Chapter 5
Gabe
Lunch ran longer than I expected.
Not because of Rhodes—he was gone inside of thirty minutes, which is about what I’d anticipated.
But Evie, once she’d set down the weight of everything she’d shared with Rhodes, became someone slightly different.
Lighter. Still sharp, still precise, but there were moments—a dry observation about the sandwich selection, a story about a judge who’d fallen asleep during closing arguments—where she laughed, and I found myself doing the math on how many years it had been since I’d heard that sound.
Too many.
I watched her more than I should have. The way she held her coffee cup with both hands.
The way she’d tuck a loose strand of hair back with one finger and then forget about it until it fell again.
The way her expression shifted when she was thinking—a slight stillness, like she was running calculations behind her eyes that she had no intention of sharing.
I’ve spent weeks observing her from a distance. Watching her patterns, her routes, the way she moves through the city. I told myself that was professional. Assessment. Due diligence.
Sitting inches away from her in a hotel restaurant booth, I understood that was only partly true.
What Rhodes confirmed over lunch sits differently now. She was on her way to follow up on a lead—alone, at night—when her brakes failed. Not a coincidence. Not a maintenance issue. Someone made a decision about her life, and she’d survived it by luck and fast reflexes and a gap in a stone wall.
The thought had a particular quality to it. The kind that doesn’t announce itself loudly but settles somewhere low and doesn’t leave.
“You’re quiet,” she said as we reached the car.
“Thinking.”
She glanced at me sideways. “About?”
“Nothing particular.”
She accepted that the way she accepts most things—without pushing, but likely not forgetting it either. I’ve noticed that about her. She’s patient in a way that isn’t passive. She waits for the right moment, which means she’s always paying attention.
It’s one of the things that makes her exceptional at her job.
It’s also one of the things that’s going to get her killed if someone doesn’t stay close.
She’s still hopeful she’ll get an estimate that shows her car’s not totaled. I think a better use of her time this afternoon would be car shopping. But I drive her home.
She keeps glancing out the window as we drive, like she’s half-expecting something to appear.
She offered to get an Uber, but I insisted on driving. She studied me for a beat, then nodded—like she weighed whether letting me drive was a mistake.
As I pull up to her townhome, I snag a spot on the street.
“Well, I guess we don’t really need to do dinner now,” she says, one hand on the door handle, seat belt undone.
“I don’t have dinner plans.” I live ten minutes away from her—by design. Heading home and coming back to get her is easy. I don’t see the issue.
“Well, this has taken up more time than I planned.”
Those espresso eyes read as apologetic, but with her hand on the door handle, her body posture reads as hesitant.
I get caught up in the bruises. They’re painful to take in, and a reminder that she needs both protection and rest. Her lips are full—possibly swollen.
There’s a scab splitting the center seam of her lower lip, and I have the strangest impulse to brush my thumb across her lower lip—injury or not.
“Thanks again.”
My attention snaps from her lips to her hand on the door latch.
“You’re planning on working? On a Saturday night?”
I’ve noticed she works weekends—but Saturday night is extreme, even for her, based on what I’ve observed.
She shrugs. “I’m kind of behind with the wreck. I couldn’t focus after the concussion. Reading was…” She wiggles her fingers in the air and I interpret the motion combined with her tone to mean difficult.
“Rain check?” She smiles, the door opens and her feet are on the ground. “I’ll see you around. Thanks for driving.”
I watch as she moves up the sidewalk, bypassing a pedestrian walking a dog. She talks to the dog, not the walker.
She glances back as she puts the key in the lock. Waves. Steps inside.
I’d like to get a look inside her place.
When she drove, she always entered from the back, as the car park area is entered from the alley.
I climbed her fence. Beyond the paved carport, there’s a garden area with wintering plants.
And a glass storm door in front of a door that I presume leads to her kitchen.
I’d gotten a look at her back entrance and garden, but the front door locks had been out of reach without drawing attention. I’d like a better look.
I hop out of the car, reach her front door, and rap against it.
There’s a doorbell, and my index finger hovers above it when the door opens.
“Gabe?”
“Hey. Do you mind if I use your restroom?”
“Oh.” She backs up, opening the door wide. “Of course. Come in.”
The front door opens into a front living room with a gas fireplace. The sofa and two chairs are light gray. Everything is either light gray or white, even the modern abstract art hanging over her fireplace.
After closing the door, she watches me, arms crossed, like she’s awaiting a verdict.
“Nice place,” I say.
On the back wall is a staircase that stretches across the room, with a doorway to the back of the townhouse to the side of the staircase.
“Thanks. Bathroom’s this way.”
I follow her through that doorway, past a round table that seats four, and a kitchen.
Beyond the galley-style kitchen is the door that must lead to her garden and the pavers where she parks.
On the wall next to the door, coats and scarves hang from a row of hooks, and there’s a small table with mail and a bowl with keys.
There’s an open doorway with narrow stairs that go down to the basement. She points to a different door that’s part of a jut-out visually separating her kitchen from the dining area.
“It’s right in there.”
“Thank you.”
“Would you like something to drink? I probably should’ve asked you in.”
“Water would be great.”
I enter the bathroom, run the water, and wash my hands, taking in the navy walls and white tile.
The small window looks out on the narrow strip between her townhouse and a wooden fence, another narrow strip and her neighbor’s place.
From the street level, these townhouses appear attached, and they are, but as the buildings go further back, they separate.
I can’t see anything inside her neighbor’s place through the window other than a wall.
When I exit, she’s leaning against the counter, phone in hand, a glass of water sitting on the marble countertop.
“This is a really great place, Evie.”
She looks up from her phone. “Do you want a tour?”
“Absolutely.”
She hands me the glass of water and spins, holding her arm out. “This place is my law school graduation gift from my aunt.”
“Wow. That’s a nice gift.”
“Between you and me, I’m fairly certain my father thought I’d decline it if he gave it to me, so he had his sister gift it.”
“You’d accept it from her?”
“Well, if you met her… She’s the sweetest woman. And she gave my brother comparable jewelry, family jewels I guess, for when he settles down.”
“That’s funny.”
“What is?”
Her defensive edge amuses me—it’s also distinctly different from Scott. “You getting a house, or, a residence, and Scott getting jewelry.”
“It’s about keeping the jewels in the family.
My aunt’s an optimist and believes Scott will settle down one day—which is kind of funny since she herself never settled down.
Anyway, I’ve owned this place for almost six years.
The entire downstairs, redone. The basement…
” She talks with a flurry of her hands, gesturing as she leads the way down.
“New carpet, paint, furniture, obviously. I debated ripping out this downstairs mini-kitchen but left it and replaced the appliances.”
The finished basement is a smaller footprint than upstairs. Again, gray is the dominant color.
“Did you design it?”
She presses her lips together like she’s fighting a grin, shaking her head. “No. I didn’t have the time. I found this designer, well, she was a friend of a friend from law school and just starting out. I gave her a budget and told her to surprise me.”
I look around. It is a nice space. Even with the muted colors, it’s not cold or sterile. There’s nothing down in the basement that’s particularly personal, but upstairs it felt lived in and somewhat homey.
“You don’t spend much time down here do you?” There’s no television, but it’s set up so a guest could easily stay down here. Along the back wall there’s a narrow row of transom windows close to the ceiling.
“When I found the place, it smelled down here. The new carpet and replacing a section of the wall fixed that, but…I’ve considered moving my home office down here, but without natural light it’s…” Her nose scrunches. I get it.
I follow her back up the stairs. She doesn’t rush. Doesn’t look back either. I keep my gaze lifted and directed ahead.
We walk through her kitchen, back into the living room, and then up the grand staircase, if one wants to call it that, with the gleaming dark wood banister and painted white steps carpeted in a patterned gray rug up the center.
“This is technically a four bedroom. They count the basement. Upstairs is the master and two smaller bedrooms. One is my office, and the other is a guest room but I’ve debated blowing out the wall and increasing the size of the master. I probably won’t. It’s fine. I’m not a clothes whore.”
The comment has me taking in her blazer and jeans. She loves suits—pant suits, from what I’ve seen. Always appropriate and professional—it makes me wonder what actual casual wear looks like on her.