Page 9 of Man of Lies

Because subtlety was never his strong suit, he said, "You look like hell."

Just like that, my attention was lost.

"Thanks," I said dryly, returning to my file and flipping a page, hoping he'd take the hint.

Colt, being Colt, didn't take the hint. He dragged a chair over, sprawling out like he owned the place. Blond and handsome in that polished, GQ-magazine way, he looked like he'd stepped out of a country club and accidentally landed in a government office. His sense of style had rubbed off on me over the years, whether I liked it or not, but I still couldn't pull it off the way he did.

"You been here all morning?" he asked, tipping the chair back on two legs and looking around curiously, as if he hadn't been in the office for so long he'd forgotten what it looked like.

"Just like every morning," I said, not bothering to look up as I dragged a highlighter across a line item that caught my eye. "You should try it."

He rolled his eyes. "Look, I get it. You're on a mission, but you're not a machine. You haven't taken a day off in months. You're pushing too hard."

"Noted," I said flatly, still focused on the file.

"Yeah, I'll bet." He tilted his head, giving me that no-nonsense look he used to rattle witnesses. "You're done. Take a break."

I hated that tone—thesenior investigatortone. He didn't use it often, but when he did, it always pissed me off. I paused, the highlighter bleeding into a single spot on the page, and glanced at him. "I'm busy."

"You're always busy," he said, unperturbed. Before I could respond, he stood, grabbed my elbow, and hauled me out of the chair with the strength of a guy who'd once been an All-American quarterback. "Time to get busy eating. Let's go."

I yanked my arm free and gave him a light shove. "You really get off on bossing people around."

"Works, doesn't it?" He smirked and straightened his tie. "Now, move your ass. And because I'm a considerate friend, I'll even treat."

I opened my mouth to argue, but his look stopped me cold. It wasn't pity; Colt knew better than to try that. It was more like he'd already hit his limit for bullshit this morning and pushing would only make it worse.

"Fine," I muttered, slamming my laptop shut with a sharp click and grabbing my attaché case. "But make it quick."

Colt grinned, already heading for the door. "You're the one who spends forty minutes deciding between a burger and a salad, Beaufort."

After hours in the cold, sterile office, the humidity hit me like a slap. It felt like being cuddled by a wet mop. Thankfully, the diner was only half a block away, and still, we were forced to peel off our suit jackets by the time we reached our table.

Devil's Garden wasn't exactly a tourist hotspot, and Lucille's sure as hell wasn't a place found in any guidebook. But it was better than a Michelin-starred restaurant. The squat, unassuming building and sagging awning promised nothing special, and the hand-painted sign out front read simply:Breakfast, Lunch, Supper.No gimmicks.

Inside, it was even less impressive. The vinyl floors were scuffed by decades of footsteps, and the walls were crowded with mismatched art: local prints, family photos, and signs bearing slogans likelaissez les bons temps roulerandtipping isn't a city in China. The tables smelled faintly of bleach water and always felt just a little sticky, and the chairs wobbled enough to make sitting down a calculated risk. But it was worth it for the fried catfish, po'boys dripping with gravy, and collard greens seasoned to perfection.

The wiry woman behind the counter yelled in a cigarette rasp, "Émile, I told you not to burn my roux! You do it again, and you're out!"

Through the pass-through, Émile didn't flinch; he kept stirring his giant pot with an even bigger wooden spoon.

She noticed us lurking at the entrance and flapped a towel at the crowded room. "Pick any open spot, baby. I'll be right with you."

Colt beelined through a crowd of blue-collar men in grease-stained coveralls, old couples nursing half-empty cups of coffee, and a kid in a football jersey stuffing his face with barbecue ribs. Warm and lively and noisy, too loud for my crowded head, but I followed anyway.

"You'll feel better after a dive into cholesterol," Colt said, propping his elbows on the table and studying the laminated menu we'd both memorized months ago.

I didn't bother answering, scanning the words swimming on the menu, but they refused to stick. The last thing I wanted was small talk and fry grease. My stomach churned at the thought, but I was running on fumes, and I knew it.

A waitress in a ponytail and Saints jersey sauntered over with a pitcher of ice water. "What can I get y'all?"

"Sweet tea and a shrimp po'boy for me," Colton said, decisive as always. He always ordered the same thing, and the smirk he slid my way when I added a grilled chicken salad told me I was just as predictable.

The girl arched a brow, clearly unimpressed with my choice. "You sure, sugar? We don't do iceberg lettuce and ranch here."

"Sweetheart, it's the only thing I'm sure of these days," I said, handing over our menus.

She shrugged like she'd seen worse choices, jotted it down, and left me to deal with a chuckling Colton.

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