Page 18 of His Reckoning

“Maybe,” I say … but I’m not entirely convinced.

* * *

By the time I get back to the penthouse, it’s late enough that the elevator ride up feels quieter than usual.

The city below has that late-night hum—traffic softer, lights glowing through the windows of the surrounding buildings.

I step out of the elevator and into the living room. The lights are on in the kitchen.

So, Sawyer’s home.

I drop my bag quietly near the couch and start toward the hallway. Then I hear his voice.

It’s sharp. Controlled. But unmistakably irritated.

“I don’t care if her publicist thought it would generate interest.”

I slow down automatically. He’s in the kitchen with his back to me; phone pressed to his ear. A tablet is propped up against something on the counter, the screen glowing.

“And how exactly did she think that would work long term?” he continues.

There’s a pause while whoever’s on the other end speaks.

I glance toward the tablet. The photo is impossible to miss. Sawyer sitting across from a blonde woman at a restaurant. The same photo Melissa showed me earlier.

Apparently, the internet got to him before I did.

His jaw tightens slightly as he listens. “Yes, Jordan, I understand that,” he says. “What I’m asking is, why did she think arranging a photographer outside the restaurant was a good idea?”

Another pause.

I shift my weight slightly, still half in the hallway.

He runs a hand through his hair. “No. Cancel the rest of the dinners.”

Another pause.

“Yes,” he says flatly. “All of them.”

He listens for another second, and then his gaze shifts slightly. Right toward me.

Of course, he notices me standing there. Sawyer doesn’t seem like the type of person who misses things.

He pauses briefly before speaking again. “No,” he says into the phone. “That’s fine.”

Another short pause.

“I’ll deal with it tomorrow.”

He hangs up.

For a second, the apartment is quiet again. Then he glances at the tablet.

Then at me.

“You heard that,” he says.

It’s not really a question.