Chapter 2 - The Name She Was Afraid to Say
At 6:02 a.m., Hazel woke to warmth.
For several seconds, she didn't understand it.
Her apartment was never warm in winter.
She kept the thermostat low because every dollar mattered, and the old windows above her kitchen sink leaked cold air no matter how much tape she put around them.
But this warmth was different.
Steady.
Human.
Her cheek rested against something firm.
Hazel opened her eyes.
Black fabric.
Her fingers were curled around it.
She slowly lifted her gaze.
Tattoos.
A muscular chest.
A strong jaw covered in dark stubble.
Then a pair of very awake dark eyes looked down at her.
Hazel stopped breathing.
Damian Romano.
Memory returned all at once.
The blood.
The bandage.
Frankie Sullivan.
The storm.
The sofa.
“Oh my God.”
Hazel launched herself backward so quickly that she nearly fell from the couch.
Damian caught her wrist.
“Careful.”
She stared at his hand.
He released her immediately.
“I am so sorry.”
“Hazel.”
“I don't know how that happened.”
“I have a theory.”
Her face burned.
“I fell asleep.”
“An excellent theory.”
She looked at him, horrified.
Was he teasing her?
Damian Romano?
“I swear I didn't mean to—”
“Hazel.”
She stopped.
His expression was calm.
“You were asleep.”
“Yes.”
“People move when they sleep.”
“Yes.”
“So the investigation is complete.”
Hazel covered her face for half a second.
Then another thought struck her.
“Am I fired?”
“No.”
The study doors opened.
Vincent entered.
He took one look at them.
Hazel sitting disheveled on the sofa.
Damian beside her.
Damian's arm only just moving away from the place where it had been resting around her shoulders.
Vincent immediately studied the ceiling.
“Boss.”
Damian stood.
“What?”
“We have a problem.”
Hazel felt the warmth leave the room.
Vincent's eyes briefly met hers.
That was enough.
This problem involved her.
Damian noticed too.
“What happened?”
“Sullivan's crew wasn't near the estate because of New York.”
Hazel's stomach tightened.
Vincent continued.
“They were looking for Miss Brooks.”
The room suddenly felt colder than the storm outside.
Hazel stood.
“Me?”
Vincent's expression gave her the answer before he spoke.
“Yes.”
Damian's voice became quiet.
“Why?”
“We finally got into one of the phones from the car.”
Vincent placed a device on the desk.
“There are messages between Sullivan and two of his people. They weren't sent here to watch the house.”
He looked at Hazel.
“They were told to confirm she was working tonight.”
Hazel wrapped her arms around herself.
“I don't understand.”
Damian did.
She could see it.
His expression had become almost unnaturally blank.
“What else?”
Vincent hesitated.
“Wyatt Mercer.”
Hazel's heart slammed.
“What about Wyatt?”
“He didn't simply borrow money from Sullivan.”
Hazel stared at him.
“Then what did he do?”
Vincent glanced at Damian.
“He stole from him.”
Hazel shook her head.
“No.”
“Financial records,” Vincent said. “Transaction histories. Account information. Names. Enough material to hurt Sullivan badly if it reached the wrong people.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Apparently Wyatt disappeared shortly afterward.”
Hazel took a step backward.
“No. Wyatt borrowed money. Frankie told me—”
“Frankie lied,” Damian said.
She turned toward him.
The simplicity of those two words made her feel dizzy.
Vincent continued.
“Sullivan believes Wyatt gave the records to someone before he disappeared.”
Hazel's voice barely worked.
“Who?”
Vincent looked directly at her.
“You.”
The floor seemed to shift.
“I don't have anything.”
Damian crossed the room before she realized her knees were giving way.
His hand closed firmly around her elbow.
Hazel steadied herself.
“I don't have them.”
“I believe you,” Damian said.
“But Frankie doesn't,” Vincent added.
Damian's eyes snapped toward him.
Vincent understood the warning but continued.
“He sent a demand.”
Damian's hand remained around Hazel's arm.
“What demand?”
Vincent's face hardened.
“He wants her turned over by noon.”
Hazel stopped breathing.
Noon.
Six hours.
That was all.
Damian said nothing.
His silence frightened Vincent.
Hazel could see that.
She touched Damian's sleeve.
“You can't start something because of me.”
His eyes dropped to her fingers.
Slowly, he looked at her face.
“Start something?”
Hazel swallowed.
“I know who you are.”
“No,” Damian said softly. “You know what people say I am.”
“Is there a difference?”
His gaze remained on hers.
“Sometimes.”
“Frankie wants me. If you refuse—”
“He doesn't get to want anything from inside my house.”
The cold certainty in Damian's voice silenced her.
Vincent stepped forward.
“There's more.”
Damian turned.
“What?”
“The deadline isn't really about the debt.”
Hazel looked between them.
Vincent continued.
“Sullivan thinks Wyatt hid the records somewhere only Hazel could access.”
“I told you, I don't have them.”
“He may not care.”
Damian's expression sharpened.
“What does that mean?”
Vincent paused.
“It means Frankie may believe she knows something without knowing she knows it.”
Hazel felt a chill move through her.
A memory surfaced.
Wyatt standing in her apartment five months earlier.
Nervous.
Sweating.
Insisting she keep a small box of his things because he needed to leave town for two days.
Hazel had been angry.
They had argued.
She had thrown the box into the storage closet without opening it.
Two days became a week.
A week became a month.
Wyatt never returned.
Damian saw her expression change.
“What?”
Hazel shook her head.
“Nothing.”
“Hazel.”
She closed her eyes.
There was no point lying to this man.
“Wyatt left something at my apartment.”
Vincent and Damian became still.
“What?” Damian asked.
“A box.”
“When?”
“The night before he disappeared.”
“What's inside?”
“I don't know.”
“You never opened it?”
“No.”
Vincent swore quietly.
Damian was already reaching for his phone.
“Send four men.”
Hazel grabbed his arm.
“No.”
Damian looked down at her hand.
Again, she realized she had touched him without thinking.
Again, he did not pull away.
“If Frankie knows about my apartment, his people could be waiting there.”
“Exactly.”
“Then don't send anyone.”
“I'm not leaving whatever Wyatt hid there for Sullivan.”
“What if someone gets hurt?”
Damian's expression did not change.
“Someone already has.”
His eyes moved briefly toward the bandage beneath his shirt.
Hazel stared.
“Was Sullivan responsible for that?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
She knew it.
Damian knew she knew it.
But he gave her nothing else.
Vincent moved toward the door.
“I'll organize the team.”
“Vincent.”
He stopped.
“No unnecessary contact,” Damian said. “Get the box and leave.”
Vincent nodded.
Hazel watched him go.
Then she turned toward Damian.
“You're really doing this.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Damian looked toward the windows.
Morning had begun turning the Chicago skyline gray.
“Because Sullivan sent men onto my property.”
“That isn't the only reason.”
His eyes returned to hers.
Hazel immediately wished she hadn't said it.
There was something dangerous about the silence between them now.
Not threatening.
Something else.
Something she wasn't ready to name.
Damian walked closer.
“You haven't slept properly in months.”
Hazel frowned.
“How could you know that?”
“You fell asleep against a man you're afraid of.”
Her lips parted.
“If exhaustion makes you ignore fear, you're exhausted.”
Hazel didn't know whether to be impressed or offended.
“I wasn't afraid of you.”
The words escaped before she could stop them.
Damian became completely still.
Hazel's heart beat faster.
“I mean—”
“I know what you mean.”
Did he?
Because Hazel wasn't sure she did.
A phone vibrated.
Damian checked the screen.
Vincent.
He answered.
“Talk.”
Hazel watched his face.
Nothing changed.
That somehow made everything worse.
“When?”
Silence.
“Don't touch anything.”
Another silence.
“We're coming.”
He ended the call.
Hazel stood.
“What happened?”
Damian looked at her.
“Someone got to your apartment before us.”
Her stomach dropped.
“Frankie?”
“We don't know.”
“What did they take?”
“Nothing.”
She blinked.
“Then why break in?”
Damian slipped his phone into his pocket.
“They weren't searching for the box.”
Hazel stared at him.
“How do you know?”
“Because it's still there.”
Relief lasted less than a second.
Damian continued.
“They left something instead.”
“What?”
His gaze hardened.
“A photograph.”
“Of what?”
“You.”
Hazel felt the room disappear around her.
Damian stepped closer before she could sway again.
“The picture was taken yesterday,” he said.
Hazel stared at him.
Yesterday.
Someone had been watching her.
Not months ago.
Not weeks ago.
Yesterday.
And suddenly the sixty-thousand-dollar debt seemed exactly what Damian had already realized it was.
A distraction.
Because somebody didn't simply want Wyatt's missing records.
Somebody wanted Hazel.
And they had been close enough to photograph her without her ever knowing.
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[The story continues directly into Chapter 3: Five Feet Between Them.]
