by Shandi Boyes
My heart whacks out a funky tune when she hands me an almost identical picture. The child next to Katarina isn’t Isabelle. Only half of her face is exposed since she’s been removed part the way through the photograph being snapped, and she’s barely a toddler, but I’m confident it’s Melody. I’d recognize her face anywhere.
With my thrusting chest revealing that I’m clicking on to what she’s implying, Phillipa opens the file she used when interviewing Melody at her office weeks ago. “There isn’t a single photo of Melody before the age of four in any of her family snaps. She mentioned during our interview that her father hid her photos when her grandmother came to visit.” My head bobs when I recall reading that on the transcripts Phillipa logged in the Bureau mainframe weeks ago. “Then, there’s this.” She pushes a blown-up photograph of a stairwell across the table. There are a dozen or so portraits lining the wall. “This is from the brownstone the Greggs owned before they moved to Saugerties.”
Shock rains down on me. “How did you get this photo? I haven’t unearthed any information about the Greggs before they arrived at Saugerties.” And believe me, I’ve been looking.
Phillipa drags her teeth over her lower lip before murmuring, “I have my resources.” After a quick swallow, she keeps my head in the game we’re playing instead of the old one I continually slip into of late. “Once again, these photos show Melody at around the age of four or five… all except this one.”
Confusion bombards me when she points to a portrait at the base of the stairs. “That’s not Melody. The facial structure is wrong.” I could be mistaken, but the child has boyish features.
“It isn’t Melody,” Phillipa discloses, putting me out of my misery. “It’s Henry Gottle, IV.”
“The fourth? As in Henry’s son?” I’m taken aback when she nods. “That can’t be right. Why would the Greggs have a portrait of Henry’s son in their home?” Although I appear to be asking questions, I’m more summarizing than seeking answers. It’s how I operate.
Phillipa doesn’t realize that, though, “I don’t know. I was hoping Melody would solve the riddle for me, but she appeared as shocked as you are now.”
“Did you tell her this is Henry’s son?” I point to the evidence I plan to authenticate the instant I catch my breath.
She shakes her head. “No. At the time, I didn’t realize what I was stumbling toward.” She slouches low into her chair as her brows pull together. “Come to think of it, I was put on suspension only hours after disclosing my findings to my supervisor.”
I thought her late suspension for Crombie’s death was weird but shrugged it off. She’s the Director’s daughter. That makes her virtually untouchable, but I guess this goes even higher than the head of the FBI. This extends all the way to the top rung of the ladder. It’s just a criminal entity totem pole instead of the agency sworn to take them down.
“We have photographic evidence, a wire transfer receipt in a file relating to the Greggs, and knowledge Henry knows who Melody is. That’s already damning, Brandon, but this… this is the icing on the cake.”
The printout Phillipa hands me is badly water-damaged. Hardly any of the ink is legible, but it isn’t needed to decipher what it is. It’s the result of a hearing test conducted on a female child born the same month and year as Melody. The name the report is addressed to is smudged, but I can work out the last four letters—ttle.
That’s not close to Gregg.
“I asked an audiologist to decipher the results for me,” Phillipa discloses, her tone softening with sympathy. “He advises the child tested was born profoundly deaf.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. Two out of every thousand children born in the US have some type of hearing impediment.” I slump into a seat, so I can cradle my throbbing head in my hands. My brain is so overloaded, it feels like it’s about to seep out of my ears. “She also looks like her mother, Phillipa. Those genes can’t be forced.”
My head pops up from my hands when she asks, “What about her dad? Does she look like him?”
“What are you implying? Are you saying Liam isn’t Melody’s dad?”
Guilt fills her eyes when she replies, “I’m not implying anything. I’m just looking at the facts as they’re presented to me.”
“Facts can be wrong, Phillipa. Evidence can be wrong.”
She glares at me as if I have a second head. “Evidence doesn’t lie—”
“It does when it’s put in the wrong hands!” I interrupt, shouting. “I’m not okay with this. This feels wrong. You didn’t see Wren with Liam. She wouldn’t have hurt him like you’re suggesting. She loved him.” Kind of how Melody loved me before she cheated on me.
“There’s an easy way to untwist the knot in your stomach, Brandon.” I realize I need to watch her more closely when she says, “Give me a strand of hair from her brush in your safe, and I’ll run it through CODIS.”
Even with my brain pounding my temples, I fiercely shake my head. “No. I’m not going to do that.”
“It will give us answers.”
“And it will have me breaking Melody’s trust! I’m not doing it, Phillipa. I won’t deceive her like—”
“She deceived you?”
My back molars smashed together. “Wow. You’re full of low blows today, aren’t you?” I pack up the files we were in the process of sorting before she fell asleep, stuff them into my briefcase in silent confirmation I’m the lead agent on this case since I’m not the one on suspension, then I make my way to my front door to open it for Phillipa. “It’s late. We should reconvene in the morning.”
Worry fills her face. “Brandon—”
“Good evening, Agent Russell.” I feel like a bitch using her way of telling me to butt-out on her, but I’m too exhausted to play nice.
“I’m not your enemy, Brandon.”
I lock my eyes with hers, so she can see the absolute truth in them when I reply, “And neither is Melody.”
Hearing the determination in my tone, she stands to her feet to gather her belongings. Once she has everything in order, she joins me in the entryway of my apartment. “Call me once you’ve settled your emotions enough to look at the evidence through the eyes of an agent.”
The anger burning my cheeks doubles when she presses her lips to the corner of my mouth before she saunters out of my apartment. I slam my door closed, clench my hands into fists, then soundlessly scream my frustration into the crisp morning air. I understand Phillipa’s objective. I can see the evidence and comprehend how damning it looks, but she doesn’t see the consequences as readily as I do. If any of this is true, it will destroy Melody’s legacy of her father for the third time in her life.
I won’t let that happen. Even if the universe has sent Melody another undeserved curveball, she won’t be up at the home plate, swinging alone. I’ll be right by her side as I was trained to be and how I want to be.
4
Melody
Butterflies ignite in my stomach when the email Brandon promised in the wee hours of this morning drops into my inbox. I wanted to call him back after Julian disclosed he had called while I was in the shower, washing off the guilt on my face, but Julian said if the matter was urgent enough to contact someone at four in the morning, his private security firm should take care of it.
I don’t know why, but I didn’t want that to happen. The unnamed man’s neck tattoo certainly set my nerves on edge, but it wasn’t enough to seek professional assistance.
I know what you’re thinking, then why reach out to Brandon? Brandon is different. He’s not just an FBI agent. He’s also my friend, so I feel he’d be more honest with me than anyone else.
Do I deserve his righteousness after lying to him?
Not at all, but I hope to still have it.
After scooting my chair in close to my desk, I click on Brandon’s email. Excluding last night, we’ve only communicated via work contacts, so I had to wait until I arrived at the office to discover if he unearthed the identity of the man I snapped a photo of
last weekend.
I’m not surprised to find a detailed dossier on the man in question attached to Brandon’s email. His date of birth is missing from the report, but numerous surveillance images of him are attached to it.
I push away my double mocha latte when one of the images shows Kwan Turgenev wearing a white apron covered with blood. Although the butcher shop sign in the corner of the picture reveals the reason for his blood-smeared smocks, it’s too early in the day to act nonchalant to that amount of blood.
I’m not a fan of blood. Haven’t been since I arrived at my parents’ accident barefoot and shrouded with panic.
My brows stitch when I commence reading the first sentence of the last paragraph in Brandon’s email.
I have forwarded my findings onto Julian’s security team, so they can keep watch for Kwan. I will update Grayson’s and my guys by sunrise.
While wondering exactly how many men are watching my every move, my eyes drift to the time stamp on the email. It shows Brandon sent his email a little after five this morning. He must be exhausted. I’m dragging my feet, and I managed to get two solid hours after calling him. The first six were spent tossing and turning while pondering whether I should drag him into my messy life again. If I were a better person, I would have left him out of it.
Unfortunately, I’m only a shell of the woman I used to be.
Everyone thinks I have the ideal life—a dream job, an adorable fiancé who’s stinking rich, and a face that doesn’t require a heavy coat of makeup to be acceptable for public outings. They fail to recall I lost my parents a month before my eighteenth birthday, I have no known living family members, and even years later, I still attend support groups for victims of sexual assault because no matter how slow Julian is willing to go, I still don’t think I’ll ever be ready to take the next big step in our relationship.
In a way, I guess Julian’s patience makes me lucky. He pledged he’d wait an eternity for me to be ready. He was just the second man to make that oath.
Brandon made it years before him.
This will sound stupid, and you probably won’t believe me, but my concerns about people’s opinions of me died a long time ago, so here we go. Julian and I haven’t slept together. We’ve shared the same bed, fondled, kissed, and touched on every base before the home plate, but we haven’t consummated our relationship as most modern-day couples do within the first few months.
Do you recall me saying how I couldn’t get passed certain things after my assault? Intimacy is one of those neuroses. It isn’t that I clammed up, my mind just wanders at the most inappropriate times, then I clam up.
When I admitted what was happening to my therapist, she suggested a period of abstinence so I could get to know Julian in a way intimacy doesn’t allow. I needed to trust him not to hurt me. It was only supposed to be for six months, but when we noticed how less toxic our relationship was since we weren’t forcing a sexual connection, it continued beyond that. We grew and matured as friends, and our love blossomed right along with it.
When it continued past the original six months, nothing was said. When it hit twelve months, I was certain Julian would bring it up, so you can imagine my surprise when it wasn’t mentioned again until the big ‘M’ word was cited along with it.
Although neither of us are virgins, we like the idea of making our wedding night special, so we somewhat agreed to save that side of our relationship for the night we become husband and wife.
I know what you’re thinking. I’ve panicked about the exact same thing multiple times the past two-plus years, but I truly don’t believe Julian is cheating on me. For one, he isn’t that sort of guy. He’s sweet and kind and truly loves me enough to wait an eternity for me to reciprocate his love with intimacy as well as words.
He’s good to me. Really, really good.
Riddled with guilt about my deceit, I return Brandon’s email, thanking him for his assistance and assuring him I’ll update him on anything Julian’s security team finds out before forwarding Brandon’s email onto Julian.
My computer has barely whooshed when my work phone commences ringing. I’m not surprised to see my incoming call is from Julian. He doesn’t scour the wastelands of society to find hearing-impaired people anymore. He does a majority of his work from a huge skyscraper not too far from here, meaning he has plenty of time to plot a move into politics.
My lips curl into a smile when he issues the greeting he usually does when I get a head start on my day. “Good morning. I missed your snuggles this morning.”
“Good morning, and I’m sorry. I was a little eager to get to work.”
Julian is gorgeous, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t also smart. “To download Brandon’s email?”
Even though he can’t see me, I nod. “Yes. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the photo and for contacting BJ behind your back.”
His sigh makes me even more disappointed in myself. He only ever sighs when he’s upset. “I’m not angry you reached out to Brandon. I just wish you would have kept me in the loop. I have men very capable of finding out any information you want, Mel. All you need to do is ask.”
“I know, this is just different…” I pause to consider how I can explain that to Julian without hurting his feelings.
Mercifully, Julian knows me better than I give him credit for. “He’s your past, so you can’t help but run to him when it’s a matter concerning your past.”
He can’t see me, but I nod my head, nonetheless.
My belief he has superpowers doubles when he adds, “But I’m your future, Mel, and anything happening to you right now is my responsibility.”
“I know…” When he sighs, I add on more convincingly, “I do. I just didn’t want you caught up in this mess.”
“Your mess is my mess. I thought you understood that when you agreed to become my wife?”
“I did, and I still do.” I almost roll my eyes at the dimness of my voice. I don’t sound like a woman who graduated at the top of her class. No one feels smart when they’re bringing up subjects that make them want to sob. “But these people killed my parents, Julian. They destroyed my life. I don’t want to share how much that affected me with men who don’t have the faintest clue what I’ve been through.”
Julian’s reply is both gut-wrenching and honest at the same time. “If that’s the reason you sought Brandon’s help, I still believe you reached out to the wrong person. I know all your secrets, Mel. Brandon doesn’t.” I wipe away the tears careening down my cheek from his statement when the high pitch of his personal assistant squawks down the line. “I have to go, but I’d like to talk more about this tonight.”
“Okay.”
“Mel…” He sounds truly devastated like he can hear the sob sitting in the back of my throat, begging to be released. “I’m not upset. I swear to you, I’m not. I just want to make sure you know I’m here for you, too. I’ve always been here for you.”
I suck in a big breath. “I know. I’m just being silly. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. I can hear how upset you are in your voice.” Julian cups his phone to tell his receptionist he’s leaving for the day before focusing his attention back to me. “Go tell Leo you’re not feeling well and that you need to go home.”
I scoff like he’s being ridiculous. “I can’t leave, Julian. I just got here.”
“You either tell Leo you aren’t feeling well, or I’ll demand he fire you.”
I’d laugh if he didn’t sound so serious. You don’t realize the immense amount of pull money has until you’re engaged to someone with a lot of it. Doors that were previously locked up like a vault have been swinging open for me lately—including my placement in this very office.
“If you get me fired, I’ll eat ice cream until my ass becomes the size of a fridge.”
I half-hiccup half-laugh when Julian replies, “Maybe then I’ll finally have the chance to catch you.” That there summed up our relationship with ten little words. Julian is forever ch
asing me. “Meet me outside your office in fifteen. I’m thinking it’s a field trip kind of day.”
The tears in my eyes burn away for happiness. Julian’s adventurous day trips have taken us many places the past three years, they’ve just not landed us in the bedroom. I could see that changing today. His understanding has me opening up even more than his substantial wealth can. I just need to get the image of Brandon’s matured yet still boyishly handsome face out of my head first.
5
Brandon
Have you ever woken up feeling like you’ve swallowed an entire beach worth of sand? That’s what replicates the dryness in my mouth when the shrill of a cell phone wakes me. Don’t ask me what the time is, much less what day it is, as I wouldn’t have the faintest clue. I must have nodded off a few hours ago with my mouth hanging open and my backside willing to accept the hardness of my couch just for the chance of a few hours of shut-eye.
Phillipa was right, my couch is as hard as a rock.
After blinking three times in a row to lube up my eyes, I glance down at my phone to see who’s calling me. I’m hoping it’s Melody, but I am not disappointed when I discover it’s Isabelle.
“Miss me already?” I jest down the line, cringing when my voice comes out super groggy.
The sleep in my eyes scratches my eyeballs when my cheeks incline over Isabelle’s playful reply, “I do… but I also need a favor.”
“Another one.” The chuckle that follows my witty comment exposes I haven’t napped for long. I’m still on the cusp of insanity.
I sit up straighter when Isabelle discloses, “Megan Shroud was just seen leaving on a bus to New York. Can you please check if she purchased a one-way or a round-trip ticket?”
“Yeah, hold on.” I drag my laptop across the coffee table before logging into the local bus company’s web-hosting provider. I use the warrant my team was granted to track Isaac’s movements as an excuse to access their servers. It only takes three strokes to unearth an answer to Isabelle’s query. “It’s a one-way ticket.”
