Lucas
My phone buzzes against the cheap motel nightstand at 12:47 a.m.
I don’t jerk awake. Because I never really slept.
The debrief with my handler is still replaying behind my eyes—maps, crime scene photos, financial trails leading nowhere. Promises of “we’re getting close” that feel like sand slipping through my fingers.
I reach for the phone, rubbing a hand over my face.
It’s a message. No text, just a notification:
From Aria. I expected another brutally torturing photo of her in that dress. I lost my mind in the middle of the meeting when I opened her first photo. I had to hardly pull myself from shock and temptation before I make a fool of myself in front of the officer.
She’s punishing me for ditching her last minute. Fair.
But it wasn’t another photo.
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