Page 48 of Once Upon a Lie

“Yeah,” I say and look around the lobby to see that the crowd has thinned down tremendously. “Apparently I’m medically cleared from being murdered by HVAC.”

“Good. Glad to hear it.” His exhale sounds relieved. “How about you come back upstairs to my place? Just to sit and rest for a bit. Personally, I’d like to keep an eye on you for a bit longer.”

I hesitate for a beat, but exhaustion wins. “Yeah. Okay. I could use a little time to chill before I figure out where I’m sleeping tonight.”

We take the elevator this time, since the structural engineer cleared it as safe, and it’s not long before we’re back in his condo.

“You look ready to collapse,” he says as he shuts the door.

Inside, the calm feels strange after all the chaos. He gestures toward the couch again, and I drop onto it without hesitation.

“I haven’t lived here long, but this building is pretty fucking interesting.”

“Or, you know, utterly unhinged,” I tease. “Even when helicopters aren’t doing Mission: Impossible–style operations with a Temu Tom Cruise, Rita treats us like we’re her soldiers or something. Though I’m pretty sure I can use this whole thing to my advantage. Maybe get out of doing my chores this month. Surely, almost dying at the hands of her husband should come with some benefits besides being temporarily homeless.”

He blinks. “Monthly chores?”

“The chore board,” I say, a sudden haughty tone taking over my voice as I realize he has no freaking clue what I’m talking about. Truth be told, New Guy Shane doesn’t have the first freaking inkling how wacky this place can get. “Rita posts it in the lobby every month. Everyone has assigned monthly tasks.”

He’s incredulous. “And people actually do it?”

“Most of us. Out of fear.”

That earns a quiet laugh. My phone buzzes again, and I wince and close my eyes as I open it, terrified of the sender.

Daddy: ​​Call me, sweetheart.​​

It’s the worst-case scenario, so I stare at it for a second, then lock the screen. There’s no way in hell I’m even broaching the possibility that he knows what happened and having to explain it. Or crueler, thinking he knows and spilling the beans myself.

I’ll wait until he’s demon dialing me to deal with that.

“You hungry?” Shane asks as I set my phone on the cushion beside me, face down.

“No.” I shake my head. “Honestly, I’m just really tired.”

“Then rest.”

I do. I snuggle and adjust and melt into the cushions until I’m horizontal as the day crashes over me and leaves me boneless—broken glass, sirens, adrenaline, near death, and the strange safety of sitting in the place of the man who literally dropped in to save me lull me until I fall asleep.

I don’t really know anything about Shane Maddox from condo 1807, but damn, he sure has created quite the impression.

15

Shane

9:45 p.m.

Valentina Cordone is still on my couch, legs tucked under her and the blanket I draped across her when she fell asleep earlier, staring blankly at the TV like she’s trying to remember how normal life works.

The local news is replaying the helicopter footage on a loop, but with the sound off, it looks almost peaceful—just light flickering across her face, glassy eyes focused on something that isn’t really there.

I should be taking notes, filing mental reports, doing anything other than watching her breathe, but knowing she could have died—and that I could have died trying to save her—has put everything other than basic instinct on pause.

Pizza and grease sit heavy in my stomach as I war with myself over the success of breaking the barrier to get close to her and the vulnerability I’m stealing in order to do it.

She’s right to be shaken up, and as much as I genuinely want to be a safe space for her as she copes, I am, realistically, the furthest thing from it. She’s a mark. And I’m a spy.

And everything I have to offer is tainted with ulterior motives.