Page 37 of Once Upon a Lie

His sleeves are rolled, his tie is loose, and he has a white cup filled with what I assume is coffee/gasoline sludge sitting in front of him. Cyborg fuel.

“Morning, Maddox,” he says, like we’re meeting for coffee and not whatever this is.

“Morning.” I offer a smile, hoping to get some sort of reaction out of him that doesn’t start with a bee-boop-boop. “Gotta say, you always pick the most welcoming places.”

The silence stretches as he stares at me, so much so I jump when he barks out a command. “Now is the time when you start giving me updates.”

“Right.” I clear my throat. I’ve got jack shit doesn’t have much of a ring to it, so instead, I grasp at straws. Short ones. Bent ones. Ones with holes. It doesn’t matter. None of them will suck like they’re supposed to anyway. “She goes by Teeny,” I say.

Mike stares at me.

“That’s short for Valentina,” I clarify.

“We already know that.”

“Right,” I say. “Just . . . confirming accuracy.”

He doesn’t move. Still doesn’t blink. My stomach cramps.

Yikes.

“Sunnie and Cher—”

“I don’t give a shit about her music preferences.”

“They’re people. Her two employees at her bagel shop,” I correct. “Not . . . music preferences.”

“Riveting intel,” he says, and the silence that follows could make a man with thirty years on the force retire his badge immediately. Frankly, Mike here makes my hard-ass uncle Benny look like an ooey-gooey chocolate chip cookie, and we all know he’s burned toast at best.

“You’ve been embedded for two weeks, Maddox,” Mike says, leaning back in his seat—probably to keep himself from sinking a blade in my throat. “Please tell me you have something that doesn’t sound like the world’s most boring dating profile.”

I shift in my chair, heat crawling up my neck. “She’s . . . normal,” I say. “Like, painfully normal. Bagel shop, long hours, probably sleeps four hours a night. I’ve seen more suspicious activity from a Starbucks drive-through, sir.”

“Normal. Define that.”

“She talks to everyone, tips her delivery guy, probably bakes muffins for fun. She’s either the most convincing front I’ve ever seen, or she’s completely in the dark about her father’s business.”

“We need proof. Names. Numbers. Something we can move on.” Mike taps his fingers against his coffee cup and eyes me knowingly. “And in case you’ve forgotten, it’s your fucking job to figure those things out.” He sighs heavily, like I’m the biggest pain in his ass right now—which, yeah, I guess I am. “Looks can lie. We need proof. Money trails, phone logs, anything connecting her to Cordone’s operation.”

“I know,” I agree. “I hear you.”

“Then give me something that’s not a fucking bagel flavor.”

“Technically, I didn’t give you any bagel flavors,” I contest, but when I see the stern look on his face, I clear my throat. “Right. The proof . . .”

Come on, Shane. Get in the fucking game.

“There is one thing,” I eventually say, straightening a little. “A name. Alfred.”

That gets his attention. “Alfred?”

“Found on a note,” I explain. “Handwritten.”

Mike studies me, interest in letting me live flickering for the first time since I sat down across from him. “Do we think he’s connected to Tommy Cordone?”

“Maybe,” I say. “Or just someone close enough that she trusts. Either way, it’s the only personal link outside of her family I’ve seen so far besides the two musical employees.”

“Good.” He nods. “Run it down. I want to know who he is, where he fits, and if he’s a bridge to Cordone.”