SO THAT’S WHAT YOU’VE BEEN UP TO.

She hadn’t expected a response given how busy she assumed he was, but to her surprise she’d received a message back within minutes.

NO CLUE WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT, COUNSELOR. I’LL CALL WHEN I GET BACK TONIGHT.

Sitting at her desk, Rylann looked up when she heard a knock at her office door and saw Cade standing in her doorway with a wry expression.

“I’ve received over two dozen phone calls from the press today, asking what I think about the fact that the Twitter Terrorist is starting his own network security company.” He shook his head. “Just when I thought we’d finally seen the end of that guy.”

He said the words offhandedly, just a casual remark, but Rylann nevertheless felt…sneaky. A little guilty, even. While she generally believed that a person’s personal life wasn’t anyone’s business but her own, she also didn’t like deceiving people. After working with Cade for nearly two months, she considered him a friend—they went on Starbucks runs together, they talked case strategy, and she’d even tried to set him up with Rae. But now here she was, about to lie to the guy.

You’re not lying. You’re just avoiding the truth.

Apparently, her subconscious had a lot easier time splitting hairs than she did.

Then maybe it’s time to say adios to Kyle.

Apparently, her subconscious was also a waffling, capricious bitch.

Rylann threw on a smile for Cade’s benefit, pushing aside the self-reflection and inner turmoil for a time when her lover’s nemesis wasn’t standing in the doorway.

“Wow, two dozen calls,” she said. “I bet that was fun to wade through.”

“A real hoot. Rhodes is like a boomerang around here—he keeps coming back again and again.” He grinned. “I bet you’re glad you don’t have to deal with him anymore.”

Right. She wondered if Cade would consider seven rounds of hot and steamy sex within the definition of “deal with.”

“Actually, I didn’t mind working with Kyle,” she said. “He’s not a bad guy, you know.”

Cade rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone starry-eyed, too. What is it about this guy? The half-billion dollars? The hair? Do you know that I used to get death threats from crazed, angry women calling me the Antichrist and demanding Rhodes’s immediate release from prison?” He held up his hand. “Swear to God.”

“Now, that’s definitely something the Antichrist wouldn’t do.”

Cade laughed. “Have your little crush, Pierce, but I think you’re SOL on that front. According to Scene and Heard, the Twitter Terrorist has been getting busy with some brunette bombshell.”

It took all of Rylann’s de minimis acting abilities to keep a straight face with that one. “Right. I heard that, too.”

From that point on, her day—which had started out great after hearing the fantastic news about Kyle and Twitter—went from awkward to worse. She appeared in court for a motion to suppress in a credit card fraud case, a motion she’d felt fairly confident about going in. Although the Secret Service had handled most of the investigation, the initial search of the defendant’s premises had been conducted by two Chicago police officers who’d responded to a domestic abuse call made by the defendant’s wife. After the cops arrived—and of course after getting consent from the wife—they did a sweep of the house, opened the bedroom closet, and found over a thousand credit cards in different names.

Or at least, that’s what Rylann thought had been the situation.

On the witness stand, however, the cops completely caved, admitting that—oops—maybe the wife had “technically” revoked consent when they went into the bedroom, but since they were already in the house, they’d just finished the search anyway.

And so Rylann had sat there at the prosecution table, unable to do anything except watch as her case went up in flames when the judge, not surprisingly, granted the defendant’s motion to suppress all one thousand credit cards found on the premises.

Not good.

After that, she’d spent the rest of the day listening to the pissed-off rantings of the two Secret Service agents who had taken over the investigation from the Chicago police, scrambling to see if there was any evidence left that would allow her to somehow save the case, and, ultimately, feeling the beginnings of a migraine coming on. By the time she left work at six thirty, her head was throbbing, she felt nauseous, and even the hazy, pre-sunset light outside made her eyes hurt.

When she got home, she immediately changed into sweatpants and a T-shirt, left off all the lights, took two Tylenol, and then lay down on the couch, praying for sleep.

An hour later, she was woken by the sound of her cell phone. She sat up and instantly groaned, feeling as though somebody were driving a jackhammer into her forehead. She reached over to the coffee table and saw it was Kyle calling.

“It’s the man of the hour,” she answered, trying to muster up an enthusiastic tone before falling back onto the couch with her hand over her eyes. “Oh God, that hurts,” she whimpered.

“What hurts?” Kyle asked, sounding concerned.

“The invisible man pounding spikes into my head.”

“That doesn’t sound good. Maybe you should take out an invisible Taser gun and zap the son of a bitch.”

Rylann laughed, then groaned again. “No making me laugh—it hurts too much. I have a migraine,” she explained.