“This isn’t a corporate secret, Damon,” I said, pointing at the screen. “This is my life.”

I clicked the mouse.

The folder opened to reveal three subfolders: *Surveillance*, *Logistics*, and *Threat Assessment*.

“You threw me out,” I whispered.

“You told me I was a temporary distraction and that you were bored of me.”

The memory of that night four years ago still had the power to make my throat tighten.

Damon stood close enough that I could smell the cold air and rain clinging to his coat.

He did not look at the screen; he looked only at me.

“I lied,” he said.

The word was simple, flat, and entirely devoid of his usual arrogance.

“Why?” I asked.

“Look at the date on the first police report,” he said, nodding toward the monitor.

I moved the cursor and double-clicked the file from four years ago.

It was a scanned Chicago Police Department incident report.

The details were stark.

A brake line failure on Damon’s vehicle had been determined to be deliberate tampering.

The date was three days before he had told me to pack my things and leave.