Page 73 of Black Jack (Advantage Play 5)

I cringe. “Probably not this time. Sorry.”

“Figured. Play nice, ya hear?” she warns me, her drawn-on eyebrow arching toward her hairline.

“I will,” I grumble. “Thanks, Dottie.”

“Sure thing.”

When I reach Embry’s table, I rock back on my heels and tuck my hands into my front pockets, but he doesn’t even acknowledge me. He’s too lost in his own head. There’s a manilla envelope resting next to his untouched cup of coffee, and it only seems to stir my curiosity.

“Hey,” I mutter.

His neck snaps up before his weary gaze meets mine. “Connelly. Take a seat.”

With a deep breath, I slide into the booth across from him and rest my elbows on the table between us. “You said you wanted to talk?”

“I thought it would be best if we met in person. You hungry?” He nudges the unopened menu a few inches toward me, but I shake my head.

“No, thanks.”

“Alright then.” Lifting the mug of coffee to his mouth, he takes a sip then sets it back down. “How was the wedding?”

“It was good. Great, actually,” I correct myself. “I’m sorry we didn’t invite you––”

He waves me off. “We’ve already discussed it.”

“And yet, you’re bringing it up,” I counter before motioning to the manilla envelope that’s taunting me. “What’s in it?”

Reaching for the envelope, he taps his fingers against the top of it before dragging it another inch closer to him. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Then let’s talk. What’s going on?”

“As you know, we searched Reed’s house for evidence in regards to his connection to the Allegretti family.”

“So I’d heard. Did you find anything?”

“Not much. Other than Dominic’s testimony and the evidence he voluntarily turned in, we’re in the dark.”

My jaw tightens. “Great.”

“Listen, there’s something we found.”

“And?”

“And I think you have a right to know about it.” He nudges the manilla folder toward me but doesn’t lift his hand. It’s like he’s debating whether or not this is a good idea, and it only fuels my curiosity.

Anxious, I slide it from beneath his fingertips, then open it. Several photographs are tucked inside, and I start to take them out before deciding against it when the details come into view.

What the hell?

Brows pinched, I tilt my head and look closer, convinced I’m seeing things.

No.

“These must be fabricated,” I announce, though I’m not sure who I’m trying to persuade.

“They’re not.”

“But––”