15. Hendricks
HENDRICKS
Idon't move. I don't speak. I just stare at her, cataloging every detail. The slight tension in her shoulders tells me she's ready to move if she has to. Her hand rests casually on her leg, no weapon in sight.
Do I believe she’s not armed? Not at all.
Her sleeves are pushed up, and the tattoo on her wrist is visible. The black widow looks like a warning—one I already know I’m going to ignore.
"How'd you get in?" My voice is neutral. I’m torn between being impressed and annoyed, though I’m leaning toward the latter.
"Does it matter?"
"Yes."
"You're not the only one who knows how to pick locks, Hendricks." She smiles like she’s already won.
I have the absurd urge to drag my thumb across her lips and see if she’d still be smiling afterward. "My system's encrypted."
"I'm very motivated." She takes another bite of donut.
I step into the kitchen, closing the distance between us. She doesn't flinch; she doesn't move. She just chews as she watches me with those changing eyes that have been haunting me for over a month.
Illogically, I want to push her. I want a reaction from her—anything other than the mocking humor emanating from her. So I say, "Thomas Ashford hired me to find you."
She nods. "I know."
"You know." How the fuck is she always a step ahead of me?
"Gabriel called." She takes a sip of coffee, slow and deliberate. "He told me you'd be coming for me."
Fucking Gabriel Reyes. Their bond annoys the hell out of me. "Smart advice," I grit out.
"I don't run."
"Then you're an idiot."
“Maybe.” Her smile sharpens. "Or maybe I'm the only one smart enough to see what's really happening here."
"And what's that?" Crossing my arms, I lean against the sink. I already know I’m going to regret asking.
She sets the cup down and leans forward, elbows on the table. "You don't want to find me, Hendricks. You want an excuse to see me again."