Page 121 of Only the Wicked

I don’t slow until I’m right on top of her, and she squeals.

“Jesus F Christ, Rhodes! Mother. Trucker. Gross. You dripped your sweat on me. Ew!”

Her outburst has me both chuckling and scanning the trail to see if anyone’s worried I’m mauling an innocent woman. But, at the moment, we’re alone on this section of the trail.

“Why are you so smelly?” she continues. “Did you do something maniacal? Like sprint the Watergate steps?”

“No. But that is on my list.” My never-ending to-do list.

“Don’t. It’s over-hyped.” She slaps the laptop shut.

“What has you worked up?”

“Nothing.”

I’m calling bullshit. Daisy Jonas doesn’t do “nothing” moods. She’s my paradox—the most brilliant coder I’ve ever met who refuses to conform to stereotypes. While other techies dress in hoodies and spout AI ethics platitudes at conferences, Daisy climbs mountains (literally—she summited Mount Kilimanjaro last year), practices competitive archery, and can dismantle any tech bro’s argument with devastating precision and zero jargon.

She’s the only executive at ARGUS who calls me on my bullshit directly to my face. The only one who saw what ARGUS could become before I did. And the only person besides my grandmother who gets away with digging into my personal life. If she’s in a mood, there’s a reason, and it’s not nothing.

I’ve run too many miles to sit without risking a muscle cramp, so I pace around the bench, letting my muscles cool and the stream of sweat slow.

“You got any water?”

She peers up at me, scowling. “You didn’t pack?”

“Should’ve grabbed the Platypus, but I didn’t.” This morning when I left the hotel, I wasn’t thinking about anything other than not waking Sydney as I bolted.

“What’s in your pack?”

I am hauling a small backpack, but it’s not a Platypus designed to hold water.

“No water.”

Daisy opens her backpack and passes a half-empty bottle of water. It’ll work.

“You going to tell me what’s up? Did Miles do something?” He definitely pissed me off last night. She doesn’t really have any interaction with Alex, although if she did, he’d definitely be pissing her off. Alex and Miles have been pushing the same financial agenda, and Daisy’s in my corner on this one.

She shakes her head and pushes her lower lip out in her signature I’m-not-pleased-with-what-you’re-saying expression. “Nothing work related.”

“Are you dating someone?” It’s conceivable she’s here in the D.C. area for personal reasons.

“Is that shock on your beet-red face? You think you’re the only one who can get laid?”

“I didn’t mean it like—are you?”

“No. It’s a personal thing.” Her gaze drops and she picks at her jeans. “Someone close to me passed away.”

“Daisy.” I hold out my hands in a what-the-fuck gesture. “Why didn’t you say something? Why were you working last night?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Daisy.” It’s clearly not nothing; she can’t even look at me. “Is the funeral here?”

“No.” Her lips purse, eyes still cast downward, and she shakes her head slightly. “He lived in LA. I missed the funeral.”

Her shoulders rise and anyone can tell she doesn’t want to talk about it, which means she’s seriously hurting.

“At any rate,” she announces like she’s concluded that segment of our conversation, “I’m here because I’m doing a little investigating. If you get a call asking for a reference, I need you to say I’m fab.”