I nod glumly. He’s brought me back from the edge of tears, but only just. Because I do feel less. Everything is just … less.

“So,” Benson says, distracting me again. “Let’s say Reese and Jay aren’t who they say they are—and they might be. How would they have even gotten you? You were still seventeen. Child Services isn’t going to just hand you over to someone claiming to be your next of kin.”

“They got custody through my parents’ will, I think. Would it be all that hard to make a fake ID?”

“I think you’d need more than that,” Benson presses.

“I don’t know. You can pull off just about anything with enough cash. And if they’re involved in some kind of organized crime, I guarantee they have resources.”

“Okay, let’s say that’s the case.” He spreads his hands to the side. “Where are the real Reese and Jay?”

I suck in a breath. I hadn’t thought about that. No. I force myself to be honest. I didn’t want to think about that. “Is it all that far-fetched to believe they killed them?”

“I guess not. Or,” Benson continues before I can go too far down that morbid path, “they might be living on a farm in Kansas with a fake death certificate and no idea you’re alive at all.”

“How pathetic is it that I find that idea remarkably plausible?”

“Well, one way or another, we’re going to figure this out. Together,” he adds, his eyes boring deeper into mine. “I’m not backing out now. Whatever you want to do next, I’m right there.”

“Well,” I say, leaning forward, trying to amp up my bravery. “Maybe we should take advantage of Reese being gone.”

“How so?”

I swallow hard, and it’s that moment when I realize how serious this next step is.

And how committed I am to it.

“I have an idea.”

Benson just rolls his eyes. “Why do I have the feeling I’m not going to like this idea?”

“Well, that depends,” I say in a faux casual tone. “How do you feel about breaking and entering?”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I’ve tried every key twice, and the door to Reese’s office remains stubbornly locked. Filled with frustration, I lean my head against the door, a total failure. Benson stands behind me, his arms crossed over his chest, saying nothing.

“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling utterly dismal. “I thought for sure one of these keys would do it.”

“It’s understandable,” Benson says with just a hint of humor. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many keys in one place.”

“I know, right?” I say wryly, holding up the weighty ring.

“Maybe you should just make a big hammer? Or, like, a chain saw or something.”

“And destroy the door?” I sigh. “Talk about massive evidence.”

“Touché.” Benson glares at the doorknob, his jaw muscles standing out. Then, making some kind of decision, he drops into a crouch and pulls his wallet out of his back pocket. “May I?”

“May you what?”

He removes what look like two slim sticks from his wallet and, after a little fiddling, unfolds them and snaps them into place.

“Are those lock picks?” I ask, completely shocked.

“Maybe,” he says, inserting one carefully into the doorknob.

“Wallet-size lock picks?” I press.

“First rule of Fight Club,” he mutters, focused on his task.

“Fight Club my ass,” I whisper, watching as he expertly works at the dead bolt.

After some fiddling, Benson cranks one of his sticks around—and the knob turns with it. The door glides open on well-oiled hinges. “There you go,” he announces, folding his little lock picks back down and dropping them into the bottom of his wallet.

“Where did you learn that?” I stare at him in shock. And possibly awe.

But he just shrugs, and I suspect that’s all the answer I’m going to get.

Reese’s office looks … normal.

It’s not as though I haven’t been in here before. Reese often leaves her door open while she’s working. I even asked her one day when I first moved in why she kept it locked, and she smiled and patted my shoulder. “I have a lot of trade secrets in there.” Then she sighed, looked away, and said, “But truth be told, it’s mostly just habit.”

Habit. Right.

Drawing a deep breath, I cross the threshold into the office. Everything is super-organized, with perfect stacks of papers on the desk, a file cabinet with a potted flower on top in one corner, and a corkboard mounted on the wall, covered with pins and Post-its.

I reach for the filing cabinet first.

Locked.

Of course.

Benson is bent over, looking under the neat stacks on Reese’s desk. “Maybe a drawer,” he mutters, opening the shallow pencil drawer at the front of the mahogany desk. “Bingo,” he says with a grin as he holds up a small key chain with one key dangling from it.

“What’s that?”

In answer, he walks over to the gray filing cabinet and inserts the key into the spring-loaded lock. His body is so near I catch a hint of his deodorant. I breathe deeply.

He turns the key.

The lock pops with a click.

“Excellent,” Benson says, drumming his fingertips together.

“Library nerd,” I mutter, mostly to cover the disappointment I feel when he steps back and gives me some space.