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Sloane: OMG, you woke up poor Larry!

Ari: Ummmm how about we focus on the fact that the chain keeps CCTV recordings for A YEAR!

Sloane: And what exactly do you want with a year’s worth of discount superstore footage?

Ari: Not a year’s worth. I have a very specific thirty-minute window, but I want all registers, all doors, whatever they have for

this one store.

Ari’s stomach sank as quickly as her heart had soared.

Ari: There’s no way they’re going to respond to a subpoena in time. . .

Sloane: I might know someone that can help. Send me exactly what you want.

Ari: Wow, Medina. Do you really think you can deliver something like that? Exactly what I want?

The chat bubbles appeared and disappeared. Each time they did, Ari’s skin grew hotter. She stared at her words and wished with all her heart she could take it back. It hadn’t sounded as flirty in her head as it did in blue and white. Or maybe it did. Her mind was in a tailspin and her anxiety was spiraling.

It was a full two hours before Sloane responded.

Sloane: I have something you might want to see. Can I come over?

Half panicked and half relieved, Ari looked around her apartment. It wasn’t the worst, but with dirty dishes in the sink, unfolded clothes dumped on the couch, and a bathroom she hadn’t cleaned in a week, the place wasn’t ready for company either.

Ari: I can come to you. It’s my f

ault we’re doing this at all. You don’t have to drive.

Sloane: My place is . . . complicated. If it’s weird, it can wait until tomorrow.

Ari: No! I can’t wait to see whatever you have. Can you send it to me?

Sloane: And miss the satisfaction of experiencing your reaction if you find what you’re looking for? FAT CHANCE.

Despite the tangle of conflicting and terrifying emotions playing a rousing game of twister in her guts, Ari smiled.

After a moment’s hesitation, Ari sent her address.

Ari: How long until you get here?

Sloane: GPS says 22 minutes, so I’ll see you in 15.

“Shit,” Ari cursed, jumping to her feet. Fifteen minutes wasn’t enough time to make both her place and herself presentable, but it was all she had.

FOLLOWING the GPS directions voiced by a computerized British voice she named Phoebe, Sloane crept down a labyrinth of apartment complexes. The first were garish, Tuscan-themed, and called things like Sienna, Atlantico, Mezzaluna, and Rustico. They reminded Sloane of restaurant chains and her empty stomach grumbled.

Beyond the laughably named luxury apartments, the streetlamps became more infrequent. After hitting a massive pothole, Sloane glanced at the GPS. Despite her misgivings, she was half a mile from her destination.

In the dark, Sloane pulled into what she hoped was a visitor’s spot. With most of the lights around the two-story complex broken, it was impossible to be sure.

With wine bottle in hand and a thumb drive in her purse, Sloane took a deep breath before taking cement stairs up to the second floor. The single story wasn’t enough to wind her, but as she stood at the door, staring at 208, she couldn’t take more than a shallow gasp.

“Get it together,” she muttered before tugging on her tank top and questioning her choice of jeans and boat shoes.

Was it too dressy? Not dressy enough? What did one wear to a co-worker’s house for a midnight work visit? Not just any co-worker, but one who’s undergarments she’d recently torn while shoving her tongue down her throat. The memory was a shock of pain and longing. A horrific combo.

Sloane knocked before she could overthink it a moment longer. She was here and she was doing this.