“No, I just—” She abruptly stood, avoiding my eyes. “Never mind.”

She started to set the DVD case on the TV stand, but I caught her wrist. “Are you serious? You want to watch Casablanca right now? Here in my apartment?”

She muttered something, her cheeks tinged with pink.

“Sorry?”

“I said we don’t need to rush back to the precinct.” She half-heartedly tugged her wrist away, but I didn’t let go. “It’s already late, and the investigation won’t resume until morning. It might be a while before you can rebuild your collection, so … so why not enjoy it one more time?”

I let her withdraw her arm from beneath my hand. She glanced up warily and seemed surprised to find me staring back with equal wariness.

“What?” she huffed defensively. “It was just an idea.”

“I …” Shaking my head, I admitted the truth. “I can’t tell if you’re tricking me.”

“Tricking you?”

“Yeah. You know, getting me all excited about an illegal movie night, waiting for the opening credits, then slapping on the cuffs and dragging me out amidst your nefarious laughter.”

She blinked twice—then rolled those big brown eyes so forcefully her head tipped back. She slapped the DVD case against my chest.

“Put the movie on, Kit.”

With that, she swept over to the sofa, dropped onto the cushions, and folded her arms expectantly.

Holy shit. She was serious.

A hesitant smile pulled at my lips. “Should I make some popcorn?”

Two and a half minutes later, I sat beside her with a big bowl of popcorn balanced on one hand and the remote in my other hand. She plucked a fluffy, buttery bit of popcorn out and tossed it in her mouth.

I tried not to stare.

The opening narration played, and my unease slid away as the screen filled with a slowly spinning black-and-white globe, the camera focusing on North Africa.

“When was this made?” she asked, scooping more popcorn from the bowl.

“1942. It’s a movie set in the middle of World War II, filmed and released in the middle of World War II. They shot it five months after Pearl Harbor.”

She made a quiet noise of interest and settled back to watch. We finished the popcorn and I slid the bowl onto the end table. As I shifted back to my spot, the cushions dipped. My arm brushed hers, but she didn’t look away from the television.

I resisted the urge to provide commentary, letting the movie pull her in, but when the crowd in Rick’s bar began to sing “La Marseillaise” to drown out a group of Nazi soldiers performing a German anthem, I couldn’t help myself.

Leaning toward her, our arms pressed together, I whispered, “Watch the extras who are singing.”

She squinted at the screen. “Is that woman crying?”

“A bunch of the extras were war refugees. They escaped Nazi persecution in Europe, ran away to America, and ended up singing about it in Casablanca. This was real for them.”

“Wow,” she said softly.

By the time we got to the climactic scene between Rick and Ilsa in the rain at the airport, I was in full Bogart mode, quoting his best lines alongside him. Lienna’s gaze flicked between me and the TV, the corners of her mouth twitching with each line I delivered.

At just the right moment, following Bogart’s cue, I touched my fingers to her chin and in my best melodramatic baritone murmured, “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.”

For a single heartbeat, she stared at me with wide eyes—then burst into laughter and swatted my hand away. “You made me miss it!”

“Whoops.” Grinning, I grabbed the remote to back the movie up. “I promise not to distract you—for the next thirty seconds.”

She laughed again, adding one of her patented eye rolls. Her amusement cracked her defensive agent mask, giving me a better look at the woman hidden beneath it—and gotta be honest here, I kind of thought I might like the person I saw.

That unfortunate feeling would probably bite me in the ass sooner or later.

Chapter Ten

“Was it raining out there?”

I climbed onto the top bunk and collapsed. Rolling onto my back, I adjusted my gray jumpsuit until it was moderately close to comfortable, missing my t-shirt and jeans like crazy. And my king-sized bed. They didn’t design either these jumpsuits or jail cells with coziness in mind.

Duncan was leaning against the wall across from the bunk bed, staring at me. My hair was slick from the rain, which had caught his attention.

“A little bit,” I answered, trying to sound like this was a totally normal conversation to have in a jail cell.

“Yeah?” Eyes bright, he stepped away from the wall—and closer to the bunk.

Please don’t touch me, please don’t touch me, please don’t touch me. “Yup.”

“What was it like?”

What was he looking for here? Some adjective-laden description of the water cascading from the heavens? Should I write a haiku?

I sighed. “I don’t know, Duncan. It was raining from the sky. It was kind of wet.”

His expression flattened at my dry response, and he leaned against the wall again. “Did you have fun on your field trip? I heard they have you out there hunting your best friend.”

Word got around the MagiPol holding cells.

“Quentin’s not my best friend,” I replied. “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t jump at the chance to get out of here if they offered it to you.”

The hydromage shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. I know I wouldn’t find it so easy to cooperate with the MPD. That’s for sure.”

“You might,” I said, “if it gave you the opportunity to escape.”

He shook his head skeptically and disappeared onto the lower bunk, the metal frame shuddering. “And look how well that worked out for you.”

I inhaled slowly. He had a point. It wasn’t as though Lienna had strapped me to a prison gurney like Hannibal Lecter.

Still, my chances for escape hadn’t been top-notch. That had never stopped me before—when I was nine years old, I jumped out of a fifth-story window and into a snowbank to avoid getting the belt from my douchebag of a foster father—but though I’d been watching for my chance with Lienna, it hadn’t happened.

Part of that was an unwillingness to risk my entire future on anything less than a sure-fire opportunity, which Lienna wasn’t likely to give me—not unless I was willing to seriously hurt her. For example, shoving her into a vat of flesh-eating potion.

But a guy had to draw the line somewhere. Besides, if I betrayed her like that, she’d probably return from the dead to smite me with her abjuration voodoo.

We were nowhere near catching Quentin yet. I’d have more opportunities before the looming date of my sentencing—or maybe I wouldn’t need to book it. If I earned enough brownie points with Blythe, and if Lienna came through on her promise to help me …

I rubbed a hand over my face. Was I seriously considering putting my future in Lienna’s and Blythe’s law-abiding and judgmental hands? Was I actually thinking that facing my sentencing might be the better option?

What had gotten into me?