Page 50 of Once Upon a Lie

“You sure?” she asks, just a hint of a grin. “You don’t strike me as a couch guy.”

“I’m adaptable,” I say. “And you’re safer here than anywhere else.”

She hesitates, but I can see the exhaustion settling behind her eyes. “Okay,” she finally says. “Just for tonight. But I would really love to try to grab some stuff from my condo. You think we can go in?”

“I’m sure it’s supposed to be completely off limits, but how about I go down there with you and see what we can grab?”

“Yes, please.” She blows out a breath. “That would be greatly appreciated.”

She’s stiff as she stands, but it’s an easy walk to the elevator and a quick trip to the floor below. She unlocks the door with ease, but as it swings open, we’re hit with the hard stuff.

The reality of her condo is nearly indigestible. The balcony doors are taped with police markings, and the floor glitters with shattered glass. Papers and debris are everywhere, blown recklessly by the wind, and the couch cushions look like they’ve been mauled by a bear.

“Oh my God,” she whispers. She puts her hands on her hips and breathes out on a slow, shaky exhale. “I can’t believe this. I was two seconds from death.”

I walk toward where her balcony doors used to be and crouch near the doorframe, scanning the floor. A crack runs halfway through the concrete platform outside, and the railing is bent inward. “You were lucky.”

She gasps, and I look up to meet her eyes.

“What?”

She glances up toward the top of her balcony, and her eyes narrow. “You jumped? From up there?”

I move to stand beside her, following her line of sight up, up, up to the underside of my balcony.

“Yeah,” I say. “Guess I did.” In hindsight, it might be the most reckless thing I’ve ever done in my life. Unless you’re a Navy Seal, the odds of surviving that jump have got to be fifty-fifty at best.

“Who are you?” She shakes her head slowly. “Superman?”

“Not even close,” I say. “But I used to be a cop.”

Her head turns immediately. “Used to?” she repeats.

“Yeah.” I shrug, the taste of my cover story unbelievably bitter for something made up. “Had to turn in my badge recently.”

“Oh,” she says. “Why?”

For half a second, I consider smoothing it over. Saying something vague or making it sound more temporary and strategic rather than the disgraced ex-cop story that’s been smeared in all the newspapers.

But I don’t.

“I got fired.” I scrub a hand over the back of my neck, eyes dropping for just a beat.

Her brows knit together, and it’s subtle, but I see it—the shift. The disappointment lands quietly, like something deflating. Her mouth presses into a thin line. Her expression isn’t judgmental, but it feels disapproving in that way that says I don’t like that at all.

“That’s . . . unfortunate,” she hedges.

She isn’t intrigued or impressed by danger or rule-breaking or the idea of me walking some gray line, that’s for sure. Making me a dirty cop as an in with Valentina Cordone couldn’t have been further off the mark.

“It’s complicated,” I add strategically, having seen her reaction for myself. The last thing I want to do is make her so uncomfortable all this progress goes to waste.

Not to mention you fucking hate the idea of her thinking badly of you.

“Well,” she says, glancing back at the wreckage of her condo, “I guess being former law enforcement explains the save-the-day reflex.”

“Occupational hazard,” I say.

But her expression doesn’t soften. If anything, she looks . . . wary.