Page 135 of No Headlines Please

I gave Ryder a perplexed look. "How'd you get past Frank?" The doorman wasn't quite security, but he still would've had to buzz Ryder up.

"Oh, that?" Ryder said. "It was easy. I said you need help."

"With what?"

"What else? Burying the body."

Ryder was holding something loose at his side, but it wasn't a shovel. I gave him another look and waited.

"Relax," Ryder said. "He and I go way back. He used to work at one of my buildings." He smiled as he hoisted the thing in his hand. "Plus, I brought you this."

This was a bottle of Macallan, the same scotch we'd used to help send Griff on his little reset.

I almost smiled. "I know." I glanced at the bottle. "I saw it through the peephole. Why do you think I answered the door?"

In truth, I'd answered because I was annoyingly glad to see him – not just because he was a friendly face, but because hiding wasn't my style.

And yet, that's exactly what I was doing.

Leaving the penthouse meant dealing with reporters. Staying home meant dealing with myself. Pissed off or not, I was still better company.

Besides, it was the weekend.

Technically, there was nowhere I had to be.

And let's be real here. There was nowhere I wanted to be.

As I stepped aside to let Ryder in, he moved forward and took a long look around, studying the floor-to-ceiling windows with the Chicago skyline beyond, where the last light of sunset glinted off the skyscrapers.

He gave a slow nod. "Nice place."

I laughed. "That's what you said the last time."

"So?"

"So it's not exactly new." As I said it, I turned to study the penthouse with fresh eyes. Maybe Ryder had a point. Between the skyline views, the sprawling living space, and enough marble to bankrupt a small country, this wasn't a bad place to spend a weekend avoiding drama.

Sure, I hated feeling like a prisoner in my own home, but not as much as I hated being mobbed wherever I went.

Months ago, after the fiasco with the wedding, things had been hectic enough. But apparently, a missing ex generated a whole new level of interest – especially when the press started connecting it to family history.

According to the gossip mill, Sloane had drowned while yachting – just like my dear old dad.

Or she'd been drowned, courtesy of yours truly.

The way people talked, the odds were running fifty-fifty, which should've been hilarious, considering I had never set foot in Greece.

Yes. Greece.

The same place my father had died.

Next to me, Ryder hoisted the bottle higher. "So, are you gonna stare out the windows all night, or do you want to grab some glasses?"

I'd done enough staring already, so I headed for the kitchen, where I snagged two decent glasses and a bucket of ice. By the time I returned, Ryder was sprawled out on the sofa near the fireplace, watching me with a look I couldn't quite decipher.

Normally, I wasn't one to ask. This time, I made an exception. "What are you thinking?"

"Me?" He took a long look around. "I'm thinking this place is too clean."