Page 66 of His Wall

"Take me to bed, Julian."

I stood up with her legs around me and carried her down the hallway, and we did not talk again for a long time.

She was asleep when I got up.

The light from the hallway fell across her shoulder where the sheet had slipped to her waist. Her dark hair was spread across the pillow. I sat on the edge of the bed for a second and traced the line of her shoulder with one finger. She stirred. She did not wake.

I pulled on sweats. I walked to the kitchen for water.

My phone was on the counter where I had left it.

The screen was lit. A notification. An email from an address I did not recognize. No subject line.

I opened it.

A photograph. Then another. Then another.

Me leaving the Vanguard offices on a Tuesday last week. Me at the park on Saturday morning with Claire on the path beside me. Me walking into the restaurant for Declan's dinner two weeks ago. Me and Claire on the sidewalk outside the gala.

Every photo from across the street or from a car window. Long lens. Patient. Professional.

The last photo was from tonight.

My building. The lobby. The doorman behind the desk.

Claire walking through the front door.

Underneath the photographs, one line.

Last warning.

TWELVE

LEAH

It took three seconds for the room to register.

The vinyl shelf against the far wall. The sketch on the nightstand — the bridge over a river he had never been to, the pencil corners curling in the morning light. The sheets that smelled like him. The arm across my waist.

I was in Julian Cross's bed.

I was naked under his sheet. He was beside me, still asleep, his face pressed into the pillow, his sandy hair flat on one side from where it had been against his palm all night. His breathing was slow and deep and warm against my shoulder.

He looked younger when he slept. The grin was off. The charm was off. He was a man breathing next to me, and I was lying in his bed, wearing nothing. I could still feel his hands on my body, his mouth on my neck, and over and over, he had said the wrong name, "Claire, Claire…" He had been inside me saying a name that did not exist, and I had buried the flinch and let him.

I had slept with my target.

The sentence sat in me. My stomach twisted around it.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. I reached for it carefully, slow, so the arm across my waist would not move.

The screen lit up.

Torres. A missed call from last night at 11:12 p.m. A text from this morning.

Torres

Leah, please talk to me. I'm not asking for anything. I just need to know you're okay.