There was a moment—just a flicker—when he said those words that I almost believed there was something deeper behind them.
Nope. Not going there.
If there’s one thing I know about Bennett Bradley—he’s a schmoozer. It didn’t matter if he and Rex were filling my boots with mud or setting off firecrackers outside my bedroom window—Ben knew exactly how to flash that crooked smile and get away with everything.
And no one was immune. Not my aunt Renee. Not the server at Dairy Queen.
Not. Even. Me.
I pull out the leftover cake, start the coffee, and fall into the morning routine—showering, brushing my teeth, getting dressed for work—trying not to think about Italy. Trying not to think about Ben. Or what it’ll mean if he goes to Italy.
The scent of brewing coffee fills the kitchen. My stomach grumbles. I pour my coffee into a travel cup and take a bite of the cake.
Joy’s words echo in my head:“Breakfast of champions.”
“Or the financially burdened,” I murmur around another bite.
My circle of friends is tight. I have two. Joy and Marcos. Joy is the unassuming public librarian who took actual joy in challenging our professors—usually just to prove she could outsmart them before lunch. She doesn’t talk much about her family, but I’m starting to think her family tree has deeper roots in espionage than in the Dewey Decimal System. Her lockpicking skills, knack for cloning key fobs, and casual ability to vanish from security cameras weren’t exactly covered in Legal Ethics. Most of what I know about novice spycraft, I learned from Joy.
Those skills have come in handy with our friend Marcos Delgado. After graduating, he took over his uncle’s business, ProSecure Investigative Group, and occasionally outsources the legwork on some of his insurance fraud cases to Joy and me. It’s not glamorous, but with student loan bills looming, I’m not picky. I’m grateful.
Marcos and Joy don’t know everything I do for Athena, but they’veknown about my financial mess since college—back when they caught me utilizing the campus food pantry. They didn’t say a word, but the next week I had an anonymous grocery delivery at my apartment that included several party-size bags of M&M’s, and it pretty much sealed my loyalty to them.
My gaze drifts to the suitcase I pulled out for Italy. I groan. Therehasto be a way out of this. I touch my throat. Is that a tickle? Yes. I think I feel something. I cough. It’s pathetic. But I’ve got sick leave saved up. Mr. Edmond wouldn’t force me to go to Italy if I’m not feeling well, right?
And if Mr. Edmond and Sebastian were out of the office, I’d have full access to snoop. I could go through their files, emails, accounts. I don’t need to fly halfway across the world to find intel for Athena, do I? I mean, sure, I’dlovea business trip to Italy. I’d just really prefer more of a gelato and gondolas vacay than a guns and cannoli one.
A sharp knock breaks into my thoughts.
I’m halfway to my door before I realize something isn’t right. It’s not even seven in the morning, and I’m not expecting anyone.
My pulse ticks up. I glance around my apartment. For what, I don’t know. But after the last few days, my nerves are on edge.
Another knock. “Maintenance.”
I frown. Maintenance? I peek through the peephole and see a person wearing a hat with a maintenance company logo, but the brim is pulled too low to see the face.
“I didn’t put in any service requests,” I say.
“A neighbor reported a leak in the apartment above you,” the voice says. “It’s sewage.”
Ew. I think about the water stain over my bed. I unbolt the door and open it—only to find Athena standing there. Wearing a blue maintenance shirt. A hat. A patch that says her name is “Bob.”
“Morning,” she says breezily, walking past me like she owns the place. She drops a tool bag on the floor without breaking stride.
“Come on in?” I close the door behind her, stunned.
This is not protocol. Athena has never come to my apartment before.Our meetings have always been in public—casual drop-ins at a coffee shop or library. Places where the exchange of information can pass unnoticed.
But this? This isn’t casual. This is a flag on fire.
Especially since I’d messaged hertwice—and got radio silence in return.
“Sorry to surprise you,” she says, scanning my cramped apartment with those sharp, assessing eyes.
The scrutiny of my meager furnishings makes me feel uncomfortable. My apartment is mostly essential. Items collected at garage sales and thrift stores. There are only two things I purchased absolutely brand-new, my mattress and couch. Somewhere around the age of ten, after my mom and I had moved eight times, I learned the value of sleeping on furniture that didn’t host a colorful display of stains and odors.
Her gaze lingers on the stack of bills by the microwave. I swipe them into a drawer, suddenly unsure if I’m embarrassed, annoyed... or just alarmed.
