Page 73 of Captive Audience

I tossed the pillow aside, punched it for good measure, then hauled my sorry ass out of bed.

Showered, dressed, and caffeinated, I holed up in my office and opened the files Rook had emailed me about his brother.

Email log-ins, financials, asset register, phone records. It felt like prying into the life of a ghost. A seriously loaded ghost. If Niall’s wealth had transferred to Rook, no wonder he wasrolling in it.

The sheer list of properties Niall had owned and his monthly transactions made going through it all overwhelming.

I was no forensic accountant, but I had enough computer skills to write macros to interrogate the raw data, searching for inconsistencies and patterns. But each pass I made using different constraints found nothing that raised alarm bells. Niall’s assets, although funneled through shell companies and offshore banks like most of the megarich’s were, were all aboveboard. Just a savvy investor with a broad portfolio that had grown by over two billion dollars in the twelve months prior to Niall’s passing.

Finn dropped in around noon with lunch from Lawson’s Deli—a turkey, cranberry, and Brie toasted sandwich, fresh-pressed juice, and a salted-caramel chocolate-chunk cookie the size of my hand. He again credited Rook with the selection, which wasn’t surprising at all, since it was a combo I’d ordered many times from Lawson’s. Except for the giant cookie. I’d only ever eyeballed that bad boy through the display-case glass.

I knew I should be unnerved by my stalker’s eye for detail, but the longer I spent in Rook’s presence, the less it bothered me.

After a brief chat with Finn about how his fight prep was going, I got back to my analysis. More data mining. More frustration at the lack of results.

Needing a break from numbers in spreadsheets, I shifted to Sierra’s case and checked for news alerts and tips. Crickets.

With nothing new to build my next podcast episode around, I fell back on an idea I’d been putting off—recording a Q&A session using questions listeners had sent in over the last few months. I set up the studio, recorded for forty minutes, then spent another hour editing the file.

When I opened the studio door, I heard voices coming from the living room.

Rook and Finn.

My stomach tumbled in a way I didn’t appreciate.

It had to be anxiety about Rook being home. Not excitement. It definitely couldn’t be that.

I approached the men just in time to wave goodbye to Finn.

“See you tomorrow, Mrs. O.”

“Thanks, Finn. Hope training goes well tonight.”

Once the elevator door closed, I spun to face Rook in the kitchen. He leaned against the island, hands in the pockets of his suit pants and black sleeves rolled up to reveal two of the most mouthwatering inked forearms this girl had seen.

The man was a goddamn thirst trap, with emphasis on thetrap.

His eyes raked over my cropped hoodie, leggings, and furry slippers like a sinful caress. The smirk that curved his lips when his eyes finally met mine did something strange to my insides.

“Evening, Wife.”

I jerked my chin toward him. “Gangster.”

His eyes dipped to my fluffy pink slides. “Nice touch.”

“My brain works better when my feet are warm.” I arched a brow at the CVS bag on the counter. “What’s in there?”

“Things you’ll need soon.”

Intrigued, I went to the island for a look.

Tampons and pads—the exact brands and sizes I preferred. Advil, heating pad, essential oils, herbal tea, candy bars, and the one thing I always craved on day one of my period—Cheez-Its.

“There’s a tub of sea-salt-caramel gelato in the freezer,” Rook added.

Aiming a glare at him, I snapped the bag closed. “You’re deeply disturbing.”

“Would you prefer to be unprepared?”