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The moment should’ve been awkward. Roman hadexpectedit to be awkward—should he hug her? Kiss her? Not presume any right to her personal space and skip touching her at all? But then Camila stepped closer, placing one hand on his shoulder as she brushed a soft kiss over his cheek, then moved back to usher him inside, and any potential for clumsiness disappeared.
“Come on in. It’s not much, but it’s mine for now,” she said, gesturing to her apartment. The place was small but well-appointed, with an open concept main space divided into a cozy kitchen with a breakfast bar, a living room big enough for a love seat, a bookshelf, a TV, and little else, and a nook where she’d placed a drafting table and a rolling cart loaded with art supplies. A shadowed hallway to his left led to what he assumed were a bathroom and her bedroom, but none of that was what had caught his attention.
The cream-colored walls were covered in photographs and art. Although every piece was either framed or on a canvas, that was where the similarity ended. Black and white photos mixed in with color images, some bright and others clearly older pictures that Camila had taken the time to carefully preserve. Charcoal drawings shared space with oil-painted canvases, watercolor landscapes, and a collage of hand-drawn blue and orange butterflies intricately cut out and pinned to the matboard beneath. The vibrant colors and vast array of textures shouldn’t have complemented each other, especially when presented alongside fainter pastel colors and various shades of gray. But it all came together in a way that felt seamless and natural. Not to mention beautiful.
“These are amazing,” Roman said, moving farther into her living room for a closer look. His eyes snagged on a photo of Camila and Delia, both laughing, and another of Camila with her brother and a group of people who, judging by the strong resemblance, had to be the rest of her family.
His gut panged, but he was saved by getting too far up in his feelings by Camila’s soft laugh. “Thanks. It’s totally just a hobby, but it keeps the walls from getting too boring.”
Roman’s brows shot upward. “Did you doallof them?”
“Guilty,” she said, nodding. “Other than a few of the photos, obviously, but I do edit those. I swap all the pieces out according to my mood and sometimes the season. But yeah. Hanging them on the walls is easier than finding the space to store them. Plus”—one shoulder rose halfway before gently lowering—“it keeps me from staring at boring, blank walls.”
“Camila, you are incredibly talented.” He stopped at a large drawing of a woman lying on her back in a pond, her face nearly submerged in the water and her hair spread out around her like a halo. “Have you ever thought about showing these? Or selling them?”
She barked out a laugh. “What? God, no. Like I said, it’s just something I do for fun. Anyway,” she said, turning toward the breakfast bar that divided the kitchen from the living room and the laptop on the counter, “I wasn’t sure what you were in the mood to order. There’s a fantastic Indian place that Delia and I go to all the time. Best samosasever. Or we could order a pizza, but I’ve got to warn you, I’m pro pineapple.”
Roman recognized the dodge—for Chrissake, he was the king of changing the subject when things got too personal—and even though he wanted to ask more about why she hadn’t pursued art more seriously, he tucked a pin in the topic for the time being. “Indian food sounds great. We can argue about whether or not pineapple belongs on pizza while we wait for it to arrive.”
He moved toward the breakfast bar to look at the menu she’d pulled up. Camila’s phone buzzed from the spot where she’d left it beside the laptop, and she glanced down at it, then rolled her eyes.
“My brother,” she said.
“Do you need to take it?” Roman asked, and Camila sighed.
“Technically, no. But my family is still checking in on me, albeit less often than they were. If I don’t show proof of life, he’ll probably be a pain in my ass until I pick up. I’ll only be a second.”
Her apartment was small enough that he couldn’t really go anywhere to give her privacy, but she didn’t seem to want any. Scooping her phone to her ear, she skipped past pleasantries, answering with, “I told you, you don’t have to keep checking…what?” She paused, her brows furrowing, and Roman’s pulse tapped a low warning. “Yes, I’m at home. Why? Wait,what?”
Camila’s chin snapped up, making every part of Roman freeze except for his heartbeat. “There was another robbery? When?” She shook her head. “Wait. Hang on a second. Roman’s here. I’m putting you on speaker.”
Roman took a breath to counter the sudden burst of adrenaline pumping through his bloodstream. Camila hit the speakerphone icon just in time for Garza’s “what the hell is Roman doing at your apartment?” to float over the line, and Roman’s jaw tightened.
“Great to hear from you, too, Detective.”
Garza paused, but Camila shook her head. “Anything you tell me, I’m going to tell Roman, so you might as well just get on with it. He and I are in this together, just like the other day.”
“Fine,” he muttered, although it came out sounding an awful lot like “God help me.”
Roman dove right in. “There was another robbery? Where?”
“Maplewood and Sixth. Prosperity Savings and Loan,” Garza said.
Camila paled. “Oh, God.”
Focus. Get the facts. Gain control.“Same M.O.?” Roman asked, although he knew the answer. But there was something in Garza’s pause that told Roman he was holding back an important detail, and the tension in his voice as he responded confirmed it.
“Yes. It’s definitely the same crew. Listen, I don’t have time to explain, but Camila…I want you to come down to the precinct, okay? Like, right now.”
“What?” she asked, her eyes going wide. “Why? Did you catch them?”
Garza exhaled. “No. We’re still trying to piece together what happened here, but there was a…complication with this robbery.”
Translation: a body. Unease climbed the back of Roman’s throat, but before he could intervene, Camila asked, “A complication? What does that even mean?”
“It’s a long story,” Garza said, and yep. Definitely a body. “But the security guard was also a rookie cop, and he knew case details. We still aren’t sure how he got the information—it sure as hell wasn’t from any of us—but it was accurate.”
His use of the past tense wasn’t lost on Roman, but he wasn’t about to push it and frighten Camila further.
