My pulse stumbled.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Testing a hypothesis.”
“No.”
“I haven’t asked yet.”
“I know your face.”
He set the glove on the counter with surgical precision. “You assume too much.”
“And you assume everything can be tested.”
“Most things can.”
“Not me.”
His bare hand rested on the marble between us.
A challenge.
An invitation.
A mistake.
I should have walked away.
Instead, I remembered the hospital bill. The scar on his thumb. The way his face had changed in the car when my hand touched his.
I stepped closer.
“One second,” I said.
“Five.”
“One.”
“Three.”
“Two,” I snapped.
“Acceptable.”
I touched two fingers to the inside of his wrist.
Adrian stopped breathing.
Not figuratively.
His chest locked. His face drained of color. His hand turned under mine and gripped the counter so hard his knuckles whitened.
The warmth came again, stronger than before, but this time it brought something with it.
A flash.
Not a memory.
Not mine.
Rain on broken glass.
A woman screaming Adrian’s name.
Blood on a white cuff.
A small gold bracelet rolling across asphalt.
I ripped my hand away.
Adrian staggered back.
“What was that?” I whispered.
He stared at me with open fury.
“What did you see?”
The question was too fast.
Too sharp.
So he knew.
My heart pounded. “Nothing.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“You first.”
His expression closed like a locked vault.
Then his phone rang from the study.
He did not move.
It rang again.
Finally, he pulled his glove back on and answered through the wall panel. “Park.”
I heard a man’s voice, distorted but clear enough to catch a name.
“Your mother is in Chicago.”
Adrian’s face changed.
Not fear.