He holds up both hands in a gesture of calm, a smile tugging at his lips like he finds my wariness amusing. Already, I don’t like him.

“Morgan, right?”

I don’t answer.

“I’m a friend of a friend, I wanted to ask you a few questions.” He says, pulling out a badge and holding it up for me to see.

I glance at it quickly, not lowering my guard, if anything the badge makes my hackles rise. “FBI? What’s the Bureau doing at my door?”

He leans forward casually resting his hand next to the door frame as he leans in closer, his size making the action look almost predatory. The ease in his posture is deliberate. Everything about him is deliberate. “Like I said I’m a friend first, FBI agent second. I’m here to ask you a few questions. Do you mind if I come in?”

“I do, actually,” I say, crossing my arms. “If you’ve got questions, you can ask them from right there.”

His smirk deepens like he enjoys the challenge. Like he was hoping I’d say that.

“Alright. Let’s start with this—what can you tell me about Aubrey?”

The question catches me off guard, but I don’t let it show. I keep my expression blank, ignoring the way my pulse picks up. “Why?”

“Humor me,” he says, his voice low and commanding.

The way he says it makes my skin prickle. Not a demand, not quite a request. Just an expectation.

My fingers twitch wanting to be near my gun, but the intensity in his gaze—steady, unyielding—keeps me from outright shutting the door on him. “I’m not the one you should be interrogating. If you’re looking into Aubrey, maybe you should take a closer look at Cassie instead. She’s been pointing fingers at Aubrey from the beginning, and if you ask me, it’s a little too convenient.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Cassie? As in Cassandra Moros?”

“The same,” I say. “She’s the one who started spreading the idea that Aubrey had caused the accident that killed her brother in law and his wife, she was saying Aubrey also had something to do with the death of—”

“George, her first husband.” He finishes for me, his voice darkening.

The way he says it makes unease coil in my stomach. Not like it’s news to him. Like it’s confirmation.

That gives me pause. “You’re looking into their deaths?”

“That’s my job,” he says, leaning in just a little closer—almost into my space now, almost into my house. “And I’m here to make sure this doesn’t turn into a bigger mess than it already is. So why don’t you stop dancing around my questions and tell me everything you know?”

I hate that he’s good at this. That he’s reading me even as I try to do the same to him.