Page 188 of Things We Left Behind

If I was what had drawn Anthony Hugo’s attention to Sloane, then I’d be the one to draw it away.

“You sure about that?” my friend asked.

“You don’t need me here interfering in your investigation,” I said flatly.

“As if that’s ever stopped you before.”

“Maybe I’m choosing to listen to reason this time.”

His eyes narrowed. “Or maybe you’re turning into a pile of chickenshit in my office.”

“We’re not in a relationship. We’re fucking.” Even saying it out loud had my muscles tightening.

“I love you like a brother, so hear me when I say don’t fuck with Sloane,” Nash warned.

“She knows the score,” I said.

He shook his head. “You’re an idiot.”

“Why do people keep telling me that?”

“Because even I—­an emotionally stunted Morgan man—­can see that you’ve got feelings for her. You always have. And now that you’re close to finding something real with her, you’re gonna hightail it back to the city and pretend you’re not scared shitless that she’s in danger. If Lina were in trouble, there’snothingthat would stop me from standing between her and that trouble.”

“If Lina were in trouble, she’d kick it in the balls and sharpen her nails in its eye sockets.”

“Sloane’s not like Lina. She gets riled and she goes off half-­cocked,” he reminded me unnecessarily.

“That’s not my problem.” Hot acid was eating its way up my esophagus.

“It was once. I went through Ogden’s old case files after dinner the other night. Sloane was the unnamed minor Ansel Rollins attacked, wasn’t she? That’s how she broke her wrist.”

“She didn’t fucking break it. He did,” I said, getting to my feet. “And if you want details, you’ll have to ask someone else, because I wasn’t fucking there. I was in jail.”

“Got sprung the very next morning though, didn’t you?” he pressed. “Interesting coincidence, don’t you think? That she’s championing the cause of the wrongfully imprisoned.”

“Keep her safe,” I said coolly and headed for the door.

“I meant what I said,” Nash called after me. “Don’t fuck around with her.”

“I won’t,” I muttered under my breath as I stormed out of the police station, already dialing my phone.

“Where’s my doughnut?” Sloane pouted.

She was wearing my T-­shirt, pouring coffee in my kitchen, and looking adorably disheveled. Something clenched awkwardly in my chest. A wave of possession knocked me off balance. I wanted this. Her. And I couldn’t have it. Not when being close to me made her a target.

“I didn’t bring you one,” I said flatly.

“Mean. What did Nash say? Did anyone report a rat heist?”

I took the mug out of her hand. “You should go.”

“Why? What’s wrong? Your face is all weird. Oh God. Did something happen to Meow Meow?”

There was only one button of Sloane’s I knew how to push to make her walk away. “There’s nothing wrong with your cat. I just don’t want you here.”

“That’s not what you said last night,” she said smugly.

“You can keep the shirt,” I said, scanning her from head to toe, careful to keep my expression impassive.