Page 112 of His To Erase

She doesn’t just stay, she plays along. Smiling when she’s supposed to, keeping her voice light, and relaxed. Every inch of her screams confidence.

She’s too fucking smart to be this stupid.

She’s playing a game she doesn’t understand. And whatever story she’s telling herself to get through it—he’s playing it better. He’s two moves ahead and dragging her toward the checkmate she refuses to see coming and she’s going to lose.

But that’s not my fucking problem.

The passenger door swings open like nothing just happened and his hands weren’t all over her. She steps out, and pretends she’s not unraveling beneath his stare.

She could wear his ring, for all I care. Hell, she could wear his fucking name. But I know what her mouth sounds like when it’s saying mine.

The next time she steps out of a car that doesn’t belong to her, I won’t be across the street. I’ll be waiting at the fucking door.

An hour later, I’m still parked across the street with the engine off and the lights dead. Her shadow moves behind the curtain—outlined in that soft glow she always forgets to turn off. A beat later, the room goes dark.

I lean back in the seat, one hand wrapped around my phone, the other curled into a fist inside my coat pocket.

Waiting.

I pull up his number hitting call, it only rings once.

“You’re late,” his voice is rough, like he just woke up.

I stare at the building, and the windows that are still dark. “I need a trace,” I say in the way that puts people on edge.

“Just find me the records. I want any movement, and all financials. Anything encrypted.”

I hear him moving—then papers shifting, and tapping on a keyboard. “We talking foreign or domestic?”

“Both.” I pause. “Start with offshore accounts, or anything tied to recent real estate shifts.”

He whistles under his breath. “So we’re pulling teeth this week. You know you’re gonna have to give me more than that if you want this done fast. And it will cost you extra…”

My eyes narrow on the window again.

“Shut the fuck up.” I don’t bother softening it. “It’s not the money you get off on, and we both know it. Just get it done.”

A pause, then more tapping on his end. When I hear a muffled curse and what sounds like rustling paper or fabric. Either he’s finally moving through files—or dragging himself upright like the dramatic bastard he is.

“Any flags I should know about?” he mutters.

“There shouldn’t be.”

I drag in a slow breath, eyes locked on the innocent person walking their dog.

“But if you find any, don’t touch them. Just keep watching.”

He hums. That thoughtful, slightly smug sound he makes when the job just got interesting.

“You think she’s still a liability?”

I don’t answer. Because that’s the problem, I don’t fucking know. The timelines don’t line up, and ghosts I’ve buried are suddenly crawling back with new names and old scars.

“Focus on movement, and any incoming wires. Maybe look for gaps or mismatched timestamps.”

“So, you think someone’s hiding a transfer?” he asks, voice still dry—but I can hear it shift. He’s intrigued now.

I glance out the window again, scanning the area.