Page 20 of Painted Scars
These girls will put me in an early grave before the Romans do.
Katar draws out a red licorice candy from his breast pocket. “Which one is he? Morally gray antihero with a tragic past? Broody reformed mob killer who bakes?”
They both burst into laughter.
Assholes are getting kicks out of this. “Do I look like I own an apron?”
I don’t have time for fun. We need to salvage our mission before more damage is done.
I pinch the bridge of my nose to ease the headache forming. “Can we stay focused and devise a plan on how to deal with the Kate mess?”
Grayson sighs like we’re out of other options. “We can’t plant more bugs.”
Goddamn, PJ3 blew our cover. Last time I give that pipsqueak jerky.
Grayson throws up counting fingers. “Our alternatives are that we spy from afar with a parabolic microphone. Pay someone else to get close to her. Hijack her phone and pray she always has it close.”
I tick off the first. “Those mics are unreliable and don’t pick up everything.” I address the second. “Pay someone else? And trust they won’t spook her or sell us out the second they figure out who she is? Not a chance.”
Grayson exhales loudly.
To the third. “We’re flying blind if she leaves her phone in her bag, the battery’s dead, or it slides between the sofa cushions.”
My jaw works slowly and bitterly, coming to the conclusion that I’m back to square one—befriending.
“Kate won’t trust me,” I say flatly, but the idea of being closer has something old and forgotten stirring in me. “And this isn’t a game.”
“What else have we got?” He taps his bench.
I don’t like it. Not because it’s a bad strategy, but because it requires proximity… and that gets people killed. I made the call a long time ago not to get close, not after what it cost me. Despite what I tell myself, I’m already close. Too close. I inserted myself into her panic spiral. We need intel, and she’s the chaos that threatens my control.
“Kate Williams is a liability and distraction I don’t need,” I mutter.
Katar slides out of his seat to press two fingers to my pulse. “There’s a heartbeat. He’s alive. Shall I call it in?”
I swat him away. “Touch me again and you’ll need an ambulance.”
Grayson picks up a stress ball and squeezes it. “If you don’t want to play nice and make Kate’s dreams come true with the forced proximity trope, why not hover outside her house or window like a constipated gargoyle?”
I want to wipe the smirk from his face.
I come back to his proposal. Years on the force taught me to get close. Undercover narcotics, gangs, undercover ops. You don’t come back from those clean, you come back scarred.
With this in mind, I run through potential candidates for this task. Grayson is fragile. Stalking is foreplay to Katar. That leaves me. Fuck.
I rub the back of my neck, scraping the regret away as best I can. I’ve worn many masks in my time. Cop, thug, vigilante. What’s the harm?
“I’ll do it. But only if we know exactly what we’re dealing with first. What else have you found?”
Grayson lights up like a switchboard. “Starting from the top.”
A flood of court documents, property filings, and filtered records spills onto the screen.
He points to the centerpiece. “Sealed court records filed in Shadow Lake District court confirm Charles Huntington is Kate’s father. Paternity suit filed by her mother. Judge ruled in her favor and ordered payments.”
I raise a brow. “Did he pay?”
Grayson pulls up another window. “Hush money payments through a shell account under the name E. Williams were deposited monthly until she turned eighteen. Under the condition never to claim the Huntington name.”
