Chapter 1
Chapter One
They were at it again.
I groaned and put my pillow over my head to block out the noise. A thump from above sent another jolt of irritation through me as one of my upstairs neighbors stormed from one side of the apartment to the other.
Then, the indistinct sound of angry shouting.
This was the third time this week they had woken me up with their racket.
Despite my best efforts to stay out of it, I could tell that the woman who lived above me had complaints about the man she lived with not being able to hold down a job.
Never mind the fact that she also did not seem to have one and spent most of her time doing something that sounded a whole lot like rearranging the furniture.
Eyes closed tight against the mid-morning light peeking in through my thin curtains, I clenched my teeth against every stomp, shout, and cupboard slam going on above me.
Instead, I focused on the remnants of my dream in hopes that it would lead me back to sleep.
All I could remember was that I’d been in an airport, but an issue with my passport and driver’s license not matching up left me to watch from the window as the plane took off without me.
Just as I was easing into the promising embrace of unconsciousness once more, something heavy scraped along the ceiling above me.
My eyes flew open, my body shaking with a mix of exhaustion and adrenaline as I let out a frustrated growl. Throwing the blanket off, I made my way across the room. Still sluggish, I grabbed one of my tennis shoes from near the door.
Whirling around, I waited until another angry voice picked up the thread of the argument—the man this time, by the low register of his voice.
A cupboard slammed and I decided enough was enough as I hurled the shoe at the ceiling, listening to the percussive thump-and-clatter as it hit its mark before falling to the ground.
A satisfying silence followed.
I waited another moment to be sure that that had done the trick, rubbing the grit from my eyes.
They burned from dehydration. Even after almost a month of living in Bend, my body was not accustomed to central Oregon’s high desert atmosphere and spending my nights working as a bartender certainly wasn’t helping. My sleep schedule was a wreck.
When thirty seconds passed without another peep from above, I sagged in relief.
The duo usually didn’t pick up their activities again for at least an hour once they stopped.
Unfortunately, the damage had already been done, and I knew I wasn’t going to be able to fall back asleep anytime soon, even if I did allow myself to lay in bed until my shift this evening.
With a resigned sigh, I pulled my hair up and twisted it into a bun, securing the dye-dark locks with the scrunchie that perpetually lived around my wrist. Then, I turned toward the coffee maker and began the ritual of starting my day.
The familiar motions of flipping open the lid of the coffee maker and setting the little white filter in the basket were so rote in my mind that I didn’t even have to think as I did them.
Which was good, because thinking before coffee was my least favorite activity.
Adding the water to the reservoir, I smoothed out the edges of the filter where it was poking out and then carefully measured the grounds.
Shaking the basket to even out the little mountain that had formed in the middle, I closed the lid and hit the power button.
It might have been automatic at this point, but each step of the process was done with care. Five weeks ago, I’d promised myself I would never take a good cup of coffee for granted again and I had meant it.
As I waited for the machine to brew, I turned and leaned against the counter.
Running a hand over my face, I glanced around the apartment.
It wasn’t much, but unlike the other places I had lived in—my childhood home in Newark, the shared living spaces during my years at Penn State, and even my dorm at the FBI Academy—this was the first space where I had total privacy.
And that was even more valuable than a well-crafted coffee in my book.
Well, maybe it was a tie.
I didn’t have much else to call my own. A blanket, two books, and a lamp I’d picked up at the thrift store down the road.
If I hadn’t gotten the lamp on a good discount, I would have tossed it by now, the plug regularly slipping out of the outlet and falling to the floor.
It was a stupid, ugly little thing but it was mine, and there was so little that was mine these days.
I hadn’t been able to bring anything important with me except for the clothes on my back and gym bag in my trunk.
Half of that had been FBI t-shirts and sweatpants and the other half was running shorts and tank tops.
The rest of my clothes were bought on the road, purchased second hand, and hung up on a shiny new clothes rack—one of the few things I’d splurged on with my first week of tips.
I would need to buy a few more shirts to add to the sparse rotation, though, or people were going to start asking questions I simply couldn’t afford to answer.
The coffee maker sputtered and I pulled my only mug out of the cupboard and carefully poured the hot dark liquid into it. I could feel my shoulders unclenching just at the prospect of starting my day with a good cup of coffee.
Opening the fridge, I snagged the bottle of creamer and shook it.
The little bit of liquid left inside splashed around, and all that tension came racing back.
I could already tell it wasn’t going to be enough.
I frowned. I could have sworn I had left myself the right amount of creamer for one more cup, but I’d misjudged and now I would have to either face the rest of the world without caffeine in my system or drink it black.
I tilted my head and stared at the mug that was taunting me, tempting me.
People drank black coffee all the time. I picked up the mug and brought it close, closing my eyes and breathing in the aroma as I remembered arguing that very subject with Phoebe while we studied together at the Academy.
She took hers with two sugars and no milk. I shuddered just thinking about it.
I hadn’t worked as a barista while putting myself through those last two years of college just to do something as sacrilegious as starting my day off with plain black coffee.
And I hadn’t spent three weeks living on the run, choosing survival over comfort and truth over duty, just to let this situation get the best of me.
As the waitress filled a mug with hot, black coffee I nearly cried. It wasn’t the fancy lattes that I was used to ordering, but after a week of rationing my cash and choosing between gas station sandwiches or greasy fast food, the simple luxury of a cup of coffee was a godsend.
“Can I get you kids anything to eat?” the waitress asked as I dumped three packets of sugar and two creamers into the coffee.
The man who had just sat down across from me wore a neutral expression and a familiar ball cap.
He gestured for me to order first. Once the waitress had gone into the kitchen, the front of the Tobacco Hill Grill was empty aside from the two of us.
It was as much privacy as we could expect to find in a public setting.
“No one followed me,” Noah said softly as he watched me glance around at the booths that ran along the front, big windows letting light into the small space. I’d chosen the booth that was pressed up against the far wall. That way I could see the entire room at just a glance.
“That you know of,” I replied, putting another two packets of sugar in my coffee.
I took a sip, satisfied that it was finally palatable.
I vowed then and there that I would never take a well-crafted coffee for granted again.
“But the waitress could be back there making a call to the tip line as we speak. So much for innocent until proven guilty, everyone believes I killed her.”
I hadn’t killed Monica Park, but according to the reporters on the news I was dangerous and disturbed.
An eyewitness had called 911 to report a red-headed woman shouting about revenge and waving a weapon on Monica’s porch minutes before the local PD showed up to find her dead.
To find my prints on the murder weapon. To find me kneeling at her side with blood on my hands.
“You are innocent,” Noah said with so much conviction that I was taken aback for a moment.
While we’d spent a little time together during those last few months at the Academy, Noah Delgado hardly knew me.
Yet here he was, right where he had said he would be when he’d unlocked that interrogation room and sent me running a week ago.
“What makes you so sure?” I asked, my heart in my throat.
“Because I know you, Avery,” he replied, my name rolling off his tongue so naturally.
It felt good to hear my own name, to be addressed and acknowledged.
Between that and the coffee I almost felt human again.
Noah leaned forward, a steel in his blue eyes that I’d never seen in the five months I’d known him.
“And because I know the FBI, how they can jump to the first conclusion and refuse to let go. I know the corruption that has crept its way into every corner of that organization. You helped me solve a case that revealed a fraction of that corruption and the next thing I hear is that you’re being charged for murdering your own mentor? No, that’s too much of a coincidence.”
“You think I was framed as revenge for looking into corruption at the Academy?” I asked, frowning as I considered the theory. “If that’s the case, they acted quickly. There were only a few hours between that arrest and Monica’s death.”