CHAPTER 58
Then I collapsed in the arms of the man who’s been hunting me and let him touch me like I belonged to him.
So yeah. Totally normal day.
I’m currently looking at the dim sum menu, eyes unfocused as I index last night’s memories flashing through my mind all day. The ones I push to the back and forget about.
The ones I bring forward and pretend I’m not replaying.
I toy with the pointed corner of the laminated menu, running it under my thumbnail and wince when I poke it a little too hard.
I focus on the clip art of a cartoon chef’s knife and get a flash of slashing into that man’s chest.
The air thickens in my lungs and the room tilts.
I’m right back there—my driveway last night, knife in hand.
Blood rushing, warm and fast, down my wrist.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, willing the memory to bury itself, willing myself not to drown in it.
Roger’s muffled voice says something—soft, questioning—but it sounds like he’s underwater.
I can’t answer with the knot lodged in my throat.
“Earth to Paty,” he says, tapping my menu twice. His voice rough with that special brand of gruff he’s perfected.
I blink, dragging myself back into the buzzing fluorescent lights and sticky table.
Back to the way Roger’s watching me like I’m about to break into pieces right there between the spring rolls and the tea set.
I force a bright, brittle smile onto my face and toss the menu down a little too hard, the slap of laminated paper loud enough to earn a few looks from nearby tables.
“I’m fine,” I say, waving one hand like I’m swatting a fly instead of holding back the kind of existential crisis that would make a therapist cry.
Roger doesn’t say anything.
Just leans back in the booth, one arm draped over the back, and he looks too good for it to be legal. The look in his eyes says he knows I’m lying.
Knows it and doesn’t appreciate it—but he lets it slide anyway. Probably filing it away for later.
I pick the menu back up with fingers that are steadier than they should be, scanning it blindly, not seeing a thing.
Because I’m not thinking about dumplings.
I’m thinking about blood.
About a blade dragging through flesh.
About the peace that comes after.
But—I’m fine.
“You pick,” I say, forcing a breezy shrug. “I trust you.”
My cheeks burn as the last three words leave my mouth, and I know I’m blushing. Because I'd trust him.
There’s just something comforting once I look past his McPerky demeanor. Something else lingers there. Something I like.
He raises an eyebrow, skeptical, but doesn’t argue. He’s smart enough to know a woman on the edge when he sees one.
I sink back into the booth, pulling out my phone, desperate for a distraction. Something normal.
Instead, I get a fae-smut update from my mom. Perfect.
MOM: Update on book 2. The Light Queen just tied the Crow Prince up with her vines
MOM: Then she said, “Now be a good boy and open that pretty beak for your queen.” WE. WERE. SCREAMING.
MOM: Patty had to fan herself for ten minutes.
PATY: MOM!
MOM: It’s a very compelling power dynamic, sweetie. I’m just saying.
PATY: I’m blocking you.
MOM: Oh please. I’ll send an update after chapter 24. Apparently something very interesting happens involving his feathers.
PATY: I’m begging you to stop
After ordering, Roger pours a cup of tea, slow and careful, the steam curling between us in lazy tendrils.
First mine.
Then his.
It’s such a small thing, but somehow it breaks me a little more.
I wrap my hands around the tiny cup, letting the warmth bleed into my fingers, willing it to anchor me.
He leans back. A look of curiosity is evident on his face, and I know we’re about to launch into a conversation that is not wrapped around our case or what we just did in the massage parlor.
“Why sex crimes?”
I blink.
Of all the things I thought he might say, that wasn’t on the bingo card.
I sip the tea to buy time.
It tastes earthy and clean and a little bitter—like honesty. I never really share this part of my life, but something about the way he’s looking at me makes me feel like it’s okay.
Like there’s something familiar about him that I just can’t pinpoint.
“My mother was raped,” I say, voice low and even. “And I’m the result.”
Roger doesn’t move. He just... listens.
“My mom never got justice,” I continue, my fingers tightening around the teacup. “She identified her attacker. Stood before him and told everyone what happened. Used his name when she talked about the crime he committed against her.” I laugh—brittle and small. “But they dismissed the case. Not enough evidence.”
I force myself to meet his eyes.
“I wanted to help women win. Even if it’s just one at a time. Even if it’s just once.”
Roger’s face stays locked in that stoic, unreadable way.