CHAPTER 65
Our clerk sits in holding, sweating through his shirt like it’s a sauna and he’s halfway to confession.
Paty’s perched beside me outside the interview rooms, papers fanned out, a highlighter clenched in her fingers as she skims the files.
I sip my coffee, watching her from the corner of my eye.
The way her brows furrow when she’s thinking.
The way she twirls the highlighter when she finds something that pisses her off.
Dangerous.
Distracted.
Ridiculously gorgeous.
I nudge her shoulder with mine, grinning around my cup.
“You about ready to play good cop, bad cop?”
Paty looks up, the light catching the pink sheen of her lip gloss.
“Oh yes,” she chirps. “Which one am I?”
I gaze at the ceiling like I’m offering a prayer.
“God, give me strength.”
Before I can answer, movement at the far end of the hallway kills my mood.
He strolls in like the smug bastard he is—tailored to perfection, dripping with confidence, and grinning like the building should thank him for showing up.
Graham Vexley.
Defense attorney douchebag. The same jackass who asked Paty out the other day.
“Paty,” he says, voice a little too warm.
And God help me, she smiles back.
Polite. Friendly. Familiar.
My jaw tightens.
He leans in, dropping his voice like they’re sharing an inside joke.
God, I want to punch him.
Have they dated?
The thought rips the air from my lungs.
Then I remember her confession at lunch. That flush in her cheeks.
If they did date, at least they didn’t kiss—he couldn’t have gotten far.
Something in my chest eases.
Only slightly.
The asshole vanishes into the interview room to confer with his sweating, soon-to-be-screwed client.
I watch the door shut, jaw still grinding.
Paty nudges my arm, oblivious that I’m three seconds from a felony.
She leans in to show me something. Her hair brushes my arm—and lingers.
Just long enough to make me want to drag her out of here and fix that pesky little kiss problem.
Dickhead Graham pokes his head out and gives us a nod, all smarmy like this is just another day at the office.
What a fucking cockwipe.
I flick my coffee into the nearest trash can and fall in behind Paty, letting her take the lead.
She marches in, all confidence and sweet pink perfection, like she isn’t about to verbally eviscerate a man in front of witnesses.
I lean against the wall near the door, arms crossed, expression blank.
The shadow in the corner.
The threat waiting while she does her thing.
Paty drops into the chair across from the clerk with a bright, harmless smile.
Sharp little thing.
Almost makes me feel bad for the poor bastard.
Almost.
“Thanks for waiting, Mr. Peters,” she says, voice warm enough to make anyone forget they’re about to be flayed alive. “We appreciate your cooperation.”
He shifts, sweaty and fidgety, trying to keep up.
She’s too fast. Smooth.
Slides through the opening questions like it’s sport—building trust, making him think he’s winning.
I expected fire and brimstone.
Instead, she’s ice under velvet.
And she’s good. Scary good.
I just stand there like the Grim Reaper in a badge.
The attorney can’t keep his mouth shut.
Every time she nears something real, he cuts in with a don’t answer that.
Legalese. Clarifications. Counsel requests.
Paty is unbothered as fuck, sipping her cup-o-sugar-death through a bright pink straw, eyebrows raised like she’s already bored.
She pivots every time, turning questions into casual comments, smiling like she's three steps ahead.
She doesn’t flinch when the attorney leans in to intimidate her.
Just tilts her head and gives him a smile that saysBless your heart, but you’re out of your depth.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning like a damn fool.
Pride, admiration, possessiveness—it’s a dangerous cocktail under my skin.
Then she drops the bomb.
“I have to ask, Mr. Peters,” she says sweetly, flipping through a folder. “Were you aware the shell companies you authorized were directly connected to human trafficking? Including minors?”
The clerk freezes. Color drains from his face like someone pulled the plug.
Panic splashes across his features—ugly and instant.
“Uh—”
“Because, I have to say . . .” She shakes her head, flipping through papers he doesn’t recognize. “You’re looking at quite a lot here.”
“What are you talking about, Paty?” Sleazeball pipes up. “This is a bullshit charge.”
“Oh, you think you’re looking at license fraud and a few fines?”
Now she lays it out, and I fucking love it.
“Try conspiracy to commit human trafficking. Facilitating child sexual abuse through fraudulent licensing. Racketeering. Money laundering.”
The clerk’s face turns red—ready to pop. He’s going to break and lose his shit. I’ve seen it before.
That prick attorney better leash his client before I do.
She keeps going like she’s reading a grocery list.
“Accessory after the fact to kidnapping minors. Negligent endangerment of a minor.”
He’s practically vibrating he’s trembling so hard. Fists clinched, knuckles white.
She pretends to think. “Oh—and obstruction of justice.”
That one snaps him.
Whatever brain cell he had ruptures.
“I didn’t know!” The chair screeches back. He lunges for Paty. “I didn’t know at first!”
I’m moving before conscious thought.