Page 5 of The Vow

People. Names. Places. Assets. Shelves of surveillance gear. Folders of evidence. Flash drives of photographs and files to be used as proof or blackmail depending on what the situation called for. And then there was the machine I was looking for.

Grabbing the handle, I lugged the large black case off the shelf and carried it back to the dining table, making sure to close the room’s door behind me. It was to Damon’s back, but I took no chances.

He was silent, his appreciative gaze speaking volumes as I opened the clips and pulled out the biofeedback sensors, their cords neatly wound, and then the laptop that pulled and processed all the data.

The program was fancy. Designed by the Chinese for someRussian oligarch who’d brought it to San Francisco for business, untrusting of everyone around him. Unfortunately for him, his abusive tendencies toward women put him on my radar, so he’d become one of my prey. This machine was a spoil of my underworld war, one that had come in handy over the last several years to determine friend from foe.

His silence was like salt in the wound as I hooked him up to monitors. This required freeing his hands from the zip ties around his wrists, but even if I didn’t have a gun, he wouldn’t have attempted to escape.

Damon’s complacency oozed with the cool confidence that his cooperation was at his leisure rather than by my command. He enjoyed behaving like a gentleman when all I wanted was for him to act like a gangster—for him to give me reason to let loose the loathing burning inside me.

Arm cuff. Finger sensors. And the EEG cap that I enjoyed tugging over his perfect hair, the sensors that studded the cap picking up on the strength and frequency of brain waves that computed into the program as either lie or truth.

When I finished, I took the other seat, setting my weapon on the table with the barrel not too subtly aimed at him, and started the laptop, the fan whirring in the silence.

“Fancy,” he remarked.

“Foolproof.” I met his gaze over the screen. As soon as the icon flashed that the program was ready, I started the recording. “We’ll start with some simple questions. Tell me your name.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Damon Remington.”

“What is today’s date?”

“December 16th.”

“And what is your birthday?”

“August 6th.”

My eyes whipped up. “That’s not your birthday.”

“No, Robber. It’s yours,” he said with a smile, his nonchalance infuriating.

My hand tightened on my gun. “Yourbirthday.”

“September 10th.”

“That’s not your birthday.” My fuse began to shorten.

“Is that what your computer says?” His perfectly sculpted brow arched.

My eyes darted to the screen. It read truth. But it couldn’t be true…

“Your birthday is October 12th,” I corrected him, unless that had been a lie, too.

“You remember,” he murmured, a smile tugging at his lips, and too late, I realized the small trap he’d laid, seeing what I was willing to remember about him.

“So, I’m remembering a lie then?”

“No.” Severity leveled the smile from his face.

“Then what is September 10th?”

He leaned forward, his eyes cuffed to mine. “The day I met you.”

Surprise stole my breath. I knew we’d met in September, but the exact date…why would he remember it? And why would he bring it up like this?I didn’t believe for one minute that he missed me, no matter what he said. Damon had fifteen years to do something about missing me if that was the truth; he didn’t get to miss me now.

“I generally consider that my life began the day you walked into it, Robber.”

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