Page 66 of Once Upon a Lie

The neckline slips off one shoulder when she walks, pale skin flashing every few steps, and I have to remind myself this is a covert cleaning operation, not foreplay.

I don’t bother reminding myself that the covert cleaning operation with a giggly, beautiful, smiley bagel shop owner is actually part of a real covert operation with the FBI and a bunch of other alphabet government agencies, though—that’s way too depressing and, frankly, would make it harder to do my job.

I mean, the daughter of an internationally known gunrunner—my mark—is currently grinning at me like this is fun.

“Do you really think this is necessary?” I whisper as we slip through the side entrance of our building. “It’s feeling a little over the top.”

“Shhh.” She presses a finger to her lips. “You have no idea what Rita’s capable of.”

That much I’m starting to believe. Rita incites so much fear in her residents, she might actually be Nashville’s Charles Manson.

When we make it to the floor the gym is on, the place is quiet and dark. I reach for the light switch in the hallway on instinct, and Valentina shoves at my chest, nearly knocking me backward.

“What are you doing?” she whisper-yells. “Don’t turn on the lights!”

“But how am I going to see the shit I need to clean in the gym?” I ask, fighting for my life against laughing at how serious she is.

“Use the flashlight on your phone.”

I follow her instruction, pulling my phone from my pocket and scrolling down from the corner to turn on the light, but before I can, Valentina shoves me in the chest again. Somehow, her little body manages enough force to push my back against the wall, and her hands linger there half a second too long, like she forgot what she was doing.

“What the hell?” I ask, letting myself laugh now.

“Shhh,” she hisses, eyes wide. “I think she’s coming.”

“She?”

Sliding across the polished floors like a scene from a horror movie, a flashlight beam scans in front of us.

“Who the fuck is that?”

“Shhh!” Teeny whispers. “Rita is coming.”

“How do you know it’s her?” I whisper back.

“Now isn’t the time for stupid questions, Shane,” she hisses.

By the serious look in her eyes, she’s not kidding at all, and it’s not long before I can see Rita in all her glory through the gym’s glass wall. She looks like a high-waisted, khaki-wearing security guard from hell.

Valentina tugs me toward the small towel supply closet, and before I know it, she’s shoving me inside just as a beam of light hits the floor of the hallway we were just in.

The room is cramped as fuck, and we’re smashed in between shelves of detergent and floor cleaner and bleach and whatever other products are needed for keeping the building clean.

I stay as quiet as I can, but that’s mostly because Teeny is smothering me with a small hand over my mouth. Her body brushes mine every time she shifts to look through the sliver in the door, and I can feel her heartbeat against my chest.

Turning carefully to look with her, I watch Rita check the clipboard on the wall and mutter to herself about dust levels and improper folding techniques.

“She does this every night?” I whisper.

“Like clockwork,” Valentina murmurs, breath tickling my neck. “One time she caught Callie trying to refill the paper towels at the wrong angle and made her write an essay about the history of paper and towels. We still talk about it.”

I bite back a laugh. “You live in a dictatorship.”

“We live in a dictatorship,” she corrects.

Rita’s flashlight beam sweeps past again, and Valentina tenses. Oddly enough, so do I.

Rita heads in the other direction of the supply closet we’re smashed in, and it’s not long before we hear the elevator ding its arrival. We stay patient, waiting inside the supply closet until we know she’s gone.