Angie ^hot^ — Will Trent

"I've got you."

He didn't move. He reached over, took the bottle from her, and set it aside. Then he took her raw, bloody knuckles in his hands—his large, careful hands that could pick a lock or cradle a newborn—and held them. will trent angie

"Don't," Angie said, reading him like the dyslexic mess of a file she'd known since they were both twelve. "Don't you dare go noble for me, Will. I don't need saving. I need you to sit down." "I've got you

"Lenny." She took a long, slow swallow from the bottle. "He found out I was working a CI in the Bluff. Said I was 'making him look soft.' Got a little hands-on to prove he wasn't." "Don't," Angie said, reading him like the dyslexic

Will’s jaw tightened. Lenny Brock was a vice detective, which meant he was just a badge with a worse drinking problem. Will’s mind, that relentless, precise machine, was already cataloging: Lenny’s shift schedule, his favorite bars, the unmarked Crown Vic he parked in a handicapped spot every day. He could solve this. He could make Lenny disappear into the system so deep he’d be filling out traffic citations in North Dakota.

"You look tired," she said.

Will Trent stood outside the Ponce de Leon Avenue apartment, the familiar smell of damp concrete and cheap air freshener hitting him like a poorly landed punch. He didn't need to knock. The door was slightly ajar, a sliver of low, golden light spilling into the hallway.