Page 82 of Three Steps Behind

“Because he acts based on what you report. Isn’t that right?”

He raked a hand through his hair—freshly washed hair if the dampness around the neck of his T-shirt was any indicator, and he smelled like Irish Spring. That was something she hadn’t smelled in years. He cleared his throat. “I think we’re getting into negative territory.”

“Oh, heaven forbid. Let’s stay positive.” She cheered with her arm. “My boyfriend is a criminal. And not any criminal. No, he’s a sex trafficker, drug dealer, and murderer. Aren’t I lucky?”

He pulled a chair from the table, spun it around, and straddled it in front of her. “He’s vile.”

“Vile. Excellent word. And I get to spend time with him and kiss him.” She still had the heebie-jeebies from doing so, but she couldn’t arouse suspicion by refusing. She just hoped she could stall him on intimacy. That’s where she drew the line. They couldn’t ask her to do that. But how would Dalton react? What kind of excuses could she give?

“Hey.” Aubry waved his hand in front of her face. “You okay?”

Why did people keep asking her that? She wasn’t okay, but no one cared. “No, I’m not the least bit okay.”

He swallowed—something she’d said had set his person on edge. Tense, squared shoulders, tight jaw. “I know it’s uncomfortable,” he began.

“Understatement of the century.”

“I know it’s got to be horrible, but think of the women you’re helping.”

“If we catch him, and he doesn’t catch me first. He’s a master con, or he wouldn’t have fooled me in the first place.” But the women. They had her there, and Aubry knew it. Held it over her head. But she couldn’t just walk away from them. Had she finally found her conscience? Annoying little thing.

“If anyone can match him, it’s you.” Aubry stood and paced the space. “You’re a world-class con.”

She was, and it was time she reminded herself of that. She needed all her concentration and skills to outmatch scum—but brilliant scum—like Dalton.

“How did it go tonight?” Aubry flipped on the stove light.

The glow was intimate, but it wasn’t like that between them. She was his informant. No matter how nice he appeared. They were all using her, and she’d let them.

“The evening was simply lovely,” she quipped, finally answering his question.

“How did it really go?”

“If I’d still been completely naïve, it would have been a lovely evening.”

“But now?”

She cleared her throat. “Could I have a drink?” she asked.

“Of course. What would you like?” He held the fridge open and stepped to the side so she could make her selection.

“Oddly enough, I’ll take apple juice.”

A bemused smile fell on his face, and he lifted his chin. “Why oddly enough?” he asked, handing her the cool plastic single serving.

“I just haven’t had apple juice since I was . . . since I was younger.” No need to know how much younger and how little she got of the treat. Most drinks her parents kept around weren’t for child consumption, so they were stuck with water. Stale, often lukewarm water.

“You were saying, now . . . ?” He retook his seat, luring her back into the conversation.

“Now . . .” She exhaled. “I’m picking up on things.”

“What sort of things?”

“Small things.” Sometimes the smallest breadcrumbs led to the biggest payoff. It really was the little things in a con, though Agent Man wouldn’t understand. Only a true con got the beauty and intricacy of pulling off a master job. And she’d thought she’d put that all behind her. . . . Warmth bit at her eyes. She sniffed. “You will not cry.” Her mother’s words radiated through her mind, but the instruction had served her well over the years.

“Can you give me an example?” Aubry asked, pulling her from her thoughts.

She sniffed again and took a sip of the apple juice before responding, just to give her voice a minute to settle from the quaver climbing up her throat. “Miquel,” she said, thankful her voice had complied. “He manages all Dalton’s restaurants, but we know he kills women as well, or at the very least, orders them killed, right?”