Chapter Thirteen

Me, my drunk enemy, a stolen goat, and my managing editor's car.

There's a joke in there somewhere, but I'm too exhausted to find it. Between the trek to Christopher's apartment, which isn't far from my building but felt as long as the journey to Mordor with Three and Chewy, and wrangling Chewy into the back seat—he was not pleased and bleated loudly to make it known—I'm ready to turn straight around and fall into bed for the next twelve hours.

But the night is far from over. We still have the three-hour round-trip drive to get through.

"How the hell did you get Christopher to lend you his car?" I demand while Three fumbles to start the directions. It takes him longer than it should, and I get the sense he might be more drunk than he seems. He's probably one of those people who can be blacked out but still hold a completely normal conversation with you.

Three sighs, resting his head back against the seat and closing his eyes. "I asked."

"You asked." I flip on the blinker with a little more force than necessary and merge onto the deserted highway. I glance over at Three. The fact that most of the agitation has left his body and he looks almost relaxed for the first time all night should make me angry when I'm still wound up, overtired, and doing all the work now.

But for some reason, I'm relieved to see that the tension has left him. I'm trying very hard not to be charmed by him right now, but… he saved a goat. Not because it was easy, but because he didn't want to leave Chewy to whatever fate was planned for him, no matter how hard it would be to pull off. Despite having to ask me, of all people, for help.

I reach down and pinch my thigh. Absolutely not. He's still evil.

"So, you asked, and Christopher just… agreed. Because you're such great friends."

Three snorts. "Does it seem like Christopher has the capacity for friendship to you?" His voice sounds different than usual—less polished, more of a drawl, and husky. The way you might sound right before a bad cold.

"And you do?" I shoot him a look. "It sounds like a match made in heaven to me."

"I have friends."

"Oh, right. I forgot—fraternity friendships are forged in fire." I tilt my head toward Chewy in the back seat. "Must be why your pledge pals are here helping you right now."

"They're not my—" He stops abruptly, clamping his mouth shut so hard, his teeth clack together. "You want me to answer this? I thought you didn't make deals with drunk people."

"Does answering a question have to be part of a deal?"

"It does with me," says Three.

"You're so annoying. How do you not even seem drunk right now? How are you in your right enough mind to remember to make deals before you answer a question, when I—" I stop abruptly. When I spilled every single thought that came into my head the other night, I wanted to say.

"It's not that hard when it's already second nature." He huffs out a laugh. "There, you can have that as a bonus."

"I don't even know what that means."

"How many questions do you want for the drive? I'll give you—"

"Five."

"Two."

I scoff. "Five."

"Three," he tries again.

"I guess that's only fitting."

When I look over at him, he grins. His gaze has turned lazy, and he leans an elbow on the center console, long legs stretched out under the dash.

I pucker my lips like I've tasted something sour. "Why did Christopher lend you his car? And don't say it's because you asked," I add quickly. "I want the real answer."

"I've been working on a story," Three says. "For a while now. It's a big one, so Christopher's been helping me, and he gets all my status updates."

"Oh my god." I bark out a laugh. "You would take this opportunity to try to intimidate me. Why should I believe anything you say right now?"

"As much fun as it is to freak you out, Evans, I don't have to lie to do it." He reaches down to recline his seat a little.

I let this slide because I realize arguing with a drunk person is a bit of a lost cause. And also because he's struggling with the lever, and his seat keeps popping back up and knocking him in the shoulders. I watch him from the corner of my eye, biting back laughter.

When he finally settles, I say, "So you and Christopher are friends."

"Is that a question? Because I hate to help you, but it's hard to watch you waste your questions on things I've already answered."

"No, that's not a question," I snap, annoyed at how haughty he manages to sound, even drunk. I don't need to ask this, anyway. I can simply assume that Three and Christopher are, at the very least, closer than I realized. "Let me think."

"We've got time." He motions to the road.

"Do you like being in a frat?"

His head whips around. "Why would you ask that?" His voice is cautious.

"Well, they were going to do god knows what to Chewy—"

"Who the hell is Chewy?"

In the back seat, Chewy bleats in response.

Three twists around to look at him. When we got Chewy in the back seat, Three used the backpack to create a harness so we could secure him. Chewy is not happy about being buckled in. When I glance in the rearview mirror, he's chewing on the seat belt.

Three swears, stretching into the back seat to wrestle it from Chewy's mouth.

"Have fun explaining that to your best friend Christopher." I keep my eyes firmly focused on the road so I won't be tempted to stare at the strip of skin exposed when his shirt rides up.

"You named the goat?" Three demands, his voice strained.

"You left me with him for almost three hours!"

"It wasn't three hours."

"Oh, were you keeping count? No? Because I was."

He rolls his eyes so hard, his head falls back against the seat.

"So, do your penance. Do you like being in a frat?" I catch the edge of his conflicted expression before he manages to stow it.

"It wasn't my frat that had the goat. I want to make that clear."

"Right, yours just forces you to binge drink even when you don't want to."

He starts to respond, stops, and sighs. "Yeah," he says tightly. "I guess so."

"You guess you like it?"

"No, I guess you're right." He shoves his hand through his hair. Then he laughs. "Of course this is the question you picked…. No, I don't like being in a frat."

"Then why do you do it?"

"Is that your next question?"

"No! Come on, just tell me. I didn't sign on for yes-or-no answers."

Three stalls. Then he says, "My dad wanted me to join. He was in Tau Delt when he went to school here, and he says it helped him a lot after boarding school. More of that brotherhood thing." He clears his throat, and I feel his attention turn toward me. "And you know I also went to boarding school."

"You've mentioned it once or twice… or ten times."

"Well, being in a frat isn't like that," Three says. "Maybe it was for my dad, but then again, I'm not my dad." The last bit comes out bitter, like the dregs of tea from the bottom of a cup.

I sense we're venturing into something real, and Three must feel it too, because he says, "So, there's your answer. Next question?"

I want to ask more about his family—especially his dad—but I don't want him to know how curious I am about him. So I change direction, veering back to safer waters.

"What's the story about? The one you've been working on with Christopher."

"Pass."

"You can't pass!"

"I can do whatever I want. Pass. Pick something else."

"There's nothing else I want to know."

Three shoots me a look. "I know that's not true."

"There's nothing else I want to know right now. That's it—that's all I want."

"Pass," Three says again.

"You are so—"

"I'll tell you later. When I'm sober."

"So I have to wait for my third answer?"

"Call it another bonus," he says. "Pick a different question. I don't want to talk about the story right now. There's too much—" He stops and shakes his head. "Just pick something else."

Of course, there are a hundred things I want to know about Three. Maybe a thousand now. But I don't want to be rushed into asking. I want to take my time and think of the perfect question.

"I want a deferral. To keep my question for a later date."

"No."

"Then answer the question I want. If you get to defer an answer—"

"It's not an answer. It's a bonus."

"Regardless. You don't get to make all the rules, Three. I want a deferral. I think it's only fair. It's the middle of the night, I'm exhausted, I can barely think of my own name let alone something to ask you."

"That's the point. If it was that easy, you'd only be getting two questions."

"Fine! So ask it now, or I lose it?"

"Exactly."

"And you won't lie."

"I won't lie."

"Don't forget you did this to yourself," I say through my teeth, gripping the steering wheel tighter. I glance over at him as I spit out a question I'm already half regretting before it leaves my mouth. "Have you ever been turned on by me?"

Three freezes, mouth flattening into a tense line. He doesn't look at me.

My heart picks up speed. If he says no, I'll be mortified. But if he says yes… it'd be nice to know we're on an even playing field. If he gets to know I had a dream about him, then I should get this. It doesn't have to mean anything except to soothe the sting of my own embarrassment. I know nothing real would ever happen between us, and I have Lincoln who might be Hayes and Hayes who… I really like. A lot.

And if he says no, then at least I have the truth. I won't be upset by it. I certainly won't cry.

"Yes." His voice comes out clipped, bitten off at the end.

I nearly swerve off the road. "What?"

He stares straight ahead. "I'm not repeating myself. I know you said you didn't sign on for yes-or-no answers, but that's all you're getting."

I suck in a slow, calming breath.

"It doesn't mean anything," he says quickly. "I get turned on when I argue. We argue a lot."

"So you're turned on by me a lot." I simply can't help myself.

He lets out an irritated sigh, fumbling for the lever to recline his seat further. "Wake me when we get there."

"Hey, you can't go to sleep!"

"I can do whatever I want." He's thrown an arm over his eyes, but he lifts it briefly to look at me. "I paid for the trip."

I clench my jaw. I'm not sure if he actually sleeps or not, but he doesn't speak again. I spend the rest of the drive blasting the AC in my face to stay awake and flipping through radio stations to keep busy.

I absolutely do not—do not—think about how he answered that question.

It's past two in the morning when we surrender Chewy to a woman named Sarah, who meets us on her porch in a bathrobe thrown over flannel pajamas. As he thanks her for letting us come so late, Three manages his perfect manners, even drunk, while I droop beside him, an ode to exhaustion.

He did, in fact, fall asleep earlier, and it took herculean effort not to reach over and smother him while he was out.

"I don't think I can make it all the way back," I say as Sarah and Chewy disappear around the side of the house.

Three winces, looking apologetic. "I can't get us a hotel. My parents watch my spending."

"We don't need a hotel. I just need you to promise whatever you see tonight, you won't use it against me later." I point at him. "Not one single joke."

He holds up his hands.

In the car, I fumble for my phone and dial, setting it to speaker as I maneuver out of the driveway.

"Don't panic," I say when my mom answers.

"Why would I panic?" Mom asks, voice scratchy with sleep. "A call from my only daughter at two in the morning? No cause for concern there."

Dad snores in the background.

"I just wanted to warn you I'll be home in, like, fifteen minutes."

Three's head whips toward me, and I do my best to ignore him as I offer the barest explanation to my mom before hanging up. The energy in the car begins to crackle, his curiosity like a live wire.

As I pull Christopher's car into the driveway, I try to see my home through Three's eyes. The cottage-style house with a rounded-edge roof that looks straight out of a storybook. My parents have worked years to make our house seem out of this time, and often out of this world.

The front door, which my dad painstakingly hand-carved to look elvish, swings open as we come up the front steps.

"Wynnie," Mom says, catching me in a hug on the porch. Three lingers at my back, hesitant. "You two look exhausted! Why are you out driving so late?" She reaches past me to grab Three and hugs him too. "Hi, Wyn's friend. It's so nice to meet you."

Three chokes a little in surprise, eyes widening. "Um, nice to meet you too. I'm Three."

"Three." She sniffs, then pulls back, frowning. "You smell like a bar and a barn, Three."

His cheeks turn pink. "Ah. Yeah, there—there was—"

"A circumstance," I say.

I'm saved from further explanation when Dad comes around the corner, poking his head out the door. "Get in the house. It's freezing."

Mom quickly ushers us inside, where Dad hugs me and doesn't let go for a long time, not even as he shakes Three's hand and introduces himself.

"I think we have some extra toothbrushes around here. Do you want me to wash those clothes for you, honey?" Mom directs this question to Three. "You can borrow some of Wilson's."

"Oh, that's okay," Three says quickly, holding up his hands. "Thank you. And thank you for having me. I know it's inconvenient. I appreciate it."

"Suck-up," I grumble, shoving him with my elbow as I move toward the hall. If Three is at all thrown by how small our house is or, more glaringly, the fact that it's decorated like a museum of fantasy media, he doesn't show it. He's polite to my parents as I pull out some blankets for him, and when I start setting up the couch, he's quick to help—and to compliment the coffee table, which Dad made himself.

Mom finally unearths some toothbrushes, and Three and I stand over the sink together, bumping elbows as we brush.

"Your parents are nice," he says around a mouthful of foam.

I lean over to spit into the sink and rinse my mouth. "Yeah, I know."

It must come out defensive, because Three says, "That's a good thing, Evans. If we showed up at my house at two in the morning, I'd never hear the end of it." He spits next, then rinses. "It'd be the Wellborn special—interrogate, berate, and… what's a word for giving someone the silent treatment while conveying your utter disappointment in their choices?"

I raise my eyebrows at him in the mirror. He arches his own eyebrows back at me.

"I'll get you a pillow," I say, steering the conversation elsewhere before I have the terrible sense to feel bad for him or something. I move into the hall, and it isn't until I reach my bedroom that I realize he's followed me.

I put my arms out to block him. "No."

But his eyes are already wandering.

"What is that?" He laughs as he ducks under my arm. I catch him at the same time he gets a hand around the stuffed chicken on my bed.

I snatch her back. "Don't touch anything."

"You still sleep with stuffed animals, Evans?" he asks, leaning back against my desk. It's neater than it ever was when I lived here, but the hutch is still packed with my favorite romance manga and graphic novels.

Please god, don't turn around,I try to will him with my mind. If he figures out I'm secretly a super romantic, I will simply pass away.

"I see you found Fat Chick," Dad says, leaning in the doorway. "Right where you left her."

"Fat Chick," Three repeats, looking delighted.

I angle toward him, putting my back to my dad as I whisper, "I will murder you in your sleep."

His smile widens.

I pivot toward Dad. "Yep. Found her." I grab a pillow from my bed and thwack it hard into Three's chest. He jolts into my desk, and one of the books falls off the top shelf.

Before Three can reach for it, I shove him toward the door, pushing at his back even as he digs his heels in.

"Dad, please show him to the guest accommodations," I say primly.

Dad falls right into character, bowing at the waist and putting an arm out toward the living room. "Right this way, good sir," he says in his best Ren Faire accent.

When I catch a glimpse of Three's face, I'm surprised to see he's smiling. And not in his usual smug, superior way, but simply smiling. Like he's having a good time.

As soon as they're gone, I shut off the light and fall face down into bed, worm-crawling my way up to my remaining pillow.

I don't think I'll sleep at all knowing Three is just down the hall, but then I blink, and when I open my eyes, the sun is streaming in my window.

It takes a lot of effort to drag myself out of bed, and when I shuffle into the living room, Three is still asleep on the couch. He's sprawled on his stomach, one arm curled around his pillow, blankets twisted around his legs. His shirt has ridden halfway up his back, and he's wearing a pair of sweatpants Dad must have lent him after I went to bed. His jeans are folded neatly on the coffee table, right next to a nearly empty glass of water.

When I poke my head into the kitchen, Mom is at the table with her tablet. The clock on the stove reads 8:17 a.m.

"Hey," Mom whispers, flapping a hand for me to sit. She gets up and moves to the coffee maker. As she pours me a mug, she glances into the living room, her mouth quirking in a little smile.

"Don't," I say.

She shoots me an innocent look. "What?"

"You know what."

Mom ignores me, returning her attention to the coffee. Like me, she's a big romantic, the type who religiously reads fantasy romance novels and wrote piles of Aragorn/Arwen fanfic in college—among other ships—all of which she swears was terrible and has never let me read. Though I suspect when she says "terrible," it's code for "smutty."

So of course, for her, if I bring a cute boy home, she automatically assumes something is going on that very definitely is not.

I get down a few sips of coffee before I hear rustling from the living room, and Three appears in the doorway. My dad is quite a bit bigger than Three, so even though the sweatpants are pulled as tight as they go and the string knotted, they still hang low on his hips, showing the band of his boxers.

I do my best not to stare, but I'm still getting my faculties up and running, and I hit a small processing delay. When I look up, Three is watching me.

"You look ridiculous," I say.

"Good morning to you too," he says, his voice hoarse. He clears his throat and smiles at Mom.

"Good morning," she says. "Wilson should be back in a few minutes with breakfast. I didn't want to wake you, so he got you a bacon, egg, and cheese." She freezes, looking horrified. "Oh my god, you aren't vegetarian, are you? Or kosher?"

Three waves his hands in front of him. "No, ma'am, that's perfect, thank you. I can—I have money I can—" He pats his pockets, then seems to remember where he left his jeans, half turning toward the living room.

"Absolutely not," Mom says. "Do you drink coffee?"

His shoulders sag with relief. "I'd love coffee."

As soon as he sinks into the seat next to me, I kick him in the ankle. "Ma'am," I mimic, rolling my eyes.

"It's called manners," he says quietly, nudging me with his elbow.

"So, what brought you all the way out here last night?" Mom asks as she returns to the table with Three's coffee.

"Newspaper stuff," I say before Three can answer. I don't want the third degree from Mom when she finds out Three is in a frat. She is extremely anti–Greek life.

Mom brightens at my answer, turning to Three. "Are you another lifelong reporter? Wynnie used to go all over the neighborhood like a little Harriet the Spy. She had so many notebooks—I wonder if we still have those."

"Mom."

She ignores me. "I swear, she knew everything about our neighbors. When they went to work, when they came home, when they did their yard work and got the newspaper from the driveway. We used to call her Neighborhood Watch."

Three looks positively delighted to learn this.

"Please, I'm begging you," I say to Mom. "Do you have any idea how much therapy costs?"

I'm saved by Dad's arrival. He comes through the front door, whistling merrily, as though we didn't interrupt his sleep in the dead of night. He passes out breakfast sandwiches, regaling us all with a story of the extra-long drive-through line that could put me back to sleep.

I eat quickly, avoiding Three's eye. I've worked very hard not to feel weird eating in front of people, especially when it's fast food. I had a big setback moment in high school, when I went through a drive-through with two of my friends, and after I ordered, they ordered the same thing, but only one, to split, because it was "just too much food."

I avoided eating much around them after that, even if it meant taking smaller portions than would satisfy me, or not eating at all and going hungry until I got home.

Luckily, I mostly worked through it before I got to college, so eating in the dining hall is much less stressful for me than it would have been a year and a half ago. But I've never eaten in front of Three, and even though he's been unpleasant in every way but this one, I still worry about his perception of me.

"We have to go soon," he says, mouth full as he finishes scarfing his own sandwich. "Christopher needs his car back."

Ah, Christopher. I forgot we're on borrowed time.

Not that I thought Three and I would spend the day loafing around with my parents or something. But I thought…

I guess I thought I'd get a little more time with them.

Three's gaze flicks away from my face, and he scratches the back of his neck as he leaves the kitchen, heading for the bathroom.

"I'm glad we got to see you," Dad says. "Even just for a few hours."

"We'll miss you next weekend," Mom adds.

Next weekend. Right. Thanksgiving.

"I'll be home soon after that." I take a long pull of my coffee. "The semester only goes a few more weeks." I try to sound like it doesn't bother me, but the feeling of being left behind is sharp.

When Three returns, his hair is damp and pushed back like he ran his hands through it. He thanks my parents for letting him stay, and for breakfast.

And then we're leaving.

"You don't want to bring Fat Chick with you?" Three asks as we step out the front door.

It takes all the willpower I have not to shove him down the porch steps. "I told you, you can't use anything you saw in there against me."

Three chuckles as we head to the car. "Like what? That you have really nice parents and a comfortable house?"

"Is ‘comfortable' your way of saying ‘small'?" I shoot him a look as I fish the key fob from my bag and unlock the car.

"Stop putting words in my mouth." He plucks the fob from my hand.

"Hey, are you—"

"I wouldn't drive if I wasn't," he says, cutting me off. Once we're buckled in and backing down the driveway, he adds, "You can sleep on the way there if you want."

I glance over at him, surprised. His hair is already drying, turning to soft waves that fall in his face, and I'm startled by how good his hands look on the steering wheel.

I face forward again. "Like I could ever fall asleep with you sitting next to me."

"Worried you'll have another dream about me?" he asks, his voice smug and teasing.

"I will kill you."

"Uh-huh." He grins, pulling his phone from the cup holder so he can start the directions. I didn't notice last night, but his lock screen is a picture of a fluffy gray cat.

"You have a cat." It comes out more a stunned statement than a question.

"My family has a cat. But yes." He flicks a look at me. "Her name is Dick."

"You named your cat Dick?"

He grins. "My sister named her Emily Dickinson. I call her Dick. It's very fitting."

"Wait, so that's—" I stop short, clamping my mouth shut. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Three catches it anyway. We're pulling up to a stoplight, and he turns all the way toward me. "I knew it. I knew you did it."

"You don't know anything." I point to the road. "The light changed."

Someone behind us honks, but Three doesn't move. He's still staring at me with this irritated yet kind of impressed look on his face.

Someone honks again. "Three!"

He faces forward with all the urgency of a snail, finally stepping on the gas.

"So, did you just steal my story, or did you really have a look at my nudes?" he asks a few minutes later as he merges onto the highway. "Is that what inspired that dream you had?"

"I'm not participating in this line of questioning."

"That's fine," he says, a note of resolve in his voice. "I changed your porn ban headline and posted that opinion piece on the Tau Delt site. I also tipped off Two Minute News on your VR equipment story, but honestly, Evans, that was so boring; I did you a favor—"

"Nathaniel!"I screech, whipping to face him.

Three's mouth curls into a slow smirk. "I didn't know you knew my first name."

I splutter, rage-red and fuming. "Of course I know your first name! You really think I don't know how to do basic research."

"You researched me?" he asks, sounding pleased.

I ignore him. "God, I knew you did that! You were so smug—"

"I couldn't help it. It was funny. And hey, the porn ban thing got you the most readers you'll probably ever get, so you should thank me."

"You wish that were the case."

His smirk deepens. "You'll never top my best, that's for sure."

I eye him. "You mean your new story, don't you? The one you're working on with Christopher."

He gives a noncommittal shrug.

"You said you'd tell me."

"I guess I did say that." He exhales, stretching his neck. "Fine. It started with the story on your roommate."

"You're writing about Ellie?" It's enough to shock the anger right out of me.

"Sort of. I started looking into it after she got arrested. How a freshman from Akron ended up selling drugs. It's not like she would have had that many contacts in the area. I wanted to track down her supplier and see if it was worth pursuing."

I stare at him, dumbfounded. "You really think you're writing for the fucking Post, don't you?"

To my surprise, Three's ears redden. "It's important. Why shouldn't I be the one to write it?"

"Why are you even telling me this? You've never shared your stories with me before."

Three's hands tighten on the steering wheel. "I've been trying to figure out how to ask you…"

I narrow my eyes. "This feels like a trick."

"It's not a trick. You're so suspicious."

"Sorry, have you met you?"

He laughs. "Okay, that's fair, I guess. But I really do need your help. Ellie won't talk to me. I've emailed her half a dozen times. She only responded to the first one to tell me to fuck off, and then I think she blocked me, because I didn't hear anything else. Christopher got basically the same response."

"Gee, I can't imagine why."

"If I'd known looking into your roommate could lead me to a campus drug ring, I might've held off on writing that article. But it's done now."

"So this is Christopher's big ‘fuck you' to Two Minute News? You two bust a big time drug dealer, and he gets his revenge on them for scooping the laced Adderall story?"

"Christopher isn't that involved, and I don't think he's worried about getting revenge."

I give him a long look. There's no way he believes that.

"So what do you need me for?" I ask. "I don't know anything about it. I didn't even know she was selling until she got arrested."

Three's lips purse in a small smile. "Quite the investigative reporter, aren't you, Evans?"

"Screw you."

"Sorry. I'm kidding—sorry."

It's unsettling to hear him apologize for something, even casually like this.

"I was hoping you would talk to her," he says. "Maybe if it's with you, she'll do the interview."

"You want me to help with your story?" I continue to be dumbfounded by this conversation.

"Just with the interview," says Three.

It's a small clarification, but I don't miss the implication: just the interview. Not the story. Which means my credit is nonexistent.

"I want on the byline."

"No." His answer is lightning quick.

"Then I guess you'll have to work with what you've got."

"I'm not putting you on the byline for doing one interview. I've been working on this for weeks, and will probably have to keep working on it even longer."

I shrug. "Okay."

He sighs heavily, his jaw set. "Come on, this isn't some throwaway story. If I end up being right, it could be huge."

"Then I guess you'll be super happy to have your name alone on the byline."

Three swears. I can tell he's angry, and I'm almost giddy over it. Finally I have a little power here.

The drive back to campus goes by much faster than the one to the farm. Maybe it's because I get to sit smugly in the passenger seat while Three seethes beside me. Maybe it's because I'm not bone-tired the way I was last night. But whatever the reason, it feels like almost no time has passed before Three pulls up outside my building.

"Wyn," he says when I reach for the door.

I pause, turning back. It is extremely odd to hear him say my name to me. Sometimes he says it in the newsroom if he's mentioning me to someone else. But to me, it's always "Evans."

He lets out a long breath, staring straight ahead. "If you want your name on the byline, you'll have to do the work."

I tilt my head. "How so?"

He slides his hands down the steering wheel, a slow drag, and I try to blink away the image. I do not need that stored in my brain.

"I'm not giving you credit for doing one interview," he says. "If you want to work on it, you have to work on it. With me. Writing, interviewing. Investigating. All of it."

"What, you think I'm scared? That it'll be too hard for me?"

He turns his head toward me, resting it back against his seat. "You tell me. I think Ellie's supplier is on Greek Row. In the Sigma Rho house, specifically. And I think they're more than some small-time operation. I already know about two other houses that are definitely involved, and there are probably more. I want to know what they're selling, who's involved, and how they haven't gotten caught. It won't be easy, and it might be dangerous."

I stare at him, my mouth going dry.

"I only need the interview. But if you want credit, you're doing the work."

I hesitate. I don't want to help him, and I certainly don't want to do it without credit. But he's not wrong—it's an important story. Especially if it goes as far as he thinks.

"I…"

His brows arch expectantly.

"I'll let you know." I pop open the door and climb out of the car.

Three rolls down the window. "I can't wait forever. I need an answer soon."

"And you'll get one," I snap over my shoulder. "Just give me a little time."

As I swipe into the building, I glance back. Three still waits at the curb, watching me.

Only when the door swings shut between us does he pull away.