Page 22 of You, Only You

"And if I choose to stay here? In my own apartment?"

"Then I'll respect that." The words tasted like something I'd rather spit out, but I said them anyway. "I'll hate it. I'll probably park outside your building like a lunatic. But I'll respect it."

Her posture changed. Not all at once. The rigid anger loosened by degrees, like a fist slowly unclenching.

"I don't want to stay here," she said finally. "Not tonight. Maybe not for a while. They've made this place feel..." She trailed off, looking around at the destruction. "I can't sleep in that bed knowing they touched it."

"Then stay at my place. Your choice. Not mine."

"My choice," she repeated, like she was testing the weight of it.

"Yes."

"And the security team?"

"Tell me what you'd be comfortable with, and I'll make it work."

She was quiet for a moment, and I could see her processing. Running her own calculations. The forensic accountant's brain, weighing variables.

"Tell me what they'd actually do. The security people. Walk me through it."

I explained. Four-person detail, rotating shifts. They'd monitor her movements, check locations before she entered, maintain a discreet distance unless there was an active threat. I told her their backgrounds: former military, vetted personally,people I'd worked with before. I told her the cost, the logistics, the chain of communication if something went wrong.

She listened without interrupting. When I finished, she nodded slowly.

"Okay."

"Okay, to which part?"

"All of it. The penthouse. The security team." She met my eyes, and the weariness in her face made something ache within my chest. "But if you ever make a decision like that again without asking me first..."

"I won't."

"...I walk away. From the case. From the partnership." A pause. "From you."

"I understand."

The police arrived then, two officers with notepads and bored expressions. Lindsey handled them with the same competence she brought to everything: calm, cooperative, revealing nothing. I stood in the background and let her handle it, which required more effort than I expected. My hands wanted to do things. Take charge. Fix the situation. Instead they hung at my sides, useless, while she navigated the interview without me.

It was deeply uncomfortable. I filed that away as something to think about later. I had a lot of things in that file.

After the officers left, she packed a small suitcase. I stood in the doorway, not helping, not hovering, just present. She moved through her bedroom quickly, not looking at the bed, pulling clothes from her closet with the kind of efficiency that comes from wanting to be somewhere else as fast as possible.

When she emerged, suitcase in hand, her face was blank. The forensic accountant face. The one that processed without feeling. I recognized it because I had my own version.

"Ready?" I asked.

"Ready."

We walked to my car in silence. The night air was cold, carrying the first hint of autumn, and she shivered slightly as we crossed the parking lot. I almost took off my jacket. Stopped myself. Wasn't sure if that fell under the category of deciding things for her, which was a ridiculous thought, it was a jacket, but I'd just been told I had a problem with this, and apparently the problem extended to outerwear.

I held the jacket halfway off my shoulder for a stupid, frozen second, then put it back on.

She noticed. Of course she noticed.

"You can offer me your jacket, Will. That's not a unilateral security decision. That's just being nice."

"Right." I took it off and draped it over her shoulders. It swallowed her. She pulled it tighter without comment, and I tried not to think about how she looked wearing my clothes, which was a thought so wildly inappropriate given the circumstances that I should have been embarrassed by it.