Chapter 2: Sugar Packets and Suspicions

The café smelled like burnt espresso and wet wool. I pushed through the door, boots squeaking on the linoleum, and immediately regretted not going home first. My curls were a lost cause after the morning drizzle, and my leather jacket still carried the faint trace of Griffin's cologne.

I spotted Marcus in our usual corner booth. He was already there, wire-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose while he demolished a protein bar like it had personally offended him. The sight of him grounded me. Sort of.

"Kid," he called, waving me over without looking up from his tablet. "You look like hell. Late night chasing ghosts again?"

I slid into the seat across from him, the vinyl sticking to my jeans. My fingers found the Zippo in my pocket automatically. Click. Snap. Click. The rhythm steadied my pulse, if only a little.

"Something like that." I flagged the barista, mouthing black coffee. She nodded, but I was already reaching for the little bowl of sugar packets on the table. One disappeared into my jacket without a second thought.

Marcus pushed his glasses up, finally meeting my eyes. His gaze sharpened behind the lenses. "You're twitchy. What's going on? That new body drop has the whole newsroom buzzing. Same carving on the chest. Police are stonewalling like usual."

The barista set my coffee down with a clink. Steam curled up, bitter and inviting. I wrapped both hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into my palms. It didn't chase away the memory of warmer skin against mine from the night before.

"I was there," I said, keeping my voice low. "Not at the scene. But close enough to hear the sirens."

He leaned forward, the booth creaking under his stocky frame. "Estelle. This isn't some puff piece. These murders... they're connected to bigger players. Harrington properties own half those warehouses. You hearing me?"

Harrington. The name landed like a stone in my gut. I took a sip of coffee to hide my reaction, but it burned going down. Griffin Harrington. The man whose bed I'd left just hours ago. The one whose jacket had carried that suspicious smear.

"Yeah, I hear you." My thumb flicked the Zippo open under the table, the flame hidden but real. "That's why I need to dig deeper. Dad's case had similar patterns. The timing, the locations. It's not coincidence."

Marcus sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He looked tired, the kind of tired that came from watching too many protégés burn out. "Your dad wouldn't want you getting killed over this. He was a good cop, but he knew when to back off."

I didn't answer right away. Instead I stared into my coffee, watching the dark surface ripple with each small movement. The night before flashed through my mind unbidden. Not the careful version I'd tell Marcus. The real one.

Griffin's hands on my waist, steady and sure as he'd pulled me against him. The way his mouth had traced my collarbone, slow enough to make me forget every warning bell in my head. His voice, low and rough, murmuring my name like it belonged to him already.

I shifted in the booth, crossing my legs. The vinyl creaked under me. This was ridiculous. I'd found possible blood evidence on his clothes, and here I was replaying the feel of his breath on my skin.

"Earth to Estelle." Marcus snapped his fingers. "You with me? You've been staring at that coffee like it holds the secrets of the universe."

I blinked, forcing a smirk. "Just thinking about how you always steal the good booth. Some editor privileges, huh?"

He didn't laugh. Instead he reached across and plucked the sugar packet from my fidgeting fingers. "You're doing that thing again. The lighter clicking, the sugar hoarding. Spill it, kid. What aren't you telling me?"

My stomach tightened. For a second I almost did. The words hovered right there on my tongue. I slept with a suspect. I think he might be the one carving up bodies. And God help me, part of me doesn't care.

But I swallowed them down. The café noise swelled around us—clinking cups, murmured conversations, the hiss of the milk steamer. Normal sounds that felt a million miles from the penthouse windows streaked with rain.

"Nothing. Just tired." I reclaimed the sugar packet and tore it open, pouring it into my coffee even though I drank it black. The granules swirled and sank. "The tip led me to the Velvet Rope last night. Ran into some interesting people."

Marcus's eyebrows shot up. "The Velvet Rope? That's Harrington turf. You didn't..."

I shrugged, aiming for casual. My boot tapped restlessly under the table. "Just observing. The crowd there knows things. Or pretends to."

He leaned back, the vinyl groaning again. For a long moment he just watched me, that fatherly concern etched deeper into the lines around his eyes. I hated it. Hated how it made me feel like I was failing him. Failing Dad's memory.

My phone buzzed on the table. Unknown number. I picked it up, thumb hovering.

The message was short. Cryptic.

You left something behind. Come get it before I decide to keep it.

No signature. But I knew. The way my skin prickled told me everything. Griffin. How had he gotten my number? The thought sent equal parts dread and unwelcome excitement racing through me.

"Everything okay?" Marcus asked, nodding at the phone.

I locked the screen fast. "Junk. You know how it is."

He didn't look convinced, but he let it drop. Instead he slid a thin folder across the table. "Police report summary. Off the record, obviously. Victim was a mid-level city inspector. Clean on paper, but word is he was taking bribes from the wrong developers. Sound familiar?"

I flipped it open, scanning the pages. Waterfront warehouse. Carved message: CLEANSE. The word stared back at me in clinical black and white. My pulse kicked harder. Griffin's empire touched every development deal in the city. Every shady permit.

"This guy's death benefits a lot of people," I murmured, mostly to myself.

"Including Harrington Enterprises." Marcus tapped the folder. "But kid, that's exactly why you need to drop it. These aren't street punks. This is boardroom level. The kind that makes people disappear without leaving a trace."

I closed the folder, my mind spinning. The dry-cleaning tag burned a hole in my memory. That faint reddish smear. The questions piled up like the rain outside, relentless and cold.

The barista called my name three times before I registered it. I'd ordered a refill without realizing, lost in replaying the wrong details. Not the blood. Not the danger. The way Griffin hadn't blinked when he came, those dark eyes locked on mine like he could see every secret I carried.

"Estelle." Marcus's voice had that edge now. Protective. Worried. "You're not hearing me. This story... it's eating you alive. I see it. The way you're jumping at shadows. Let someone else chase the monster."

Monster. The word lodged in my throat. I thought of Griffin's stillness, the way he'd watched me dress that morning. Calm. Too calm. Like a predator deciding whether the prey was worth the chase.

"I can't." My voice came out smaller than I wanted. I cleared my throat, tried again. "Dad deserves better. And if these killings are connected... I have to know."

He sighed, the sound heavy with everything he wasn't saying. The café lights hummed overhead. Someone dropped a tray in the back, the crash making me flinch harder than it should have.

I stood up too fast, nearly knocking over my coffee. The mug wobbled but stayed upright. Small mercies.

He caught my wrist gently. His palm was warm, callused from years of typing and too many late nights. "Promise me you'll be careful. No more solo trips to places like the Velvet Rope. And if you find anything real, you bring it to me first."

I nodded, but we both knew it was a lie. The Zippo felt heavier in my pocket as I pulled away. "I'll text you later."

Outside, the coastal wind whipped my curls across my face. The city stretched out, high-rises gleaming against the gray sky. Harrington Tower dominated the skyline, a sleek monolith that now felt personal. Like it was watching me right back.

I walked without direction at first, boots eating up the slick sidewalks. Every step replayed fragments of the night before. The press of his body against mine in the elevator before we'd even reached his floor. How he'd laughed when I'd made a terrible joke about his art collection, the sound low and genuine in a way that didn't match the monster I was starting to suspect he was.

My fingers dug out the stolen sugar packet, crumpling it in my fist. Dad used to tease me about my weird rituals. Said they made me human in a job that tried to strip that away. I wondered what he'd think of me now, chasing a killer into his own bed.

The phone buzzed again in my pocket. Same unknown number.

Tonight. My place. Wear something that makes me regret letting you leave this morning.

I stared at the screen until the words blurred. Arrogant. Controlling. Exactly the kind of man I should be exposing. So why was my pulse kicking like I'd run a marathon?

---

The doorman at Griffin's building gave me a polite nod that didn't quite hide his curiosity. I smoothed down the simple black dress I'd chosen after hours of pacing my apartment, practical enough for movement but cut just low enough to blend with whatever this was. My press pass stayed in my bag. Tonight wasn't about the job. At least that's what I kept telling myself.

The elevator ride felt longer than last night. I flicked the Zippo open and closed, the metallic click echoing in the small space. The memory of that reddish smear on his jacket kept flashing behind my eyes. I'd fled while he slept, heart hammering, but the questions had only multiplied.

The doors slid open directly into the penthouse. Griffin stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, city lights glittering behind him like a backdrop he owned. He turned at the sound, dark eyes locking on mine with that same unblinking focus.

"Estelle." His voice wrapped around my name, smooth and measured. "You came."

I lifted my chin, ignoring how my fingers tightened on my bag strap. "Professional curiosity. Your text was cryptic enough to intrigue a girl."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. He straightened his already-perfect cuffs, the gesture so small I almost missed it. But I didn't. My reporter brain cataloged it. A tell?

"Always the journalist." He stepped closer, voice dropping. "Even after last night. Most women would have sent flowers. Or at least a thank-you text."

My cheeks warmed. I glanced around the sleek space, but the city lights outside kept pulling my focus. "Most women didn't find suspicious evidence in your jacket pocket."

His expression didn't change, but something flickered in those eyes. He reached out, fingers brushing my wrist where my pulse jumped. The touch was light, but it sent my thoughts scattering.

"Careful what you go looking for, Estelle." His thumb traced a slow circle over my skin, right where my veins betrayed me. "Some doors, once opened, don't close easily."

I should have pulled away. Should have demanded answers about the blood, the murders, my father. Instead I held his gaze, the air between us thick with everything we weren't saying. The memory of his weight pressing me into silk sheets. The way he'd whispered my name like a confession.

"Is that a threat, Mr. Harrington?" My voice came out steadier than I felt.

His laugh was soft, intimate. Meant for me alone. "An observation. You intrigue me. More than you should."

He leaned in, breath warm against my ear. The scent of him—cologne and something uniquely him—flooded my senses. "You shouldn't have come back. Now I'm not sure I want to let you leave."

My breath caught. The pull between us crackled, dangerous and undeniable. I felt it in the way my fingers itched to touch him, the way my mind kept circling back to that smear on his clothes.

His free hand came up, brushing a curl behind my ear. The gesture mirrored my own nervous habit so perfectly it stole my breath. His fingers lingered, tracing the shell of my ear before dropping to my neck. My skin prickled where he touched.

"What did you take from my jacket?" he asked quietly. No pretense now. Just the raw edge of whatever lived beneath his polished surface.

I swallowed hard. The Zippo felt like a lead weight in my bag. Dad's lighter. The one thing connecting me to the man I was supposed to be avenging. And here I was, letting his possible killer touch me like I belonged to him.

"Nothing that made sense," I lied, voice barely above a whisper. "Yet."

"Liar." The word held no heat. Only that measured calm that made my knees feel unsteady. "But I like that about you. The fight. It makes the eventual surrender so much sweeter."

I wanted to push him away. To demand answers. Instead my body leaned into his touch, traitorous and aching. The storm inside me raged—shame for my father, hunger for the man before me, terror at how easily I could lose myself here.

His head dipped closer. Our lips nearly brushed, the almost-kiss more devastating than the real thing had been last night. "Tell me to stop, Estelle. If that's what you want."

I didn't. Couldn't. The penthouse seemed to narrow until there was only his warmth, his scent, the steady thrum of his pulse under my fingertips where they'd somehow found his chest.

The city lights kept glittering outside, indifferent to the line we were crossing again. Here, in this moment, the line between hunter and hunted blurred into something far more complicated.

And as his mouth finally claimed mine in a kiss that tasted like both promise and peril, I realized with sinking certainty that I was already too far gone to care which one of us would break first.