Margo takes one look at my red eyes, which I’d convinced myself were well-covered with some artful and natural-looking makeup, and purses her lips. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Liar stings, even though she’s saying I’m a bad one, and I can’t help flinching. “I’m a great liar.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing happened. Are we walking?”

“Not happening. You can try to change the subject all you want, but I’m not buying it.” Margo cocks her head to the side, and her blonde hair, piled on top of her head in a bun that’s somehow chic and messy at the same time, follows a moment later. “Did you get a boyfriend without telling me?”

I give her my best impression of being offended. “What? Why would you think I did that?”

“Because you’re hiding crying eyes behind makeup, which means you’ve spent the last half an hour putting on fresh foundation, which you never do at this time of night.”

Margo and I roomed together the first couple of years that I lived in New York City—right up until my work at the FBI demanded a solo space for when I was on undercover jobs. She knows me too well.

“It’s not night, first of all. It’s still light out. This could charitably be called evening.” I sigh. “But yes, I did…sort of get a boyfriend without telling you.”

“Start walking,” she says. “We’ll talk at the same time, so you don’t have to look at me.”

“You’re a good friend.”

She rolls her eyes. “You could take a page from my book.” Then she smiles at me, everything already forgiven. “So, who’s the guy?”

“I can’t tell you.”

Margo cuts me a sideways glance. “Is this some forbidden FBI thing where you’re not supposed to date your co-workers?”

“He’s not technically a co-worker.” Margo knows that I work for the FBI, but she doesn’t know the details of the jobs I’ve been going on. My stomach turns over—neither does Dominic, which is why he’s storming off across the city right now. “But that doesn’t matter. What matters is, he was—I was really into him, and now it’s over.”

“You didn’t cry this hard last time you broke up with a guy.”

“I’m not crying now. I’m walking to dinner.”

“You didn’t need fresh makeup, is all I’m saying.” Margo takes a right, and I know which sushi place she’s chosen—one of my favorites, without having to ask.

“Well—there’s nothing I can do about it now.”

“Nothing? You don’t think it’s worth a shot?”

The lie is on the tip of my tongue, but for some reason I can’t bear to say it. “I don’t know.”

She takes a breath, frowning a little. “You don’t need a plan to get him back right now. Give it an hour.”

“There’s not going to be any plan. I can’t think of a plan.” I can’t handle the thought that I could try with him, and he might walk out again…and I’m supposed to be stronger than that.

“Give it a bottle of wine,” she says, grinning, and that I can get on board with.

I’m thoroughly regretting the three bottles of plum wine we split between us while I ride the subway to Wilder Enterprises the next morning. That stuff is deadly—and it tastes so sweet that it’s like you’re hardly drinking alcohol at all, until you’re very clearly drinking alcohol and you’ve had too much and your best friend walks with her arm looped through yours all the way back to your apartment so you don’t take a tumble into the gutter.

I raise a hand to my eyes. What a shining moment.

My stomach lurches. I forced down an English muffin and some greasy scrambled eggs in an attempt to set myself straight before I had to leave for work. So far, it’s failing miserably.

We never got around to plotting how I would win Dominic back, and it’s a good thing, because it would have been frustrating for both of us to listen to me get cagey with the details. As Margo has said to me a hundred times, the details make the plan. She’s usually referring to the outfits we’re going to wear to a club or an art gallery opening. In this case, she’s right—but I can’t tell her what they are.

Not yet.

Not for a few years, and by the time I tell her, it will be far too late.

Another bolt of pain shoots right through my chest. Maybe I should go home, sleep this off, and—

No.

Dominic isn’t going to take the day off, either. He’d never want anyone to think he had a weakness, that the weakness might be anything other than a deadly illness. He’ll be in his office today, living and breathing above my head, and I’ll live with the pain. It’s the only option I have.

My phone rings as I’m stepping out of the subway exit into the golden morning sun, and I stifle the urge to heave on the sidewalk while I fumble for my phone.

The name on the Caller ID doesn’t make me feel better.

“Good morning, Milton.”

“We’ve got a problem.” His terse tone sends a shock of cold into my gut.

“What is it?”

“You’re out of time, Viv. I don’t think you’ve got much longer before your cover is blown.”

“I—what?” My mind reels. There’s no way Dominic got in contact with anyone at the FBI about me—is there? Is that what’s happening?

“One of the guys on the team—Chris O’Connor—says he met up with someone from Wilder Enterprises last night, and the guy has some pretty deep suspicions about you. From what O’Connor said, he doesn’t have any solid proof, but my guess is that he’ll be on the lookout for any reason to either fire you or expose you as an undercover agent.”

We both know that can’t be allowed to happen. “How much time?”

“Three days.” Milton doesn’t hesitate. “Three days, or we’re pulling you, and we’ll use an outside team to put this one to bed.”

My heart sinks. I have most of the pieces I need to find this guy. It would have helped to have more than three days, but…

“It’s not going to be a problem,” I tell Milton, my thoughts racing ahead to the emails, to the plans I was going to put into motion over the next week. It’ll all need to be expedited.

“If it is, we pull the plug. Fair warning.”

Then Milton ends the call, and I’m on my own.