Page 22 of Wild Card
His voice is low. Serious. Like the question isn’t just about this investigation anymore. Like it’s abouteverything.
I don’t even hesitate.
“Yes,” I say, meeting his eyes. “With my whole heart.”
For a moment, neither of us moves. The city keeps breathing outside the car. But in here, it’s just us.
Then we release hands. Open our doors. Step out into the night air and walk over into the station.
The fluorescent lights in the police station buzz faintly overhead as we step up to the counter. The air smells like stale coffee and metal filing cabinets. Presley rests his palm on the desk, polite but firm.
“We’re here for Detective David Cole,” he says.
The officer at the desk nods and disappears through a door. A few moments later, a tall man in a gray shirt appears—friendly smile, easy confidence. Presley’s face lights up.
“Dave,” he says. “Been too long.”
They shake hands like old friends. The kind of handshake that carries years of trust.
“Presley Dane,” David says, chuckling. “Man, I didn’t expect to see you in here. What’s going on?”
Presley glances toward me, and my stomach drops. His expression changes—just slightly—but enough to make the air turn heavy.
“This is my colleague, Aria Taylor,” he says smoothly. “She’s been helping me with the investigation.”
Colleague?
I blink at him, confused. Something’s wrong.
David nods politely. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Taylor.”
Presley keeps his tone even, professional. Too professional.
“David,” he says quietly, “I need your help handling this off the record. Aria’s confessed to taking the weeping jewels we discussed earlier. We need to keep it quiet until we can confirm all the evidence. She doesn’t want this to make the evening news.”
For a heartbeat, the world stops. The words don’t make sense at first—they just hang there, echoing, until they finally hit.
“What?” I whisper.
David looks startled. “Presley?—”
But Presley doesn’t look at me. He’s staring at the floor, jaw tight.
“Presley,” I say louder, my voice cracking. “What are you doing?”
I step back. My chest is on fire, breath coming too fast. “You said you needed me totrustyou.”
He still won’t look at me.
I feel something shatter inside. “You used me,” I whisper, then louder, “Youused me!”
The room goes still. David steps forward, hands raised, but I can barely hear him. My voice breaks, shaking, everything I thought we were spilling out in one breathless rush.
“I believed you, Presley! Every word, every promise—you said we were in this together! I risked everything for you! And you?—”
I choke on the rest. The air feels too thin.
Presley finally looks at me then, and for a split second, I see it—something like regret buried behind his eyes. But it’s too late.
