Page 44 of Keeping Kasey (Love and Blood #3)

“You’re asking the wrong person,” he says. “So, I’ll let you ask me another.”

I study James, but nothing in his expression or posture is particularly telling.

“Is the way you found me the same way you knew I was making retrieval software?”

“Yes,” he answers simply. “Did you keep in contact with anyone while you were gone?”

“Do I strike you as someone with a team of accomplices?”

He shrugs.

“No. I didn’t have anyone,” I mutter. “Why did Logan have Kade dig up dirt on me?”

It’s something I never got an answer to from Logan, and I figure now is as good a time as any to figure it out.

“He didn’t.”

“I saw the file myself.”

“He didn’t have Kade do it; Moreno did.”

“Why?”

“It’s not your turn.”

I roll my eyes, gesturing for him to go on.

“If you’d had time, would you have gone back for Kane and taken him with you?”

Once again, I analyze the question—it’s such an odd angle for him to investigate. Then again, this particular question could be fueled by James’s obsession with my dog.

I feel a prick of shame as I give him my honest answer. “Probably not. I couldn’t have stayed hidden as easily with him. He was better off at the manor. Why did Moreno look into me?”

“You sure you want to waste a question on something so obvious?”

I don’t say anything, and James sighs.

“You had just hacked both our main bases and gained unlimited access to our most delicate information. Moreno wanted mutually assured destruction in the event things ended poorly.”

“Which they did,” I supply, and James nods. “So then, if you knew so much about me, why is my apartment the only information you used? You had my mother’s address. Why not go after her to draw me out?”

“I thought we should’ve.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Asking the wrong person again,” he says, and when I give him a knowing look, he relents. “But if I had to guess, I think Elise being used against us has made Logan wary of using similar tactics.”

“He had no problem using Mark against me.”

“Mark isn’t family.”

I open my mouth to push the point, but James continues. “Since you got two questions, I have two.”

“No promises.”

“You’d been working on this software for weeks by the time we found you. Why did you make it in the first place, and when were you planning to come to us with it?”

It’s the second time I’ve been asked the question in an hour, and the same stomach-churning pain hits me. I don’t think it matters how many times I’m asked about it—it’s always going to feel this painful… this raw.

I think carefully about my answer. I can’t give him the truth, but for some reason, I don’t want to flat-out lie either.

I settle for giving him the parts of the truth I can.

“I wasn’t sure if software like this was possible in the first place,” I tell him. “I wanted to prove that it could be done. As for bringing it to you… I’m not entirely convinced I would’ve.”

It’s not the whole truth, but it’s a part of it.

I can’t tell from his blank expression whether he believes me, but he doesn’t press.

I’m not sure what comes over me, but once the question comes to me, I can’t not ask.

“When you realized the list was gone, did he even take a second to consider it might not have been my fault?”

“No,” he admits.

“That’s what I—”

“But,” James starts with a pointed look, “he spent a lot more than a second considering it afterward.”

“A little late.”

“Maybe,” he says. “Last question.”

I gesture for him to go on.

“Where will you go when this is all over?”

“You really think I’d tell you?”

“So, you do have a plan?”

I narrow my eyes at him. “What are you really trying to ask?”

“Are you thinking about sticking around?”

My laugh is cold. “Trust me when I tell you I’m counting down the seconds until I can get as far from your family as possible.”

Around six, Damon showed up from wherever he’d been to tell me it was time to leave, but when I told him I’d rather stay and work for a few more hours, he didn’t argue.

Work is the only thing keeping my mind occupied.

If I stop for more than five seconds, I’ll dwell on Ford’s confession and James’s questions. I don’t have the mental capacity for that right now. The idea of going back to the hotel with nothing to do but think sounds like torture.

But after three more hours in front of a screen, my eyes are burning, and my brain is moving in slow motion. I’ve successfully worked myself into exhaustion, and when I push away from the desk, I’m fairly certain I’ll crash as soon as I get back to the hotel.

With what little energy I have left, I brace myself for Damon to question me like Ford and James had, but he doesn’t. He plays the radio and hums along like I’m not here at all.

Somehow, Damon knows being invisible is what I need right now.

He pulls up to the hotel, and I climb out without a word. The hallway on my floor is empty, and I trudge to my room, holding onto my mask of indifference with metaphorical bloody knuckles.

The ache in my chest becomes unbearable the moment I step into my room. The effort it takes to get through a single day here is absurd. Luckily, I don’t anticipate needing more than two or three days to finish the job.

Then I can leave here for good.

I throw my bag on the desk and am about to fall into bed fully dressed, but two grocery bags sit on my pillow.

What the…

I open them and pull out the items one by one.

A bottle of melatonin, a box of caffeinated tea, a pack of energy drinks, bath salts, a compact noise machine, a sleep mask, essential oils, and a diffuser.

Whatever self-pity I’d been feeling is long gone, replaced by an anger that is far more comfortable.

This I can handle just fine.

I take the bags and storm to the door separating my room from Logan’s. When I open it, I raise my hand to knock on his, but there’s no need.

It’s already open.

Logan sits in an uncomfortable-looking chair with his laptop balanced on his legs.

“What is this?” I ask, tossing the bags carelessly onto the floor.

He doesn’t look up from his screen. “You had coffee today. You only drink coffee when you don’t sleep, so I arranged to have a few things brought to your room.”

Logan’s tone is matter-of-fact, lacking any snark or emotion.

He sounds tired.

I take a second to study him— really study him.

He’s still wearing his slacks, but his jacket is thrown across the bed, and his white button-up is wrinkled. His hair is mussed like last night—like he’s been pulling at it.

“I don’t want them.”

“Then don’t use them.”

“And stay out of my room. You have no right going in there.”

When he looks up, there are dark circles beneath his eyes.

How did I not notice those before?

He looks exhausted.

“It won’t happen again.”

It’s the same answer he gave when I snapped at him this morning.

I’d expected a fight then—I’d expected a fight now —but nothing about Logan’s countenance is aggressive.

Just tired.

The strangest mix of emotions twists my gut, emotions I’ve suppressed for months.

Logan hasn’t been passive a day in his life. He’s a wrecking ball—a larger-than-life force of mass destruction. He takes what he wants without hesitation and revels in the ruin left in his wake.

The old Logan would’ve told me he paid for the room, and he can walk in whenever he damn well pleases. He would’ve made a point of getting me to admit I’d rather have tea and energy drinks than coffee. He would’ve never sat by and assured me it won’t happen again .

But that’s a good thing.

He’s put me through hell, and he deserves to feel as alone as I did. He isn’t pushing me around and treating me as a hostage anymore.

It’s exactly what I want.

So why does it feel like I’ve broken something I can’t put back together?

I never should’ve come into his room. I should’ve ignored the stupid bags and gone to bed.

This was a huge mistake.

But it’s too late now, and since I can’t bring myself to go back into my room, I try another approach.

“I’m hungry.”

Logan gestures to the kitchenette. “I was just about to bring your food over. I had pizza delivered.”

“I don’t want pizza. I want to get burgers.”

“I’ll order some. Should be here in—”

“I want to go get burgers.”

“Not tonight,” he says, exhaustion seeping into his tone.

I spot his keys on the table and grab them. “Fine. I’ll go by myself. How hard could driving be?”

That gets him to stand.

“Absolutely not,” he says, holding out his hand. “Hand them over.”

I gesture to where his jacket lies on the bed.

“Get your coat. I’m on the verge of hangry, and then you’re really not gonna like me.”

Logan’s lips part like he’s about to argue, but he doesn’t.

I don’t change anything in my blank expression, but the truth must be in my eyes because when his shoulders ease and his chin dips, I know he sees my tantrum for what it is.

An olive branch.

With a step forward, he scoops up his coat and holds his hand out.

I drop the keys into his palm, and for the first time since setting foot in this city, I smile.