22. Mandy
MANDY
Morning comes too early and not early enough.
I didn't sleep. I lay in the guest room, overheated, hyperaware of Hendricks moving through the house. Water running. Footsteps. The creak of floorboards. Every sound made my pulse kick up, made me think about him standing in that kitchen half-naked, water dripping down his chest.
By the time dawn breaks, I'm exhausted and wired and annoyed at myself for being both.
I dress in last night’s yoga pants and tank top and head downstairs with my computer and the notebook. Even if the thought of sitting next to him, sharing information, being in close proximity for extended periods makes my skin feel too tight.
He's already in the kitchen when I arrive, standing at the counter pouring himself coffee. He’s fully dressed this time, thank God. Dark jeans and black T-shirt that fits him like a second skin. His hair is still damp from the shower.
That’s it—I’m going online and buying a vibrator today.
"Morning, sunshine," I say with false cheer, setting my things on the kitchen table. "Ready to play detective?"
His eyes do a sweep of me from head to toe before they zero in on my face. "You sleep?"
"Like a baby.” One with colic. I open the cabinet that has cups in it and take one down. “You?"
"No."
The honesty catches me off guard. I was expecting at least some deflection. Instead, he just stands there, watching me over the rim of his mug with those cold gray eyes that see too much.
"Well," I say, helping myself to coffee. Because coffee alone isn’t going to cut it, I go into his pantry and select a chocolate iced donut with sprinkles from the box I picked up in town before I came here yesterday. "At least we're both exhausted and cranky. Should make for a productive day."
He doesn't smile. He doesn't react at all.
“Case in point.” Using my foot, I pull out a chair and sit at the table. I take a bite of my donut.
Before I can set it on the table, he slides a small plate toward me.
I’m annoying but I’m not uncouth, so I set the donut on the plate, watching out of the corner of my eye as he sets his mug down and takes the chair across from me.
Aware of his eyes on me, I take another big bite of donut, making an exaggerated sex-hum as I chew.
“I wasn’t expecting that,” he says suddenly.
I swallow and take a sip of coffee before I answer. “What? The donut?”
“The rainbow sprinkles.”
“It’s a donut, not a personality test, Harry.”
“Harry?” He raises his brow.
“I’m trying to guess your first name.” I shrug. “If my last name was Hendricks, I could see naming my kid Harry. It’s got a nice ring, don’t you think?”
He gestures to the notebook with his chin. “You want to get started or you want to joke around?”
“Let’s get started, Harry.” I push it toward him. "I found it in Turner's house five weeks ago. Most of it is documentation. Names, dates, locations. Presumably girls who were trafficked through his network over the past decade."
Hendricks opens the notebook, his expression unreadable as he scans the pages. His fingers are careful, methodical. I watch him work, noting the way his jaw tightens when he reaches certain entries.
"The last page." I push the rest of the donut away and grip my cup. "That's the problem."
He flips to it and studies the photo of the redheaded girl with blue eyes.
I stare at him, wondering what he sees when he looks at her.
Probably age, facial geometry, and a dozen other details that his freakishly analytical brain catalogs.
I doubt it’s what I see: a young woman with a secret smile who doesn’t know that her future is threatened.
"No name," he says.
"No name. No date. No location. Just her face, her age, and her measurements."
He flips the page to look after it and then turns it back to her picture. "You think she's still alive."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "The date listed is seven days away, and there’s no stamp."
Hendricks goes back a few pages. “We’ll assume the date means what you think it means until we prove otherwise.”
Something in my chest loosens. I didn’t realize how much I’d expected him to tell me I was reaching. “With Turner out of the picture, you’d think she’s safe, but I need to be sure.”
Hendricks leans back, staring at me like he’s trying to see every layer of my soul. “I’ll check to see if Turner and Ashford are connected in any way.”
“I haven’t found anything conclusive. Maybe Ashford was a client." I watch his face, looking for a reaction. "I can’t think of any other reason he’d want me besides being worried I’ll come after him."
Hendricks is quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the screen. Then he looks at me, and there's something in his eyes I can't quite read.
"You use sarcasm as a defense mechanism," he says out of left field.
I blink. "Excuse me?"
"The jokes. The attitude. You do it when you're uncomfortable." He leans back in his chair, studying me. "You've been doing it since you walked into this kitchen."
He’s caught me flat-footed. I literally have no idea what to say. I open and close my mouth like a guppy for several seconds before I get a hold of myself. "Maybe I'm just naturally charming."
He snorts. "You're naturally a lot of things. Charming isn't one of them."
I should be offended. Instead, I'm annoyed that he's right.
"Fine. You want me to drop the act? Here it is.
I don't like needing your help. I don't like being in your house.
And I really don't like the fact that you're sitting across from me looking like”—I motion in his general direction—"that, while I'm trying to focus on finding this girl. "
"Looking like what?” He tips his head like he’s mildly confused.
I gesture at him again. "You know what."
His mouth curves into something that's almost a smile—almost. "Say it."
I cross my arms—tight. "No."
"Amanda—"
"We have work to do." I turn my attention back to my donut, trying to ignore him—trying to ignore the way my body flips on when he says my name like that. I press my lips shut so I don’t purr Yes, sir at him.
“Aman—"
"We need to figure out who this girl is and prevent her from being taken,” I interrupt quickly. “We need to—"
"You're deflecting."
I level a gaze at him that makes most grown men piss themselves. "I'm prioritizing."
Hendricks looks amused instead of cowed, the fucker. "You're scared."
The word hits like a slap. I meet his gaze head-on. "I'm not scared of you."
"I didn't say you were scared of me."
Fuck—he's right again. I'm not scared of him. I'm scared of this—whatever this is between us. The pull. The want. The way my body responds to him even when my brain is screaming at me to keep my distance.
I push back from the table, needing to break the moment. "We're not making progress. Maybe I should call Gabriel and ask him to question Turner directly about the girl."
The change in Hendricks is immediate and visceral. His jaw tightens. His eyes go cold—colder than usual. His entire body shifts, tension radiating off him in waves.
"Gabriel," he says, and there's something sharp in his voice. Something dangerous.
“Yeah. Gabriel Reyes.” I raise an eyebrow. “You know, the guy who helped take down Turner? The guy who's currently holding him in a dungeon somewhere?"
Hendricks stands abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. "Don't call him.”
I frown. "Why not?"
"Because I said so."
Irritation flaring hot in my chest, I stand too. "That's not an answer."
The look on his face stops me cold. It's not anger. It's something else—something raw and unguarded that he's usually too controlled to show.
Jealousy.
Holy shit. He's jealous.