Page 80 of These White Lies

Brady’s eyes flicker over the street, the building fronts, and the lone jogger headed in the opposite direction. It’s the same thing he did at Keith’s apartment. He’s cataloguing everything around us looking for the anomaly.

Crossing the road with unhurried steps, he crouches beside the passenger tire, his broad shoulders blocking my view, and comes up with a small metal box from the wheel well. In less than a minute, he’s extracted the key and put me inside the car.

The driver’s door shuts with a thunk, and Brady locks the door before reaching into the back seat to a black duffle. Unzipping it, he pulls out a matte black Glock and two loaded magazines. Without a word, he drops the extra gun in the pocket of his door and shoves the magazines into his pocket.

He doesn’t look at me or give me an explanation. I don’t need him to, and a part of me appreciates that he’s not treating me like a fragile child.

The constant threat of danger, the weapons—those should rattle me, right? But they don’t. There’s something devastatingly sexy about a man who can take on whatever comes. Even the darkness I sense in him doesn’t scare me. He doesn’t wield it to harm—only to protect. To avenge.

The thought makes me smile, quickly followed by…

Maybe I should talk to a therapist.

Brady pulls smoothly onto the street, and doesn’t speak for several minutes as he drives just under the speed limit through the waking city. However, I notice his eyes constantly check the mirrors.

When he takes the on-ramp for I-95 north, I turn to look at him. “You know Atlanta’s the other way, right?”

“We’re not going straight back,” he says, gaze locked on the road. “If they’re watching, we’d be too easy to tail. We’ll loop around and head west on state roads.”

I nod.

His eyes cut to me, surprise edging his voice. “No argument?”

“Nope. I trust you.”

The look he gives me is short, but it’s hot enough to burn. His hand flexes on the wheel, his gaze glued to the highway in front of us. “I was right that night,” he mutters. “You are definitely trouble.”

I don’t bother to hide my smile.

Just before noon, we stop at a gas station with an indoor food counter. Taking our selections back to the SUV, Brady repositions us at the back of the lot with the nose out.

His phone display flashes on the dashboard. Wiping his hands on a paper napkin, he reaches for the phone to read thetext. “Finn found something in the emails,” he explains as he dials.

When Finn picks up, Brady puts him on speaker. “We’re on our way back. Tell us what you got.”

There’s a slight but noticeable pause, and I suspect it is theusthat threw him.

“Right. Buried in his trash folder was a whole email chain with that auction house you matched to his number. He wanted an appraisal with full documentation for the purpose of a sale.”

My pulse spikes, but Brady beats me to the question screaming in my brain. “What did he want appraised?”

“A diamond necklace. I’ll just read you what the jeweler wrote, though I don’t know what all of it means.”

I realize I’m holding my breath.

“Two-tier, white diamond, lariat necklace, platinum setting. Top tier features symmetrical, round, brilliant cut stones, graduating in size, converging at a central join before extending into dual drop strands. Estimated total weight: 28 carats. Distinctive Y-shape. Market value estimate: 1.2 million USD not withstanding anomalies.”

Brady’s eyes find mine over the console.

I blink. “What?”

“Ring any bells?”

“None.” My shoulders slump.

“Apparently he hit a wall with the auction people because they wanted documented provenance.”

“He did steal it,” I murmur.