If Henry had touched his lips to mine today—like I’d desperately wanted him to—I would have kissed him back, without regret. I knew that kissing coworkers always made things complicated. But I still would have done it, willingly.
“Can I talk to you about something serious?” Freya asked.
When our eyes met, I knew all hope was lost. If Victoria believed Henry and I were madly in love, then surely Freya could see our smoldering attraction to each other.
“Of course,” I hedged.
“You seeing Mark got me curious to see how Philadelphia’s Slimiest Police Commissioner was doing.”
“Oh,” I said, simultaneously relieved and more nervous.
“I found a website,” she said. “It was launched last week. Do you remember another police officer named Margaret Pierce?”
“Yeah, I worked with her,” I said, brow furrowing. “Same station, but different units. She was in Narcotics.”
“She’s claiming that Mark did to her what he also did to you, about a year after you were fired. And she says three other women have come to her, claiming the same thing. It looks like they all either worked in your unit or with him in previous units. But it’s the same pattern, Del. Lure women in, use them, fire them, use it for political gain.”
I’d been a bright-eyed new recruit when I realized the full extent of the corruption in my unit. Misuse of funds, romantic relationships, tax dollars being wasted. But I’d been there for a job—to catch bad guys. It was my dream, and it was far too easy for me to exist in that dream, ignoring everything else around me. When the local papers started to report on our unit, I ignored it, believing I was doing the right thing.
Until the local papers were reporting on me, of course.
“I found the mayor’s speech when he appointed Mark to his position,” Freya continued. “Cleaning up corruption was the golden reputation he’d reportedly garnered over the past two years. Climbed that ladder right on up, using women like you as stepping-stones.”
“Such a fucking bastard,” I said, nostrils flaring.
“I know,” she said. “Would you want to tell her about your story?”
My anger shriveled up—along with my courage. How come chasing down suspects in dark alleys didn’t make me feel afraid but this did?
“I don’t know.” Freya’s expression was open, kind. “I mean, it sounds like they have some other testimonies if they’re building a case against him?”
“They do. Might be nice to add your voice to it, is all.”
I held myself by the elbows. “Do you think I’d end up back in the papers again?”
“Possibly,” Freya said. “Unless you chose to remain anonymous.”
I swallowed around a suffocating tightness in my throat. “No,” I said clearly. “I don’t want to do it. It’s been two years, and I sincerely hope last night was the final time I ever see him.”
“I hope so too,” Freya said. “And I think your decision is the right one for you.”
I laid my head on her shoulder. “Thank you for telling me. I’m happy someone’s going after him. Margaret’s a tough cookie.”
“Just as tough as you,” she said.
She handed me another taco, and we sat like that, side-by-side, as South Street swelled with bar patrons and tourists. And I found myself thinking not about Mark—not at all.
I was still thinking about Henry.
25
Henry
The Philadelphia Natural History Museum had a long red carpet extending down the sidewalk, as though this was the Oscars. White rose petals dotted the carpet, crushed beneath the expensive shoes of the museum’s patrons. Strains of string music wafted out from the open doors.
“This is always what I pictured prom night to be,” Delilah said. “I never went.”
“Really?” I asked. I kept my eyes trained on the velvet carpet, beckoning us inside. Delilah wore a floor-length black gown with a slit high on her thigh. The long sleeves were sheer with beaded petals.
She was, quite possibly, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.
Five days had passed since I’d had the pleasure of Delilah’s lithe body pinned beneath mine on that mat. After our wake-up call with Abe and Freya, we both stayed friendly, but professional—I sensed her desire to keep things cool. A desire I felt as well.
And every single night she appeared to me in dreams that burned like a fever—bodies naked and slick on that floor, my hips thrusting between her spread legs in a rhythm that drove us both mad. Even in my dreams, she’d flip me, ride me, sinuous and strong. She’d squeal as I’d drag her by the waist up the length of my body, positioning her right over my mouth.
Was it so wrong to want to worship the muscles of her inner thighs, the ones she’d flashed at me over and over in our self-defense training? If I used my teeth, would she laugh? If I used my lips, would she moan?
But now we were here—Henry and Delilah Thornhill. And our romantic directive, per Freya, was to turn everything way the fuck up.
“My little town was too small,” Delilah said, rocketing me back to the present. “We didn’t have enough kids in my graduating class to have dances.”
“I should have brought you a corsage.” I chanced my first real look at her—she was smiling.
“Maybe next time.” She was staring up at the museum like a giant puzzle she was trying to put together with only her mind.
“Nerves?” I asked my partner.
“Yes,” she said honestly. “A whole fuck-ton of nerves.”
I glanced at my watch, surprised, as always, to find a wedding band on my finger. “We should probably go in.”
“Okay.”
“I’m going to hold your hand. Is that all right?” But before I could move, she entwined our fingers together. Gave my hand a good squeeze. Her eyes focused, spine straightened. I hid my own smile—I loved watching her transform every time we went undercover.
Delilah strode along the carpet like it’d been rolled out specifically for her, the long train of her gown dragging rose petals as I walked alongside her. The museum’s main hall was draped in silver and gold—the ceiling hung with glass sculptures of the nine planets. In the center, an impressive chandelier was designed to look like the sun, bursting with rays.
The infamous drawings in the Copernicus manuscript floated through my memory—the celestial shapes, the deliberate paths of orbit around the brightest star. Fifty tables were covered in shiny flecks of metal and flickering candles. A large dance floor dominated the middle of the room where the string quartet played.
“This is better than prom, I promise,” I said low against her ear.
A tuxedoed gentleman found our names on a list. “With Ms. Whitney?” he asked, clearly surprised. “Please, come this way.”
Banners hung from the walls displaying the event sponsors—Victoria was the presenting donor. We meandered through a crowd decked out in diamonds until we reached the most central table, located right beneath the sun-chandelier. Victoria was standing, surrounded by guests, draped in a white gown and a fox fur.