Is it?
I sit down, hard, on the tub’s edge. In this light, Milo coming to work for Looking Glass seems awfully convenient. His excuse about the restaurant seems manufactured. Except . . . except, Milo and I get each other. You can’t fake that. We’re too alike for this to be just about usefulness or whatever. He took down Carson for me. Hell, he blew away a chunk of Judge Bay’s house for me too. He gave me the chance to get away and alerted the police. Milo specializes in stuff like that, creating wiggle room, spaces in between. We both escaped that night.
He even apologized for leaving me and he didn’t need to because I understood. I would’ve done the same.
Wrong thing to remember, though, because it leads me to Griff again. Griff, who heard about the explosion over the radio and came to the site.
Who had eyes only for my injuries.
Who walked away.
I stand, wrench open the bathroom door, and stop dead. Alex is sitting on her bed, legs stretched long. They’re crossed tight at the ankles and it almost hides how she’s vibrating.
“They need you upstairs,” she says and there’s a gotcha tone to her voice that makes my feet drag. “Someone’s sent you another message.”
Hart, Milo, and the rest of the guys are crowded around Kent’s computer station. I don’t think any of them even notice Alex and me until Milo steps away.
“Hey.” He comes so close there’s maybe an inch between us. If one of us takes a breath, we’ll touch. “How’re you feeling?”
“I’m . . . I’m . . .” I’m noticing for the very first time how Milo shares Norcut’s cheekbones and jawline. How did I not see this before?
“I’m okay,” I finish. “I took meds. Hopefully, it’ll head off the migraine.”
Milo smiles. I smile. And I have just enough time to realize we have the same smile before both of us turn toward the group.
Kent rolls his chair maybe an inch to the side to give me room. “What is this? It came to your email.”
I lean around him. There’s a Hushmail message on the screen—no greeting, just a string of numbers. “It’s an IP address,” I tell him. “See, every computer device has a numeric label assigned to it—”
“No shit. This one connects to some unsecured nanny cam in Connecticut. What are you doing?”
I pause, shake myself. “Nothing.”
“Then why would someone send you this?”
“I have no idea.”
“Wick.” Hart nudges Connor aside. “I need you to be honest about this.”
“I am. I don’t know anyone in Connecticut.” And I don’t. I have zero clue why anyone would send me that address unless . . . “Can you open it for me?”
Kent grunts but does it. The camera shot reveals a nice-looking living room. Lots of white slipcovers, beige walls, and jewel-toned modern art. Bren would like it.
But aside from that? Nothing looks like it should mean anything to me. It’s not familiar.
Hart crosses his arms. “Maybe it’s from one of your past clients?”
“I didn’t really work like that. My stuff was more background related—finances, job histories.” I chew my lower lip. There’s something here. I can feel it. “What’s the physical address?”
Kent minimizes the window and opens another tab in the browser. The IP address tracks to a Chris and Julian Moore. The names are just as unfamiliar as the living room.
In fact, the only thing familiar about any of this is the actual IP address. Or at least, the first part, and the realization makes my chest funnel tight. It couldn’t be . . . could it?
I lift my gaze to Hart’s and realize Milo’s drawn closer. He’s close enough to touch me now and I have to fight not to lean away. I focus on Hart instead, try not to fidget under the way his eyes cling to my face.
“Are you sure you don’t know them?” Hart presses.
“I’m pretty sure. I mean, I guess either of them could’ve used someone else to pose as my client, but why? It makes the whole thing complicated, cumbersome. He’d have to give his personal information to one more person and my people get nervous. They don’t like to do that.”
“What about the targets?” Hart’s arms tighten around his chest. “Maybe they’re one of the guys you looked into?”
“No.” I shake my head and study the names again. “No. I can go through my records, but I remember almost everyone I research. I spend too much time in their lives not to remember who they are.”
“Check anyway.”
I glance at Hart. The ever-present smile is gone, like it never, ever existed. His lips are bloodless.
“Of course.” I tap Kent’s shoulder. “Can you flip to the IP address again?”