Chapter 8 · Read the Fine Print, Bride

"Third floor," the receptionist says without looking up. "Records."

I clip the visitor badge to my jacket. Rafe doesn't take one.

The girl's face is still stuck in my head—the way she'd stared at my wrist during the convoy, like she'd recognized the mark. Now I'm walking into a bureau building with Rafe beside me, and every camera seems aimed straight at us.

"If this goes bad—"

"It's already bad," I say.

His mouth almost curves. "Fair."

The elevator doors close. Rafe leans against the wall, hood up, hands in his pockets. He looks hungover. His shoulders are locked tight, and his eyes keep tracking the cameras above us.

"You sure you want to do this?" he asks.

"You're the one who said Jonah's file might be here."

"I said might."

"Then keep up."

The numbers climb. My pulse climbs with them.

The elevator dings on three.

The doors open onto an empty hall. White lights. Polished floors. Not one person in sight.

Rafe steps out first and catches my wrist before I can follow. His palm is hot against my skin.

"Wait."

I look at his hand, then at his face. "You feel something?"

"A camera moved.