Page 35 of The Exit Strategy
Cole’s face flashes…anger? Regret? It’s fast—there and gone—but it was there. A flicker behind his eyes that looks like the moment before a building collapses.
“Did you find proof?”
I frown. What other kind of proof does he need? “Numbers don’t lie, Cole.”
“Did you find proof?”
Asshole! Does he not believe me? We don’t need proof to know there’s a problem. “Not yet, but I’m getting close.”
“I need irrefutable proof, Juniper,” he snaps. Unlike others, I’ve had years of experience with his bark, so even if it’s never been directly aimed at me before, I don’t react.
“You’ve known about this for months, haven’t you? Andyou haven’t even filed a police report. I haven’t seen a single contract or a bill for a lawyer?—”
“Because I don’t have proof yet, Viper.”
The asshole used my nickname as a defense mechanism. But I’m not his enemy. Not in this. “My proclivity toward petty has nothing to do with this,Mr. Whittaker. This is the one area of my life where I’m in control. I’m the professional here. I know what the hell I’m talking about. And from where I’m sitting, your grandmother’s nephew systematically stole from you, from her, and you’re sitting on it. This isn’t something you can quietly fix without telling anyone.”
His throat works as he stares at me. The tendons in his forearms pull tight where they’re crossed over his chest, and for a second, I think he’s going to say something real. Something that would explain why a man with his resources and evidence would choose to sit in the wreckage of someone else’s crash.
Instead, he straightens off the doorframe, even more tense than before. “Devin is Mae’s only other living family member. And yes, I’m aware the books are fucked, but I can’t just—” He resets, pulling air into his lungs, making him appear taller. This is what he does when the safe thing and the honest thing are two different sentences. “It’s complicated, Junie.”
“It’s not complicated.” I slam my uneaten sandwich to the table. “It’s theft. And you’re protecting the person who did it—why? Because Nana Mae would be heartbroken? Because you’d rather bleed quietly than make someone else uncomfortable? Well, news flash, Cole. This isn’t just about Nana Mae anymore. You have 130 residents relying on you too.”
“You don’t think I know that?” Each word from his lipsdraws him a foot closer until he’s hovering over me, his face mere inches from my own. “How I proceed is my decision, Viper. Not yours. Not unless you have actual proof.”
The words land like a slammed door. The heat rises in my chest. The familiar burn that comes right before I do something I can’t take back. Instead, I roll my chair away from him and rise to my feet, putting much-needed space between us.
“This is what you do, isn’t it?” My voice is quieter than I want it to be. I’m treading into dangerous territory here, but I can’t stop the wreckage either. “Someone fucks you over, and you just—what? Take the hit? File it away? Because fixing things yourself is easier than confronting them? Than having the hard conversations?”
His attention locks on me, and there’s a stillness in his eyes that’s as terrifying as it is exhilarating. A dangerous, loaded calm that tells me I’ve wandered too close to something he’ll never admit. I’d take a step back if I wasn’t already pressed to the wall.
In this moment, Cole Whittaker is a predator, and the heaviness of the moment controls his movements until he’s a breath away from me. “Are we still talking about Devin?” he says slowly, his gaze jumping from my eyes to my lips to the pulse point in my neck and back again. “Or are we talking about something else?”
The air between us thickens. Every unspoken thing we’ve been circling for years fills the room until there’s no oxygen left.
You left without a word.
Why the hell do you still talk to Natalie?
Why did you leave?
I don’t say any of it. It’s not why I’m here. My emotional damage isn’t his responsibility, even if he did light the matchto my pain. And admitting any of it would be admitting that he matters to me, but I’ve built my post-Cole identity on the premise that he doesn’t.
“I’m talking about the books,” I say flatly, my pulse skyrocketing with the lie. His gaze drops to my neck. Before he can call me on it, I continue. “I’m your employee, and I’m telling you, as is my fiscal and moral responsibility, that I believe there’s a serious problem—a felony, actually.”
He holds my gaze for three more seconds. Long enough that I catch one more flash of insecurity or sadness in the flicker of his eye before he shutters them, a wall sliding into place that I recognize because I’m made of the same self-preserving shit he is, then he nods once.
“Noted. Send me what you’ve found, and I’ll look into it while you keep digging for proof.” He turns and walks out. He doesn’t slam a door or raise his voice. Just leaves, quiet and contained, the way he always does when the conversation gets too close to the fault line.
I stare at the empty doorway. Air is still trapped in my lungs, and my hands are shaking.
Not from anger, but from the terrifying, gut-level certainty that I wasn’t talking about Devin.
He just confirmed my biggest fear without saying anything at all—if I don’t choose me, no one will.
Closing my laptop,I leave the uneaten sandwich on the conference table even though I’m starving, walk across the driveway, climb the stairs to my apartment, and lock the door behind me.
Cole will find all the records I’ve unearthed so far in multiple forms I created for ease of understanding andprocessing in his email whenever he returns. It’s not enough to convict, but it’s enough to start an inquiry while I unearth the rest.
