I initially thought Amy Jensen was simply playing some high-stakes psychological game with me, a playful retort to the intensity of our encounter. I didn't let her comment about the child sink in too deeply at first, choosing instead to focus on the immediate sensation of the cooling air against my skin as the adrenaline began to subside.
I gently disentangled myself from her embrace and sat on the edge of the plush, king-sized bed. Before I could even reach for my shirt, Amy reached over to the nightstand and pressed her smartphone into my palm.
"I’ve already handled your little problem," she said, her voice dropping into a smooth, satisfied purr. "Take a look for yourself. I believe this belongs to you."
I frowned, skeptical. I took the phone and tapped the screen. A video was already
