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“We could meet at the station.”
She immediately straightens and looks at me with disappointment. “You know that’s not happening.” I’m realizing that Lana wears her heart on her sleeve. There’s no guessing when she’s angry or offended. Of all her moods, the disappointment is the one that bothers me. She’s right in that I’ve instigated all this. She’s agreed to help. I need to meet her halfway.
I take a deep breath, knowing I'm about to make a decision I might regret. "Alright. Let's go to my place."
Her triumphant smile sends a mix of excitement and dread coursing through me. We leave the restaurant and slide into the back of her sleek black car. I can't shake the feeling that I'm sealing my own death warrant.
The city lights blur past the tinted windows as Lana's driver navigates the late-night streets. I'm hyperaware of her presence beside me, the subtle shift of her body as we take each turn.
"Nervous, Detective?" Lana's voice breaks the silence, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Worried I’m taking you to a warehouse on the river to meet your maker?”
I force a chuckle. "Just wondering if I should've updated my will before getting in this car with you."
She laughs, the sound both musical and dangerous. "Oh, Henry. If I wanted you dead, there are far more efficient ways than this little joyride."
"That's not as comforting as you might think," I reply dryly.
Lana leans closer, her breath warm on my ear. "Come on, I thought we were building trust here. After all, I'm putting a lot of faith in you and your supposed lead about Lazaro."
I turn to face her, our noses almost touching. "Trust is a two-way street, Lana. I'm trusting that you're not leading me into an ambush."
"Please," she scoffs. "You watch too many movies."
The tension in the car is palpable, danger and something else I don't want to name mingling together. As we near my neighborhood, I’m certain I've made a terrible mistake, but I can’t be sure that it’s my life or my integrity that is at risk.
I unlock the door to my apartment, flicking on the lights as we step inside. The place is neat and sparse. It doesn’t impress, but neither is it a pigsty.
"Make yourself comfortable," I tell Lana, gesturing to the worn leather couch.
She glides past me, her eyes taking in every detail. I can practically see her mind working, cataloging information about me based on my living space.
"Drink?" I offer, heading to my small kitchen.
"Please. Whiskey, if you have it." She sits on the couch.
I pour two glasses of bourbon, neat. As I hand one to Lana, our fingers brush. The contact sends a jolt through me that I force myself to ignore.
Lana swirls the amber liquid in her glass. "What made you choose this glamorous life of late nights and dangerous dinners?"
I sit on the couch but give us enough space to keep things professional. "Believe it or not, it wasn't the allure of cold coffee and mountains of paperwork."
Her eyes gleam with interest. "Oh? Do tell."
I take a sip of bourbon, considering how much to reveal. "I became a cop because I wanted to help people. Make a difference, you know?"
"And has it lived up to your expectations?" There's a hint of challenge in her voice.
"Not always," I admit. "The job… it's not black and white like I thought it would be when I was younger. There's a lot of gray area."
Lana nods, her expression softening slightly. "And yet you stick with it."
I shrug. "Even when it's messy, even when it doesn't seem like it… we do help people." I meet her gaze steadily. "That's what keeps me going."
Lana's eyes flicker with something dangerous as she processes my words. She takes a slow sip of bourbon, her lips curving into a smirk.
“Does that mean you're here to help little old me? A woman you and your brothers see as a bad girl from a family of criminals?"
“Everyone deserves justice.”
