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I hear a little gasp exit her lips and worry my rude behavior has earned her wrath. Because it should. Yet as my eyes connect with hers, she gestures to my laptop screen with a tiny nod. “Are those phone records?”

I nod dumbly, hoping the burn of the scotch will somehow cause my dick to deflate.

Cassidy’s eyes light up. “I love phone forensics. I’ve discovered it’s kinda my thing.”

I stare at her, blinking wordlessly. Am I hearing things? Waking from a dream? Because I’m almost certain I’m either being punked or the universe has got to be messing with me.

12

MAX

She’s still standing there, smiling brightly. Innocently holding a tray, looking at my screen like she’s just spotted a unicorn instead of a private, not at all legal, investigation into a potential pedophile.

My brain is short-circuiting for at least five different reasons. And none of them are good.

First: I’m an idiot. What did I think was going to happen working out in the open like this? Gianni offered me his office for sensitive work, but that place is just another version of my home and hotel room. A quiet so distracting I can’t accomplish anything beyond allowing my thoughts to echo back at me until they spiral out of control, taking my emotions with them. And that is something I try to avoid at all costs.

Here, in this part of the club, there’s enough background noise to keep me grounded. It’s controlled chaos. Gianni has high-tech firewalls in place, the likes most tech companies have never seen. A space even I trust. It’s why I’ve felt safe enough to spend hours on the dark web investigating his family’s ties to the mafia, ensuring he and his cousins are not in harm’s way. If his firewalls were breached and anyone connected my involvement, a hit could be placed on my family or coworkers. It’s a threat I don’t take lightly. So working in this environment provides an added layer of protection I’m grateful for.

Sure, I’m distracted. I’m scraping the digital footprint of a man I strongly suspect is a serial predator. The task has been far more complex than I anticipated when this case began. Perhaps the ease of my recent projects had me feeling overconfident when I agreed to look into this. I made no promises beyond doing my best to determine if a crime had been committed. If this man was responsible for harming even one girl, that alone would be enough to warrant any risk on my part.

When all of the usual leads came up short, the pressure started to mount. It’s been a while since I had to chase this many leads to find the answers I was looking for. I’m still confident I’ll solve this puzzle. It’s merely taking more time and effort than I’d expected. But there’s a special place in hell for grown men who inflict trauma and pain on children. And I’ll happily deliver him there myself if I have to.

Next: the woman in front of me recognized phone forensics in half a second. How is that possible? She walks hunched over, eyes darting to and fro, like she’s hiding from her own shadow. What’s more? Her large, hopeful eyes remind me of character art you’d find in a children’s book about a down on her luck princess who needs saving. And her hair color is a shade I’d compare to bubblegum. Sure, I’m stereotyping Cassidy, but her recognizing digital data files was not on my radar.

It’s nearly impossible to form a coherent sentence when she’s looking at me with those hypnotic blue eyes. Is that really all it takes to dismantle me? A girl with cotton-candy hair and a voice that doesn’t match her appearance asks one intelligent question, and suddenly my brain misfires.

My mouth is apparently still open because she tilts her head, curiosity written all over her face. I must look like I’ve just short-circuited. I snap my laptop shut. Hard.

Cassidy jumps back. “I’m s.. s.. sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. I was just trying to help.” She nods to the scotch and coffee. “I only caught a glimpse. I didn’t see any identifying information. I promise.”

I finally find my voice. Unfortunately, it comes out sharper than intended. “How do you recognize phone forensics?”

She blinks, clearly not expecting the interrogation. “I’m studying it. I recognized the image on your laptop since it’s how I spend most of my free time.” She shrugs. “Homework.”

My eyes widen before I can stop myself. The corner of her mouth curls downward. I’m unsure if she’s offended that I find this so surprising, or smirking that she’s shocked me.

“I have a degree in criminal justice,” she adds quickly, like she’s decided to drive the point home. “I’m taking online courses. Digital forensics and incident response. I’m fascinated by the science of using data to identify criminal behavior. But more so in crimes being investigated by the police. Not so much into breaches and corporate stuff.” Again, she shrugs. “Nothing personal.”

Ah. So she knows exactly what I do. My instincts flare. Is this a setup? Has she been watching me this whole time? Did I just get reverse-honey-trapped by a woman who looks like she belongs in a retro anime but thinks like an analyst?

Be smart, Max. This could be a trap.

“I’ll let you get back to work,” she says softly, already retreating. Her shoulders round in on themselves again, like she’s cowering. “I didn’t mean to distract you.” She takes another step back.

All of a sudden, the idea of her leaving makes me feel a little unglued. Okay, more unglued. The sensation catches me off-guard. “Cassidy, right?”

Her eyes widen. “Yes.” Is she shocked I know her name?

“Please. Sit for a moment.” I extend my hand to the chair next to me. “If you have time, I’d like to hear more about what you’re studying.”

Shit, did that sound pervy?

Maybe it’s because I don’t interact with the women who work here enough to make casual conversation. But I hope she doesn’t think I’ve pounced on this surprising bit of intel in order to get closer. So I can make my move. “It’s rare to meet anyone who understands digital forensics. Especially here.” I chuckle.

Her posture eases. Slowly, she sits. Not beside me, but across from me. Like she still needs an escape route.

“I don’t want to get you into trouble,” she says. “If you need to be working…”