Page 79 of Shadow

“I was furious, but the PD wouldn’t let me investigate. Too close to the case.”

“Yeah.”

“So I investigated. Off the books. And then, when I realized it was the syndicate, I joined the FBI. That’s how I ended up an agent. Used all the pull and resources I had and finally landed on the case.”

He forced himself to meet her eyes. To let her see the truth of what he’d done. “Took me five and a half years, but I finally tracked down the shooter.”

He stopped there.

She didn’t. “And you killed him.”

Silence. Just wind and distant traffic and the sound of his own heartbeat loud in his ears. “Yes. And then I walked away. Went back to my life. Pretended to be the good guy.”

“And then?”

“Yeah. Someone saw me. A hit went out on me, but I spun it—was able to prove that he was the traitor. That I was doing the syndicate a favor. Still, it wasn’t safe, so I headed here, with the FBI’s blessing, and started over, trying to set up a new network of informants.”

He gestured toward the warehouse behind them somewhere in the darkness. “That’s what tonight was about. Getting information. Protecting the witnesses while gathering intelligence. Trying to do the job and get justice at the same time.”

It wasn’t all the truth. Not the undercover operation. Not the corrupt agent cover.

But enough.

He looked at Daphne. At her face shadowed in the darkness. At her eyes reflecting headlights.

“So yes, I might be a little dedicated to the cause. No matter what it takes.”

She studied him. Finally, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah. I just needed to know who I was married to.” She turned back toward her car.

He watched her go, nonplussed.

Then she paused with her hand on the door handle. Looked over her shoulder. Face half shadowed, half lit. “Meet you back at the house. And pick up some milk and pancake mix on your way home. Roger wants blueberry pancakes for breakfast…sweet cheeks.”

Then she got in her car and drove away.

Left Asher standing on the shoulder with the sick feeling that he’d just lied to the one person he wanted to be honest with.

Eight

Daphne had spent fifteen years not trusting anyone.

Not after her father died. Not after her marshal partner got a witness killed. Not after the system proved it could be corrupted from the inside.

Trust was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

But watching Asher Morrison come downstairs every morning with damp hair, water droplets sliding down his neck, that sleepy smile—she was starting to realize that not trusting him was becoming harder than trusting him.

Daphne sat at the kitchen table at seven a.m., coffee growing cold. Tablet propped against the sugar bowl, showing Denver Post archives from eighteen months ago. Morning sunlight streamed through the window.

GANG MEMBER FOUND DEAD IN WAREHOUSE

She scrolled up.

WOMAN KILLED IN GANG VIOLENCE