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Food revives me, a little bit. I make the same dinner most nights: a beef stir fry over rice. It’s quick, it’s easy, and it’s delicious. I eat half of it before I even take a seat at my small table in the kitchen and pull open my laptop.

As I finish my meal, I scroll through the work on my screen. I check my emails, satisfaction alighting in me when the notice of my employer’s check comes through, followed by curiosity when I see his follow-up email of possible next cases. Being good at my job means I get to pick which ones I take on.

Legally, officially, I’m a private investigator. Nowadays, enough of the digging that PI’s do happens online, which means it’s no longer only a career for older men. Now, twenty-three-year-old women can take on freelance jobs and do all of their research online. Then I deliver it to the company that contracted me, and they do with it what they like.

They don’t need to know that some of it is collected…questionably. It’s not my fault people’s electronic accounts are easy to break into.

Not that I always need my hacking skills. Actually, I try not to rely on them, solely for ethical reasons. But…sometimes the ends justify the means. If I’m working a case where the opposition is clearly in the wrong, I’m more likely to bend the rules.

My brow furrows as I read over one of the cases my employer sent over as an option. It’s a request to find out if an employee has been faking their expense reports and stealing from the company.

I work the most on corporate investigations, partly because they’re more straightforward, but also because there are less emotions involved than I’d experience with family investigations. I do background checks, investigate cybercrime, employee theft, and due diligence during mergers and acquisitions. Half the time I’m doing boring research, but the other half, I’m digging for something that someone really doesn’t want me to find. It’s a nice balance that it keeps life interesting.

Plus, I can do most of the jobs remotely, which allows me to move when I want to and stay holed up in my apartment. I protect my hermit lifestyle as much as possible.

Moving on from the jobs sent over by my boss, I shift to look at the ones sent over by individuals or new companies. Perks of being a freelancer. Not only that, but I get to switch up the types of cases I take on—sometimes the white hat jobs sound more appealing than employee background checks.

Yawning, I conclude after an hour that there’s nothing too interesting in my inbox. I’ll make my official pick tomorrow after a good night’s sleep.

Milton is already in bed by the time I shower and set the ambiance with dim lighting and some candles. Once I’m snuggled up under the covers, with Milton burrowed into the space between my legs, I open my Kindle and select a thriller I’ve been wanting to read.

With a happy sigh, I settle in for the perfect evening of bed rotting with my cat and a good book.

THREE

LUCAS

“Again. Jab, cross, two hooks to the body.”

My muscles ache, I can’t catch my breath, and I’ve sweat through my shirt. But even still, I exhale a big breath, tuck my chin, and lay into my younger brother’s focus mitts.

Two straight punches to the head, then I drop my body and twist to load up for the body shots. Pop, pop, bang, bang.

“Harder.” This time, it’s my older brother with the coaching. He’s leaning on the boxing ring, watching my workout. “Exhale hard on the body shots.”

“Come on,” Nico says, clapping the focus mitts together. “Again.”

I throw the combo again, this time putting every last bit of energy and power into my movements. Bang, bang.

I’m pleased to see Nico wince with the impact, even if I do feel like I’m about to keel over. That might be the last shot I have in me.

To my relief, Nico nods and claps me on the shoulder. “Good work,” he says, signaling the end of my workout.

I slump forward and put my hands on my knees. “I thought you were supposed to get nicer in retirement,” I say with a groan.

“I am nicer,” he says with a cheerful grin. “It just doesn’t seem like it because your cardio is atrocious. Stand up straight. Deep breaths.” He frowns. “Speaking of… why are you dying during your workout?”

I follow his order with a grumble, though I walk over to the ropes to have something to lean on. Alexander drops a wet towel on the back of my neck.

“I’ve been working more than usual,” I admit. “Haven’t had much time to work out. I barely get a run in anymore, and when I do, it’s usually interrupted halfway through.”

I look up to see my brothers exchanging a look. “Oh, don’t start,” I wince, waving them off.

“Uh, yeah, no, we’re not skipping over that,” Nico says. He braces the focus mitts on the giant belly pad he’s wearing and stares me down. “You’re overworked to the point of not working out? That doesn’t sound like you.”

I straighten with a sigh. He’s not wrong. I might be a workaholic, but never to the point of not taking care of myself. I realized early on that my brain functions better when I work out and eat right, so those have always been a top priority. Sleep I’m guilty of slacking on, but never food or workouts.

Until now, apparently. Because even if Nico is nicer in retirement, he’s no less annoying about going to the gym.