Could be fake.

Sure it could. Same with the paper she picked up and skimmed. How was she supposed to know what an official private eye’s license looked like? She hadn’t even known P.I.s had licenses. Or badges. Wilder Matthew Monroe. Licensed in the State of Maine.

Maine? Why in the world—

“I feel like I should reiterate that I’m not here to hurt you in any way.” The door muffled his voice, but not enough to hide his exasperation. “I shouldn’t have chased you. I’m a little new at this. I should’ve just waited until you were home and knocked on your door like a normal person. Or spoken to you at the restaurant.”

Huh, apparently his exasperation was self-directed. “Or better yet, you could’ve dispensed with the creepy staring act in the first place.”

Was that actually a chuckle? “As I said, I just need a few minutes of your time.”

Hesitation rooted her in place. She glanced at the badge and paperwork again. They looked legit. But if Micah’s activities had taught her anything, it was that appearances were rarely trustworthy—not much of anything was trustworthy.

She closed her eyes for a long moment, the warmth of her apartment and the lingering aroma of the lavender vanilla candle she’d lit last night wrapping around her and giving her space to breathe, to think. To wish, just for a moment, that this little haven she’d created for herself—four small rooms filled with color and secondhand furniture—was enough to shut out everything else.

That she’d never become this person who expected the worst. The old Sydney would’ve lit with unbridled curiosity at the thought of a private eye showing up on her doorstep. The old Sydney’s imagination would’ve conjured up all manner of exciting, intriguing tidings.

But the Sydney she’d become—the one with two jobs and never enough income, the one whose future felt almost as blurry as her past—had, somewhere along the way, forgotten how to hope.

With a sigh, she opened her eyes and straightened. She shook her head, her red hair long since limp after a nine-hour shift at the restaurant, and moved closer to the door, took a breath, and twisted first the deadbolt then the lock on the knob. Chain still in place, she inched the door open a sliver—just enough to see the man’s eyes peering at her from the hallway.

He was younger than she’d realized. Probably only had a few years on her—maybe mid-thirties at the oldest. His hair, wind-tousled with a slight wave, matched his eyes—a deep, dark brown. She probably shouldn’t smile at the faint dusty print on the right leg of his jeans where she’d kicked him, but, well, she smiled.

But she squelched it quickly enough and found her voice. “Is this about Micah?”

He reached down to rub his knee. “Your former foster brother? No.”

“How do you know—?”

“Miss Rose, there’s very little I don’t know about you—about your current circumstances, anyway. Which, hearing myself say it, likely sounds a little stalker-y.” He held up both palms in a surrender pose. “But like I said, I’m a P.I. Knowing things about people is what I do. Can I come in?”