Page 122 of Fraud
Power to change lives.
And even the power to destroy them.
What would these ten words bring me?
I guessed it was time to find out.
Twisting the doorknob, I pushed open the door to my apartment. I was instantly greeted with the smell of food, something earthy that reminded me of home.
“Hey!” Killian said brightly, coming from the bedroom. He was dressed in low-slung jeans and an old T-shirt. There was sweat staining his shirt, and his hair was slick from exertion.
“It smells good in here,” I said, distracted by his appearance.
“Thanks. I decided to try out that Crock-Pot you had tucked in the back of your cabinet.”
“I have a Crock-Pot?”
He grinned. My eyes darted to the kitchen where I caught a glimpse of a stainless steel appliance on the counter. Was it wrong I found him even more adorable now that I knew he could work a Crock-Pot?
“Why are you all sweaty?” I asked, still clinging to the note in my hand.
“I noticed your shower wasn’t draining right, so I went to the store and got some things to fix it. Picked up a new showerhead, too.”
He was incredible.
“I have a manager for stuff like that.”
He nodded. “I know,” he said, grabbing the hem of his shirt to wipe away the sweat from his face.
I would be a liar if I said I didn’t watch every single millisecond, my mouth hanging open, as his raised shirt exposed his chiseled abs and that sexy little arch his hip bones made.
“Well, thank you,” I managed to say.
“Just trying to—”
“Earn your keep, I know.”
He smiled. “Hey,” he said, walking to the fridge to grab a soda, “not that I’m not thrilled to see you, but can I ask what you’re doing home so early? When I got your text, I figured you were checking in, not coming home. Is everything okay?”
My face fell.
No more Crock-Pot talk or boyfriend ogling.
It was time.
“When was the last time you saw Liam?” I asked, squeezing the message in my hand.
His eyes narrowed as he looked me over, trying to figure out what was going on. “A few days. Why?”
I took a step forward, holding out my hand and passing the note over to him. “I found this on my desk when I got in from lunch,” I said, realizing I’d told him this morning I was eating at my desk so I could write. “I decided to eat outside. It was a nice day.”
God, I hated lying to him.
I could see his confusion turn to fear as he read the words from his brother.
“I’m sorry?” he said softly, repeating the words his brother had written, and the note slowly crumpled in his hand. “What does that even mean?”
“I was hoping you could tell me,” I said.
