New York Scandal

by Rhyannon Byrd

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Suspense; Suspense

Synopsis

She's accused of murder. Only he believes she's innocent. If you love Melinda Leigh, Laura Griffin and Linda Howard, you'll be gripped by Rhyannon Byrd's explosive romantic thriller, New York Scandal. Readers give Rhyannon Byrd 5 stars! 'Amazing story and action, as always' 'Addictive and enthralling' 'Had me from the first page' 'Fantastic...interesting and gripping' 'Love all her books' New York's biggest scandal. A love that defies the odds. When Lottie Beckett is framed for her husband's murder by an obsessed stalker, she goes on the run. Taking refuge in New York City, she spends each day terrified that her past will track her down...and destroy her. The most difficult thing Callan Hathaway ever had to do was watch Lottie marry another man. Nothing about that day felt right, and when he finds her waiting tables in a tiny Brooklyn café, his protective instincts won't allow him to walk away a second time. But while he knows that Lottie is innocent, becoming involved with a wanted woman, when his younger sister is embroiled in a brutal political battle for the office of NYC mayor, could prove devastating to his family. The way Callan sees it, his only choice is to flush out the real killer...and the clock is ticking. He and Lottie face the fight of their lives for the future they so desperately want...and the love they never expected. Praise for Rhyannon Byrd's thrilling love stories: 'Exciting, sexy, and romantic...with a couple that dazzles. I couldn't put it down!' Virna DePaul, New York Times bestselling author Passion. Deception. Intrigue. Don't miss London Affair, the first international love story from Rhyannon Byrd! Looking for more? Check out the passionate Dangerous Tides titles: Take Me Under, Make Me Yours and Keep Me Closer.

Release date: September 14, 2021

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 368

Sample

Thirteen months later . . .

‘Clara,’ I mutter into my phone, dodging some asshole who’s decided to jog down the center of the sidewalk on a busy Friday afternoon in Brooklyn, ‘you know I love you, but this shit has got to stop. I’m not your campaign’s gigolo service. Let Marissa Abernathy find her own damn date to the fundraiser tonight.’

‘Did you seriously just say that out on the street? Can people hear you?’ my younger sister groans, the sound of exasperation in her voice one that’s grown painfully familiar over the past few weeks. She’s currently embroiled in a bitter, brutal battle for the office of New York City mayor, and the campaign has taken its toll not only on her, but on our entire family. And given that we still have two months to go, I’m genuinely starting to wonder if I should think about leaving the country for a while.

Since I’m not a prick, I want to be supportive. I really do. But the fact that I’m both single and have good name recognition in the city, thanks to my personal protection company taking on more than a few high-profile celebrity clients in the past few years, has made me Clara’s first choice when it comes to escorting her rich society friends – the ones she’s made through her charity work – around town. The circles they move in aren’t really my down-to-earth, work-your-fingers-to-the-bone sister’s scene, but in the cutthroat world of political elections, it’s always better to have more friends than enemies. Or at least that’s the line that Carl Deevers, her campaign manager, keeps throwing at us, whenever anyone in the family voices an opinion that the douchebag doesn’t like.

‘I’m sorry, Clara, but I’m done,’ I tell her, knowing I can’t stomach another endless night of hell with a woman whose favorite subject is herself. Fifteen months ago, I might have been able to see it through. Hell, I probably would have slept with a few of them as well, so long as they understood that it was nothing more than a fun hook-up between acquaintances, and would never be anything more.

But I’m not the same man I was back then. Not even close. And even though I’d take a bullet for my sister, I’m drawing a line in the sand about this that I don’t intend to step over.

‘Fine,’ she says with a resigned sigh, too sharp to have missed the conviction in my voice. ‘Can I at least put you down for phone calls on Saturday?’

‘Of course, honey. I’ll make as many as you need. I’ll talk the city’s ear off about how awesome you are and how much good you’re going to do once elected.’

Her soft laugh brings a brief smile to my face, which is rare for me these days, and I squint as I turn a corner, facing right into the late-afternoon sunlight. It’s a gorgeous September day, and I wedge the phone between my ear and shoulder so that I can roll up the sleeves of my casual button-up, since I’m roasting in the thing, when the sound of another laugh catches my attention, stopping me dead in my tracks. Low and husky, that bone-melting sound is the same exact one I’ve actually fantasized about hearing again. Especially when I make the mistake of thinking about what I refer to as the ‘weekend from hell’ – which is far more than I should.

Someone runs into my back, their gruff curse reminding me that now I’m the asshole disrupting the flow of movement on the sidewalk. I tell myself to keep walking, seeing as how the owner of that sexy-as-sin laugh is a woman I have no business getting involved with, much less even talking to. She’s wanted for the murder of the same jackass I had to watch her marry on a sunny summer day in England last year, and has been on the run ever since their extended honeymoon in Italy took an ugly turn. The husband was found brutally stabbed to death on his yacht . . . and his beautiful wife, Lottie Fleming, fled the country and was never seen again.

Until now.

Well, maybe. I still haven’t turned around to verify the laughing woman’s identity, and the curses being thrown my way by my fellow New Yorkers who have places to be and don’t appreciate my huge frame blocking their path are only getting louder.

Since when did you become such a chickenshit? I ask myself, gripping my phone so tightly I’m surprised it hasn’t shattered.

I’d only ever heard Lottie laugh once, the one time we were alone together, but it . . . Yeah, it obviously made a hell of an impression, because I’m still thinking about it over a year later. Pathetically imagining I’m hearing it in the middle of one of the most crowded cities in the world.

Christ. Stop stalling, dickhead, and just get on with it.

I suck in a quick breath, force my body around and then immediately scowl with disappointment at what I find. Instead of the slender, big-eyed blonde I was hoping for, some redhead is standing there, delivering food to a table at a busy café, laughing Lottie’s laugh. But then the young twenty-something turns her head, giving me a view of her complete profile . . . and, son of a bitch, it’s actually her.

Either she’s dyed her hair or she’s wearing a wig. A long, curly wig that looks all wrong on her. I mean, she’s still gorgeous, but this look is too brash and bold for the blushing postgrad who damn near knocked my feet out from under me the first time I ever laid eyes on her.

‘Holy hell,’ I hear myself mutter, ‘I’ve gotta go.’ I hang up on Clara without so much as a goodbye and finally move out of the center of the sidewalk. I take a few steps forward, drawn to this woman with a pull that I’ve spent over a year second-guessing, trying to convince myself it was only in my imagination. That I hadn’t really been that insanely attracted to her. My ploy was just bullshit, though, because right now, woman-on-the-run or not, all I want is to take Lottie Fleming – I refuse to call her by her married name, even in my head – into my arms and fuck the ever-loving hell out of her. It’s such a primitive reaction that I’m almost embarrassed by it. But there’s no denying that it’s exactly how I feel, as if laying claim to her body will somehow keep her from slipping away from me again, when I know that’s nothing but a pipe dream.

Done at the table, she smiles at the older couple she was serving and walks back inside the café, her plain black leggings and long white T-shirt with Lenore’s, the café’s name, written flamboyantly across the back looking incredible on her. I lose track of how long I stand off to the side of the sidewalk, my brain working overtime as I try to come up with some kind of plan for approaching her. But it’s nearly impossible to concentrate because the sense of relief pouring through my system at the fact that she’s alive and well is nothing short of staggering.

Yeah, I logically knew that she hadn’t been killed when Oliver was murdered – by who I’ve always believed was either a woman he’d screwed over or a jealous, jilted husband – because she’d boarded a flight from Italy to California the next morning, twelve hours after what the coroner had established as the time of death. But the trail had gone cold in Los Angeles, and despite the team of investigators that my friend Jase Beckett, who is Oliver’s cousin, has had looking for her, not a scrap of proof that she was still alive was ever found.

And that had damn near destroyed me. In ways I’d spent a hell of a lot of energy over the past year trying hard not to think about.

Before I can decide on a plan of action, Lottie comes walking out of the café with a black backpack slung over her shoulder, apparently done with her shift, and I have no choice but to move my ass if I don’t want to lose her on the crowded street. She’s wearing a pair of gray Converse that don’t give her any extra height, but at just under six-five I’m easily able to keep my eye on her lithe five-seven frame.

It’s evident from the way she moves through the crowd of pedestrians that she’s been living here in New York for a while now. She doesn’t have that nervous flinch that makes it so easy to spot a newcomer. But even though I can tell that she’s at ease with the city, she’s definitely on the lookout for something. Or someone. We haven’t walked for more than a block, but she’s already glanced over her shoulder three times, luckily not clocking me, since I’m trained to go unnoticed when I need to.

Then again, maybe I’m not as good at it as I thought, since she suddenly ducks down an alleyway on our right. I reach the shadowed entrance just in time to see her take a left at the end and I run like hell to catch up with her. She dodges a couple of skateboarders, then turns again, and I nearly wipe out on a spilled bag of French fries, but thankfully stay on my feet. She breaks right, and I know I’m screwed when I watch her run headlong into a crowded neighborhood street party.

‘Goddamn Fridays,’ I mutter, stopping and spinning in a circle as I search the noisy street. Dozens of laughing kids are running barefoot through a series of sprinklers that have been set up in the middle of the road, while their families congregate around portable barbecues and music pours from the windows that have been left open in the long, parallel rows of brownstones. The sunny day, after nearly two weeks of constant rain, has brought out what looks like the entire neighborhood, and I want to roar with irritation because I have no idea where Lottie has gone. But in an unlucky twist for her, since I know she’s wearing it to disguise her appearance, it’s the brash red wig that enables me to spot her again after I jump onto the base of a streetlight like someone out of a movie. She’s already nearly half a block away, so I jump down and take off running, throwing out apologies left and right as I jostle my way through the throng of people.

I chase after her for nearly another block and a half, the crowd slowing me down until I’m all but choking on my frustration. Then I catch a glimpse of her slipping into another slim alleyway between a Cuban bakery that smells amazing and a hair salon. The street party is thinning out at this end of the road, as it blends into a retail zone, and I finally catch up with Lottie just as she takes a right and starts to run up a set of wide stone steps that belong to a tall, thin apartment building that looks like it’s from the 1930s. I reach out with one hand before she can climb the second step, bracing for the impact of her slamming into my chest as I spin her around. But she surprises the hell out of me by bending her leg, using her momentum to drive her lifted knee straight toward my crotch. I shift my weight at the last second, taking the blow on my hip, and grab her other wrist before she can start wailing on me.

‘Jesus Christ, Lottie, stop fighting!’ I snarl, giving her a little shake. ‘It’s me!’

Her body freezes as her head shoots back, the vivid blue eyes that I constantly see in my sleep wide with shock as she gapes up at me. ‘Callan?’ she gasps, and I can tell from her reaction that she’d had no idea it was me she was running from.

‘Yeah,’ I grunt, expecting her to relax now that she knows she’s not in any danger. But I feel the tiny hairs start to rise on the back of my neck when the opposite happens . . . and her distress turns into something truly chilling.

‘Let me go,’ she wheezes, going unnaturally pale beneath the vivid splotches of color burning in her cheeks.

And her eyes . . . Christ.

I’ve never really been all that into art museums, probably because I grew up getting dragged to numerous ones all over the world on every family vacation we ever took, and right now, staring into Lottie Fleming’s scared eyes, I feel that same uneasy sensation I’d get when looking at a work by Edvard Munch. Anxiety is all but seeping from her pores, her skin too pale, those dark blue eyes so huge they pretty much swallow her face. It makes me feel like a dick, as if I’m responsible for her distress, and even though I know that none of this shit is my fault, there’s no doubt that I’m the one scaring the hell out of her at the moment.

‘You don’t need to be afraid,’ I tell her, working hard to keep my voice gentle. ‘I just want to help.’

‘Fuck you!’ she snaps, tugging hard at her wrists.

Before I can think better of it, I hear myself say, ‘Whenever you want, sweetheart. I’m all yours. But right now we need to get you somewhere safe.’ I jerk my chin at the building behind her, judging it with a swift glance. ‘This neighborhood is too rough for you.’

A bitter, almost hysterical-sounding laugh slips past her trembling lips. ‘Wow, sound like a snob much? I’ll have you know this is an awesome neighborhood.’

‘And I happen to know that last week there was a brutal murder just a few blocks over.’ My company provides personal security for the family who owns the restaurant where the homicide took place, and while it was a shock that one of their employees was tortured and killed while locking up for the night, it turned out that the guy had owed a serious amount of money to some dangerous people. Ones who are apparently making a move to take over this part of the city.

But Lottie doesn’t even flinch at the news. She just shakes her head and laughs again. ‘Is that meant to scare me, Hathaway? Have you forgotten that I’m a murderer?’

My mouth flattens into a hard, tight line. ‘The hell you are.’

‘Nice try,’ she scoffs, curling her upper lip, ‘but I’m not going to fall for it.’

‘Fall for what?’

‘Whatever stunt you’re trying to pull.’ Suspicion coats her words, her sexy British accent harsher than I remember it, her anger hardening the edges of each consonant. ‘Did you call the cops the second you spotted me? Is that why you’re trying to keep me here? Are they already on their way?’

I’m furious that she thinks I would betray her that way, even though I know my fury is completely illogical. She has no reason to trust me. Hell, she doesn’t even know me. Not really. But I plan on changing that.

Sweat dots her upper lip, her skin dewy from her frantic run to get away from me. She looks earthy and real and wild, a far cry from the perfectly polished poetry scholar I met last year who bore an uncanny resemblance to Michelle Williams – but I’ve never wanted a woman as badly as I want her in this moment. It’s probably a thousand kinds of wrong, given the grim circumstances, but I want inside her so badly I can taste it, the warm, feminine scent of her body making my damn mouth water.

I swallow hard against the untimely lust that’s pounding through my system, and fervently tell her, ‘I didn’t call the cops, Lottie. I would never do that to you. And in case you were wondering, I happen to believe you’re innocent.’

‘Then you’re the only one,’ she shoots back, shaking so hard I’m surprised her teeth aren’t chattering. She sucks in a sharp breath, clearly struggling to calm down as she looks me hard in the eye. ‘But even if you’re not going to turn me in, you still need to go. Just let go of me and . . . run.’

‘I’m not going anywhere.’

‘God, don’t do this. Please,’ she pleads, casting nervous looks around us, while her pulse pounds at the base of her throat. ‘You need to leave me alone. Just leave, right now, and don’t come back.’

I shake my head when she looks back up at me, hating the panic that’s all but coating her skin. ‘I’m sorry, Lot, but that’s not gonna happen.’

‘I’m bad news!’ she suddenly shouts, struggling again to free her arms, the lingering sounds of the street party probably the only reason her cries haven’t brought someone to her rescue. ‘God, Callan! Just stay away from me! If you don’t want to die, just stay away!’

I narrow my eyes as I carefully tighten my grip on her, determined not to let her go, knowing damn well that if I lose her now, I might never get her back. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘I . . . I can’t,’ she chokes out. ‘I can’t do this. I can’t go through it again. Not with you. Please, just walk away.’

I want to demand to know what she means by the ‘Not with you’ part, but I sense this isn’t the time. So I tell her, ‘Again, Lottie, that’s not gonna happen.’

She opens her mouth, probably on the verge of telling me to go to hell for my high-handed tactics, when someone calls down, ‘Lana, are you okay?’

We both freeze, my brows raised with curiosity as I look up to find a cute Hispanic kid who must be about seven or eight standing on a rickety balcony about fifteen feet above our heads, his brown eyes huge as he stares down at us.

‘I’m fine,’ she calls up, but her voice is shaky, and the child’s worried frown stays in place. ‘Really, Nico,’ she adds, forcing a smile onto her face for the boy. ‘I just . . . ran into an old friend who surprised me. But we’re all good. Now go back inside and do your homework before your abuela gets upset.’

I’m by no means fluent in Spanish, but I know enough to recognize that abuela means grandmother.

‘Now, Nico,’ she tells him, kindly but firmly, and I can see from the exchange that these two know each other well. I can also tell that she’s angled her body so that the kid can’t tell that I’m restraining her.

‘Okay,’ he mutters. ‘But you’d better still come over later like you promised and play Mario Kart with me.’

Before he heads inside, Nico gives me a dark look of warning that makes me want to smile at his bravery, but I fight it back, not wanting to insult him. As much as I hate that Lottie is obviously living in this rundown building, it eases something inside my chest to know that she’s had this little guy to spend time with . . . and to look out for her.

‘Why don’t we finish this argument up in your apartment,’ I suggest, knowing I’ve assumed right about this being where she lives when her shoulders sag with defeat. She gives me a tight nod, and I release her wrists, frowning when she immediately rubs at the red marks on her right one, and then the left. ‘Shit. I didn’t mean to hurt you, Lot.’

‘You didn’t.’ She hikes her backpack higher onto her shoulder as she turns and heads up the steps, leaving me to follow her. ‘I just bruise easily.’

‘I’ll remember that,’ I say under my breath, doing my best to keep my eyes off her perfect ass as she opens the huge front door that was left unlocked and walks inside, not even looking back to see if I’m still here. But then, I’ve made it clear I’m not going anywhere.

As we climb the stairs, I can hear the TV blaring in Nico’s family’s apartment, but the others are quiet, the residents most likely still out for the day. As unkind as I was in my assessment of the building, it’s clear that the people who live here look after it. The stairwell and landings are spotless, with the fresh scent of lemons in the air and colorful artwork hanging on the walls. When Lottie notices me taking in one of the surrealist paintings that reminds me of the Chagall that Jase had bought for his fiancée, Emmy, at Christmas, she murmurs, ‘Nico’s mum, Eva, is an amazing artist. I keep telling her that she should try to sell them, but between working as a bike courier and taking care of Nico, she claims she doesn’t have the time.’

‘I’ll tell my sister Chloe that she needs to take a look at these.’

‘Why?’ she asks, shooting me a surprised look over her shoulder.

‘She’s an interior designer, and these would go great with her signature style,’ I explain, knowing that Chloe would be impressed that I even know what her ‘signature style’ is. ‘Plus, I hate to see talent go unrecognized.’

She reaches the next small landing and stops, an odd expression on her face as she turns to look at me. ‘What?’ I ask, pushing my hands into my front pockets so that I’m not tempted to reach out and touch her. ‘You thought I was just muscles and a pretty face?’

‘You’re not that pretty,’ she deadpans, and I can’t help but let out a loud, genuine laugh.

‘Ouch, Lottie. Knock a guy when he’s down, why don’t cha?’

‘You’re hardly down, Callan,’ she murmurs, eyeing up my tall frame with a flash of heat that’s so quick I almost miss it.

‘Maybe not on the outside,’ I say, my low voice soft but serious, while my gaze moves greedily between her pink lips and those storm-dark eyes. ‘But on the inside, honey, I’m still licking my wounds over your less than joyous reaction to me finding you.’

She rolls her eyes and turns away, but I think that might be so that I don’t see the way her mouth seems to tremble with emotion. And, hell, I know it’s not the time or place, but I’m not above using some humor to ease things up between us, because she’s still strung tighter than a bow string. ‘I’m just real thankful that my balls are still in one piece,’ I drawl, ‘your best intentions to squash them aside.’

She doesn’t say anything in response, but I didn’t really expect her to. Instead, she just gives a delicate snort as she pulls a set of keys from the front pocket on her backpack and walks over to the brightly painted door that sits at the end of the landing, then unlocks it. I follow her through the doorway, having to duck so that I don’t smack my head on the six-foot door frame, and work hard to conceal my shock at how small the place is as I watch Lottie drop her backpack onto a yellow loveseat.

‘So, now that you’ve seen me safely home, you can go,’ she says, her arms wrapped around her middle as she stands with her back to the room’s only window, her chin set at a belligerent angle that perfectly matches the anger that’s still smoldering in her eyes. Anger . . . and a touch of fear, since I still haven’t convinced her that I’m not here to cause her any trouble. That I only want to help.

But her anger and fear, as well as my simmering irritation, aren’t the only things here in this tiny apartment with us. There’s a visceral tension that’s so thick I feel like I could reach out and grab it, the heaviness of it making it difficult to breathe. It’s made up of heat and need and physical hunger, even more potent than it’d been the last time I’d seen her, when she’d been walking out of Jase’s family home, leaving for her honeymoon with another man. But her eyes had been on me as she’d climbed into Olly’s sleek sports car, and I’d had no doubt that she wanted me as badly as I wanted her.

I’d silently begged her not to do it. Not to leave with him.

And it’d cut like a knife when she’d looked away and slammed the passenger-side door shut, making her decision clear.

The asshole hadn’t even helped her into the low-slung Porsche, but that hadn’t been surprising. After having helped Jase deal with the distraught, pregnant nineteen year old who had shown up out of the blue to confront Olly two nights before, I’d understood exactly how much of a self-centered prick he was. Christ, he’d spent the entire weekend screwing his way through the wedding party, and even though I knew damn well that Lottie was aware of it all, she’d still married the prick. Still driven off with him while I’d just stood there on the steps with the rest of the wedding guests, feeling like a fool.

‘Callan,’ she says, pulling me back to the moment, and my frown deepens as I recall that she’s still desperate to get rid of me.

‘How many times do I have to tell you that I’m not going anywhere?’

She takes a quick breath, looking as if she’s fighting for patience, and crosses her arms so tightly I’m surprised she has any circulation left in them. ‘You know, this kind of behavior could easily be construed as harassment.’

‘Bullshit, Lot. I completely support a woman’s right to do whatever the hell she wants, but this isn’t a normal situation and you know it. You need help, but are being too pig-headed to take it.’

‘So you’re going to make me? Talk about a freaking hero complex.’

‘I’m going to make sure you’re okay,’ I grind out, shoving my hands back through my hair in a burst of frustration. ‘And while I’m doing that, I’m going to find a way to help you get your damn life back.’

‘Why?’ she cries, sounding completely baffled as she throws her hands up in the air.

‘Why what?’

‘Why would you do that? Any of it? It’s insane!’

There are a thousand different reasons I could give her that would probably just send her running again, so I go for the one that hopefully sounds the most reasonable. ‘Because it’s the way my mom raised me.’

She gives another snort, only this one is sharp with derision. ‘To take on charity cases?’

I slowly exhale, striving for patience of my own. ‘No. To help those in need, when we have the means. Those means being my background and my business. And you, honey, are definitely in need of help from someone like me.’

‘You’re a bodyguard, Callan. Or . . . you were. What exactly do you think I need protecting from? The police? Wouldn’t that make you a criminal?’

‘Not the police,’ I say, feeling like I might finally be starting to make some sense of the bizarre situation. And why she’s so desperate to get rid of me. ‘Yeah, I know you must be scared shitless of getting caught, and given how things have gone, I don’t blame you. But what I think is really scaring the hell out of you is the idea of whoever killed Oliver tracking you down.’

She sucks in another sharp breath, her face so white she looks like a goddamn cadaver.

‘Christ, Lot. What the hell is going on?’ I demand, my thoughts racing as I try to wrap my head around this new revelation.

‘I can’t . . . I don’t . . .’ She turns her face to the side, obviously struggling for composure. I know she’s found it when she smooths her hands down the front of her T-shirt and looks over at me with an expression that’s so eerily composed it’s unsettling, as if she’s taken every bit of emotion inside her and buried it down so deep, she can no longer even feel it. ‘I don’t have much to offer you to drink,’ she eventually murmurs, as if I’ve just dropped by for a casual visit, ‘but I bought some sodas last night. Want one?’

‘Sure, thanks,’ I reply, playing along even though I’m dying to press her for an explanation. But my gut tells me it’s not the time to keep pushing, so I bite my tongue as I watch her head into the cramped kitchenette that I can just see through the beaded curtain that hangs over a small archway.

Since I’m on my own, I take a moment to give my surroundings a closer look. I’m standing in the center of a studio apartment that’s actually smaller than the living room at my place here in the city. The floors appear to be the old original hardwood planks, but they’re spotlessly clean and gleaming. There’s no TV, but a dated laptop sits on top of an end table that’s been painted in a beautiful cherry-blossom motif that looks as if her neighbor Eva probably did it for her. And through a small archway on my left, I can see what looks like an air mattress that’s been neatly covered in purple sheets lying on the floor, the sight of it making me want to get my hands on whoever’s responsible for putting her in this situation and make them pay.

‘Go ahead, say it,’ she murmurs, catching me studying the place as she walks back through the beaded curtain and hands me a cold soda can. ‘My place is a piece of crap.’

‘It’s cute,’ I tell her, meaning it as I pop the top and take a drink. While it pisses me off that she’s living in a damn shoebox, the quirky style of the studio fits her perfectly, and I can tell that even though she’s clearly struggling for money, she’s worked hard to make it as comfortable as possible. Chloe would probably call it Boho Chic, if I’ve understood anything from her design lectures over the years. But to me it’s just feminine and inviting, with lots of white and soft splashes of color. And yet, as cozy as Lottie has made the place, it’s making me uneasy, and I know that’s my gut trying to warn me that she’s not safe here. That there’s a hell of a lot more wrong with this woman’s life than the fact that she’s wanted for murder.

Bringing my hard gaze back to hers, I say, ‘It’s your security that’s shit, Lot. The building i. . .