How exactly do you know Sasha Macklin?” Lionel asks.

I knew I’d have to do this. I have an answer prepared. “Our connection is thin at best—she’s a friend of my brother’s girlfriend. I’ve only met her a couple of times, but I found out through the grapevine that she was going on a date with someone who matched Creelman’s description at the behest of her brother.”

“The grapevine?” Lionel asks, his brow furrowed.

Ford smirks behind Lionel’s head as I say something about small-town business. The truth is, it’s a euphemism for phone tap transcripts we’re not supposed to still be reading. Lionel got us permission from local law enforcement to scan their taps when we started looking at Creelman. He’d lose it if he knew our contacts were still slipping them to us.