Under the Rose - Kathryn Nolan Page 0,103

our bodies close, she sat back, found her glasses, and placed them primly on her face. “Now I can see you.”

“How do I look?”

“Like an insufferable jackass.”

I tickled my fingers along her ribcage. “You like my insufferable face.”

“I do like it.” Biting her lip, she clasped her mug and sipped her tea quietly. Studying me with a look I very much recognized. “I love you, Sam.”

It was so matter-of-fact, as if the words weren’t the most vital ones I’d ever heard in my life. All night, we’d gasped and panted those same three words to each other. But those moments were fraught and scorching-hot, and the words felt unabashedly simple.

This—this quiet, domestic morning—felt even more intense. Even more real.

“I love you, too,” I said, surprised at how easily they spilled from my mouth.

“Happy to hear it.” Her smile was shy. “When are you leaving to go back to Virginia?”

I rubbed a hand down my face, deflated by the reminder. I picked up my watch from the floor—I had an hour, max, before I needed to hit the road.

I looked at the bespectacled goddess watching me.

More like an hour to decide if I was hitting the road.

“Should I go?” I asked.

“That depends,” she said. “Do you want to tell me the truth of what happened before you came to Codex?” Her fingers found mine. She squeezed tight.

“There isn’t much to say.”

“I doubt that very much.”

“You’re gonna push, aren’t you?” I flashed her a wry smile.

“Wouldn’t you?” she countered.

I stared at our entwined fingers. Noticed the corresponding sense of peace her touch evoked.

“About a month ago, I was called to the Deputy Director’s office for an urgent meeting,” I said. “When I arrived, it wasn’t only my father, but several high-ranking agents from the Office of Professional Responsibility. They wanted to ask me questions about Gregory Lowell, who’d been my partner in the Art Theft department for three years.” The shock of seeing OPR agents was like stumbling into freezing-cold water. Blistering sensation, followed by numbness, and then…

“There was an incident,” I said. She held my hand even tighter. “I was the incident, actually. The OPR agents informed me they’d opened an investigation into Gregory’s alleged misconduct. He was a veteran agent, had worked Art Theft for a decade, at least.” I cleared my throat. “He, uh…well, Gregory had this side-hustle he’d play. If we were planning on a suspect’s arrest, Gregory would sometimes tip off the suspect that we were on our way. We’d arrive, only to find that the suspect had fled. And Gregory would receive a payout from the suspect.”

“How often did he do this?” she asked.

“That’s what the investigation is currently looking into. We had a decent close rate, so he obviously didn’t run this game every time. He spread it out, made it hard to detect a pattern.”

I was quiet, struggling to beat back the memory of my father’s white-hot fury.

“I’m guessing your father thought differently,” she said gently.

“You know how he is,” I muttered. “He thought I’d been too distracted and not doing my damn job. The OPR agents were opening an investigation into whether or not I was complicit in these crimes. I wasn’t, of course. And my father did believe me. But he also believed it was my fault Gregory had gotten away with it.”

“Not Gregory’s fault?” Freya’s mouth twisted with anger.

“We were partners,” I explained. “Other agents would have spotted his transgressions immediately.”

“That sounds like some Andrew Byrne bullshit right there.” She slid even closer, brushing the hair from my forehead. “What did he expect you to do? Bug your partner’s phone? Tail him on the weekends?”

“My father believes you should treat everyone in your life like a potential suspect.” I grimaced. “And it felt like a betrayal. It felt like—Jesus, it felt like every damn thing I’d ever worked for had been for nothing. My own partner didn’t even believe in the values of the Bureau. Didn’t believe in honor, in justice, didn’t see our roles as crucial to upholding law and order. Who knows how many criminals slipped through my fingers because my own fucking partner was scheming behind my back?”

She didn’t respond. Just kept stroking my hair. Finally, she asked, “What was the incident, Sam?”

“We were sitting at the table in my father’s office,” I said. “They told me about Gregory. Told me I was also being investigated. I stood up, kicked my chair away. Knocked over…” I swallowed. “I knocked over all these mugs of coffee, ruining the files