The Lies That Bind

8: Coffee and Case Files

Calla woke to the smell of coffee.

With a luxurious stretch, she rolled over and checked her phone for the time. Well, it looks like Cooper's awake early, for once.

Yawning, she scrolled through her other notifications—Olivia had blown her shit up with an endless parade of pictures from Marissa's party—and then paused, breathless, at the unread email at the bottom of her homescreen.

Here's that info you wanted. Delete this email within 24 hours. I'll take care of the rest.

You owe me.

BR

BR. Blake Richardson. Calla grinned as she slipped out of bed and bounded into the kitchen, high on her own brilliance. "Cooper!" she sang.

She found him on the couch, a chipped blue mug in hand. "Coffee's on," he announced. His eyes narrowed on her giddy expression. "Who died?"

"Ha-ha." She threw herself down on the couch beside him. He swore, holding the mug above his head to avoid spilling coffee everywhere. "My plan worked," she told him, smug.

He yawned, unimpressed. "You're going to have to be more specific."

"Blake emailed me the files."

"Oh, goodie," he muttered. "I sense my morning is about to take a turn for the worse."

Calla leapt to her feet, not at all discouraged by his lack of enthusiasm. "I'm going downstairs to the printers. Don't move."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he called to her retreating form.

She checked and double-checked the size of the file Blake had emailed over, and—satisfied the leasing office's outdated printers would suffice for the job—she sprinted down the third floor corridor, wallet grasped firmly in hand. The leasing office was blessedly empty at such an early hour, which Calla took full advantage of, dividing the contents of the file across each of the two printers available for tenant use.

A spark of impatience set her foot to racing as she leaned against a nearby wall and waited, eyes tracking the printers' progress as they spit out ten, twenty, thirty sheets of paper—and more besides. It took the better part of an hour to see the task done. By the end of it, Calla felt liable to crawl out of her skin.

When she returned to the apartment, papers in hand, she found Cooper still sprawled on her couch, coffee untouched. "Here," she said, tossing half the files in his lap.

He sucked in a startled breath. "What the—"

"We're lucky." She claimed the far side of the couch, placing another stack of papers between them. "Detective Douche has been a small town, crime-fighting machine for most of his career, minus a short stint with the bureau over in Raleigh, back when he was fresh out of the academy."

Cooper stared at the pile of documents in his lap, aghast. "And this makes us lucky, how?"

"Because if he'd served any real amount of time in the big city, we'd have hundreds of case files to work through. Homicides are a dime a dozen in places like New York or Miami. But Greenwitch?" She shrugged. "Sleepy town. Low crime rate."

"Until you came around," he muttered.

"Until his son came around," she corrected him. "Which is all kinds of ironic. As it is, he only worked thirty-six homicide cases over the course of his career. Less work for us."

Cooper heaved a sigh. "This is going to take all morning."

Calla stretched out her legs, ignoring his pointed glare when her toes brushed his thigh. "Aren't you a criminal justice major? This should be right up your alley."