Page 25 of Once Upon a Lie

So why is it, exactly, that this one felt so different?

7

Shane

Wednesday, September 29

12:30 p.m.

If espionage were a sport, I’d be warming the fucking bench.

A week into trying to get close to Valentina Cordone, and all I have to show for it is one pathetic party she didn’t show up to, an HOA violation for a boot doorstop, one short conversation, and an Asiago bagel and coffee.

Don’t get me wrong, the conversation was thrilling, and the bagel was bomb, but it’s not exactly James Bond material.

“Well, well, well,” Dom says when I sit down in the corner booth, two fries sticking out of his mouth like walrus tusks while he talks. “How’s the gig going?”

How’s the gig going? Ha. If it were going well, I wouldn’t be doing a catch-up meeting with the only person besides Cap and Uncle Benny who knows what I’m involved in off the side of I-40 at a place that smells like fryer grease and poor life choices.

Dom’s teasing eyes say he knows that just as well as I do, and the question was merely a method to rub salt in my already sore wound.

Dickhead.

“Come on, man,” he urges with a waggle of his eyebrows when I don’t answer right away. “I’m dying to know the shit you’re getting into. The case they have me on is boring.”

Is my shit productive? No. But boring? Not even remotely. Between the HOA drill sergeant and her psychological warfare, her hourly updates you can’t turn off in the app, and a mailbox creeper who steals an entire vegetable before suggesting other people eat it, it’s a regular top-rated reality show.

Still . . . none of that sounds great, and if there’s one thing I live for, it’s keeping Dom entertained—even if I have to resort to making shit up.

“I don’t even know where to begin, man,” I say and run a hand through my hair. “You wouldn’t believe it. It’s been wild.”

“Yeah?” Dom wipes his hands on a napkin. “You in deep already?”

“Oh, yeah,” I say, nodding. “Whole thing’s a pressure cooker. Constant danger. Can’t sleep. Every move could blow the cover.” Or, you know, violate HOA bylaws.

Dom whistles low. “Damn. Sounds intense.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Last week, I had to host this party . . . Part of my cover, right? Ended up in a showdown with a guy. It almost got violent.”

He stares for a second, his eyes scanning my face closely. “Are you fucking with me right now?”

“Fucking with you? C’mon, Dom. Would that be something I’d do?”

“Yeah.” He laughs. “It would.”

“Well, I’m sorry I can’t tell you much, but let’s just say I’m surrounded by people who make homicide look relaxing.” I groan. “Be grateful you didn’t have to take this on. I mean, this is some intense shit, you know? Unlike anything I’ve ever done in homicide.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Listen here, Jason Bourne. Don’t let this shit go to your head. It’s only temporary, and I don’t want to have to deal with a total prick when you’re back doing homicide with me.”

I grin. “Aw, is my little Dommypoo feeling left out?”

“Well, fuck yeah, I am,” he admits on a chuckle. “I love danger. Luckily, I love my wife and kids more, but . . .” Dom leans back in the booth and shrugs, still smiling. “You sound like you’re in good spirits, though.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m good. At least eighty percent good. Sixty at a push.” He raises one eyebrow. “Okay, halfway to losing my sanity, but good.”

That gets a full belly laugh out of him.

“Enough about my very important, top-secret shit that you can’t be a part of,” I say through a wink. “How’s the fam?”