Chapter 8
Pete isn’t home when I arrive and knock on his door. I shrug out of my suit jacket—ignoring the chill in the air—pull off my tie, and hang them both over the handrail. I roll up my shirtsleeves, run my fingers through my hair—messing up the perfect boardroom slick—and plop my ass on the porch stairs.
With a deep sigh, I lean my elbows on my knees and hang my head. “That was impulsive, Oren Walker,” I mutter.
And stupid, adds an irritating voice in my head.
“It might have been stupid, but it needed to be done,” I tell my brain, then snap my mouth shut. I pull down my jacket, not caring that it falls on the steps, and grab my phone. I open the text app and tap Pete’s name.
Where are you?
I stare at the screen for a while after the message is sent, but when I don’t get an imme
