by Shandi Boyes
My beliefs only changed the night of Joey’s party.
Not wanting my mind to get sidetracked again, I ask Mr. McGee in a kind and professional voice, “Is there something I can help you with?”
He walks into the room, all regal-like. “I popped by your apartment. You weren’t home. Clearly.” His laugh makes me so uncomfortable I stand to give my flipping stomach room for its churns. “I figured you’d be here. Barbara put many hours into her studies before we wed. I often found her in the library.” Even though they’re in the process of separating, he speaks fondly of his wife while shuffling through the case files I’m working on. When his eyes lift to mine, I forcefully swallow. They’re so hollow even with them being oddly familiar. “Will you continue working once you’ve wed?”
I nod without pause for thought. “Julian has no wish for me to stop. He knows how important this is to me.”
“He sounds a lot like your father.” He tosses down a file with more aggression than needed, ensuring I’m aware his dislike of my father is still apparent even years after his death. “I heard the ruling on his accident was altered. What are your thoughts on that?”
“Umm…” I’m truly lost for a reply. Mr. McGee isn’t a caring man, so why is he pretending as if he is? “I’m not exactly sure what to think of it, to be honest. It’s all rather new. I’m still trying to process it all.”
A reason for his visit comes to light when he asks, “Are you planning to sue?” He’s not worried about my well-being after discovering my parents were murdered by the man who brutalized them years earlier. He doesn’t want a murky cloud placed over his state’s head.
Yes, you heard me right. Vincent McGee believes he owns New York. He’s wrong, but the last man to tell him that is buried in a cemetery next to his wife and my mother, so I’d rather not point it out when I’m alone with my attacker’s father in a room that only has one exit. I’m not scared of Mr. McGee, I’m frightful of the children he raised.
With my mood hostile, my words get snappy. “I have no intention to sue, so you have no need to fret.” I stack my files together before sliding them into my messenger bag. “What happened was unfortunate, but as far as I’m concerned, the matter has been attended to.” I don’t know who killed Milo Bobrov, and in all honesty, I don’t care. Justice was swiftly served. I couldn’t have asked for more than that. “If that’s all, I’d like to get a head start on my weekend?”
I’m heading for the door before half my question leaves my mouth, my brisk strides only stopping when Mr. McGee’s hand shoots out to seize my elbow. “Where do you think you’re going? I’ve not yet finished speaking with you.”
On instinct, I respond to his somewhat aggressive hold and statement with the same amount of edginess he used to deliver it. The breath that vacates Mr. McGee’s lungs when I ram my elbow into his ribs fans my nape. When I lower my elbow ten or so inches, the remaining air in his lungs expels with numerous curse words. I saw him mutter them multiple times in my childhood, but the disdain they are delivered with this time around is nothing like I imagined. They’re full of hate and disgust. Furthermore, I’ve been assaulted by a McGee once before. I refuse to let it happen again.
As I tear away from him, a scream peels from my throat. I bolt out of the Resources Office so fast anyone would swear I’m outrunning the Grim Reaper. Partway down, I crash into someone coming from the other end.
“Mel? What’s going on? Why are you running?”
Although I recognize both the voice and the scent of the person gripping my shoulders, I break out of his hold with the determination I wish I had showcased seven years ago. I need fresh air, and no amount of reassurance that I’m safe can take that away from me.
“Mel? Melody?” Julian continues to shout until the fire alarm on the emergency door I burst through gobbles up most of his words. It’s for the best because from the menace of his words, and the threat they arrive with, I don’t think they were for me. He has his sights set on one man—the one I’m sprinting away from like my life is in danger.
I stop twisting the hem of my skirt around my fingers when a pair of polished black dress shoes pop into my peripheral vision. I don’t need to glance up to know who they belong to. The designer price tag is indicating enough, much less the reflection of his face gleaming in the shiny black material.
“Am I fired?”
Leo, my boss, plants his backside on the grimy step outside of our office building, acting as if his pricy suit isn’t worth the coat hanger his dry cleaner hangs it on at the end of each week. The contents pooling in my nose almost spills when he hands me his embossed handkerchief. It’s his compassion that makes him such a good DA. He understands what the victims have been through as he too is a victim. I don’t know what he’s been through, or how he overcame it, but I know he’s been through something. Victims of crime have a way of recognizing each other. He saw the pain in my eyes as readily as I noticed his. I guess that could be the reason he went against protocol to hire me on the spot. I always thought it was because he’s friends with Julian, but I’m doubtful now.
The sleeve of Leo’s rolled-up dress shirt tickles my arm when he leans in close to my side to whisper, “Why would you be fired, Melody?”
I pull a duh face. “I hit the Governor.”
Dark hair falls into Leo’s eyes when he shakes his head. “You defended yourself when you were touched without permission. Much to Vincent McGee’s disgrace, that isn’t an offendable crime.” His dark blue irises glisten in the streetlight when he slants his head to hide the curve of his lips. “If your second hit had been a little to the left, our conversation might have been starkly different.”
Certain I’m reading the humor in his eyes right, I mumble, “I’ll put more thought into my aim next time.”
“I most certainly hope you do.” When he stands to his feet, I attempt to hand him back his unused handkerchief. “Keep it. It’ll do me great pleasure for Julian to find it in your underwear drawer.”
He grazes his knee against my shoulder before signaling to someone across the street. My heart leaps into my throat when I spot who curls out the back-passenger door of a heavily tinted SUV. Julian’s knuckles are still red and swollen from when he roughed-up Mr. McGee, but the fury on his face when he was marched out of the DA’s office in handcuffs is nothing like it once was. If anything, he looks panicked that I’ll react negatively to his gallantry. I would have preferred to keep him out of my messy life, but I guess he knew what he signed up for when he asked me to become his wife.
When Julian stops in front of me, I slip my hand between his before raising my watering eyes. “I’m sor—”
“Shh.” He pulls me into his chest before weaving his fingers through my hair. “I don’t need your apologies, Mel. I just need to know you’re okay. No woman should be required to handle Vincent alone, let alone one who’s been through what you’ve been through.” He whispers his last sentence only loud enough for me to hear.
“I’m okay.” My words are muffled since he’s holding me close, but I know he hears them as his racing heart calms within a nanosecond of them leaving my mouth. “But I’d really appreciate it if you could take me home. I need to shower.”
Nodding, Julian inches back, secures my hand in his, then guides me toward his guarded, and most likely, bulletproof car. When he advises the driver to take us to my loft, I curl my unclutched hand over the balled one resting on his trousers. I don’t know what was said between Mr. McGee and him, but it was clearly unpleasant. His jaw is ticking, and his blue irises are swamped by black pupils. I’ve never seen him so worked up.
“Can we stay at your place tonight? I don’t want to go back to my loft.” I didn’t acknowledge it at the time, but shockwaves rained down on me when Mr. McGee said he had dropped by my apartment. Just the thought of our exchange taking place in my home has me breaking out in hives. I struggle being alone with Julian, so you can imagine how hard it is when your male guest shares the same blood as the man
who raped you. “It’s closer, and I’m really tired.” I’m lying. We can walk to my loft within five minutes at this time of the night. I just don’t want to go there right now.
I also don’t want to be alone.
“Of course.” Julian hides his surprise at my request to spend the night at his penthouse for the first time with a high tone. “Shall we swing by your apartment and pick up some of your belongings first?”
I shake my head. “I have everything I need right here,” I assure him while snuggling into his side. “Just take me home.”
“Home,” Julian repeats, smiling. “I like the sound of that.”
9
Brandon
Isabelle’s eyes lower to the clipboard in her hand when Hugo asks, “Are you sure this is the address you're looking for?”
He pulls my BMW into the dusty driveway of the Shroud family ranch before swinging his eyes to Isabelle. How is he driving my car on the day Isabelle and I decided to travel to Megan’s family home for some private investigative work? He took command of it when Isabelle shot out the tires of his Isaac-owned Audi hours ago.
I had noticed we were being tailed not long after we left Isabelle’s apartment, but since I was too busy getting IA off Isabelle’s ass, I failed to notice a second vehicle until we were on the freeway. I knew Isabelle’s gall would be as high as she is tall—she was raised by a big, balding Russian with a short fuse—but I never anticipated for her to respond to the news we had a tail in the way she did. She approached the target as she was taught in the academy, then halted his wish to retreat when he failed to yield at her request.
I shouldn’t have been relieved when we discovered the perp was Hugo but, for some reason, I was. I’m planning to toss Isabelle into shark-infested waters next weekend, so the more protection she has, the better it will be for all involved. I won’t let Castro or anyone from his crew get to within an inch of Isabelle, but not even the most confident agents turn down a third set of eyes.
After double-checking the number hand-painted on a microwave at the front of the Shroud’s family ranch, Isabelle nods. A stern mask slips over Hugo’s face when he returns his foot to the gas pedal. He’s barely driving five miles an hour, but dust still kicks up behind us. It doesn’t look like these parts have seen a rain cloud for a few months.
It’s as drought-affected as my mouth when a once-regal farmhouse comes into view. The steps are rickety, the porch is unloved, and it looks like no one has lived here in years. It has me wondering what my mother has endured the past two months. She moved back to our family ranch in Saugerties the day she filed for divorce from my father. I’m glad she has finally seen through his gleaming exterior, but I’m still not convinced the ranch is the best place for her. It’s not just filled with haunted memories, no one has lived there in years. It’s most likely in a state of disrepair.
My eyes float back to Hugo when he asks, “Whose house is this?”
When Isabelle seeks my advice on how to answer him, I shrug. If she’s not comfortable being honest with him, it isn’t my place to intervene. I’ll go with anything she chooses.
After a few seconds of silent deliberation, Isabelle answers Hugo’s question. “Megan Shroud.”
I take a mental note to keep a closer eye on Hugo when air whizzes out of his nose. Has he heard of Megan before because she’s stalking Isaac’s brother? Or because Megan’s father dabbled in the same industry Isaac is tiptoeing his empire toward?
A grin curls on my lips when Hugo foils Isabelle’s attempt to exit the car when he pulls in front of the ranch. “Let us check it out first.” He gestures his hand to me during his statement.
Although I commend Hugo’s protectiveness, Isabelle has a point when she snarls. “I'm a federal agent, Hugo, I am not a child.”
A chuckle steals the air from my lungs when Hugo snaps back, “Yeah, and that's Freddy-fucking-Kruger’s house. If Isaac finds out I let you go in there without me first scoping the premises, I won’t be on his Christmas card list anymore. He gives very generous bonus checks in his Christmas cards.”
An average man would believe he’s merely doing the job he’s paid to do. I’m far from average. He cares for Isabelle, but I am unsure if it’s friendship based or because he lives his life in guilt from what happened to Gemma—the woman he was convicted of raping. It may be a bit of both.
Believing he has Isabelle subdued, Hugo exits the car. I quickly shadow him. We’ve barely creeped up the front stairs when the crank of a car door breaks through the silence teeming between us. Forever willing to test the boundaries, Isabelle has joined us on the porch.
Her gun is held high and without a quiver. She’s assessing her surroundings as all good agents do, but Hugo still treats her as if she’s a child. “Stay behind me.”
Isabelle loses the chance to remind him that she’s an agent when Hugo removes a gun from the back of his jeans. It isn’t illegal to carry a concealed gun in this state, but I doubt Hugo has a permit. Even if his alias could have passed the background check, his weapon of choice is too high-powered to be licensed.
With silence paramount, my thoughts drift to the past. The wind whistling through the cracks of the floorboards reminds me of the Greggs’ family ranch the year they moved in. It was rundown and old despite Liam having access to a bank account full of funds. I guess an eighty-three-thousand-dollar ranch paid for in cash is less conspicuous than a two-million-dollar penthouse. No one batted an eyelid when Carlyle Shroud spent fifty-eight thousand dollars in one afternoon at Hopeton thirty years ago, so would they care if a man funded a move to the country with tainted money. Money makes the world go around. Cash just slows its rotations.
My mind snaps back to the present when Hugo bumps me with his shoulder before nudging his head to the door, instructing for me to knock. Although stunned he’s handing the reins to me, I do as requested. An odd sensation is filling the air, encouraging our joint operation.
The door swings open when I tap on the weather-damaged material. “I'm an FBI field agent, is anyone home?”
I hear Isabelle’s swallow more than I see it when Hugo’s eyes rocket my way. It’s the fight of my life not to smile at the shock on his face. I had wondered if Isaac’s security team had looked into me after my date with Isabelle months ago. Now I know without a doubt. I bet he didn’t find anything. I’m as good at covering my tracks as my father is.
Endeavoring to keep my focus on the task at hand, I shift on my feet to face Isabelle. “Did you hear that?” When her brows scrunch, confused, I try another angle. “I think I heard someone yelling for help.” Agents can’t enter a property without a warrant unless it’s to prevent an occupant inside from being seriously injured, hence my belief I hear someone shouting for help.
Hugo clicks onto my ruse quicker than Isabelle. “Yeah, I heard it, too. We should probably check on them.”
Hugo puts his years in the military to good use when he silently signals for me to enter the residence before him. While he sweeps the lower left of the shambled conditions, I take the right. Isabelle is here with us, but the stench of rotten food scraps and the scattering of rats has her not as eager to lead our investigation. She’d rather hang toward the back.
Signs someone lives here is exposed when Isabelle switches on the tube lighting wired throughout the beamed roof. The smell alone should render this residence uninhabitable, much less the number of rodents. I’ve spotted five rats so far, and I’ve barely stepped into the living room. Carlyle clearly didn’t get his money’s worth with his groomed bride. This place is a pig-sty.
When Hugo signals for me to clear the lower level of the property while he and Izzy take the upper half, I nod, agreeing with him. I’d rather Isabelle stay with me, but I can’t seek hidden clues if my every move is being watched. Carlyle purchased his wife at a live auction. They are invitation-only events, which means Carlyle most likely knew the men helming the operation. Although it was well before Isaac Holt’s time, so Isabelle’s attendance would
n’t cause a conflict of interest, the man believed to shelter Isaac’s empire was most certainly in operation back then. Henry Gottle has been in this game since the day he took his first breath.
As the creaking of Isabelle and Hugo’s steps sound through my ears, I move into the kitchen. The floor is coated with food scraps, giving the room an odd fermented smell.
My heart falls from my ribcage when Isabelle’s squeal erupts into my ears. I dart for the stairwell, stomping halfway across the dirty living room before I realize the cause of her fright. Hugo’s boot broke through the frail wooden steps, sprinkling the plastic-covered couches underneath with shards of wood.
While Hugo pulls his foot out of the big hole, I move closer to the sofas that look like they were purchased right around the time Megan’s mother was bought. The plastic looks like it was placed on them to protect the floral material from being worn. Only a trained agent would know to look deeper into the reasoning. Why would you bother keeping a couch in new-like condition when you live in the equivalent of a pig-sty?
My brows pull together when the scent of dampness fills my nostrils at the removal of the first lot of plastic. We’re heading toward winter, so the conditions aren’t humid enough to cause the plastic to sweat. It appears as if the couches were cleaned but covered while still damp.
But why clean spotless couches? That doesn’t make any sense. Unless…
I rip open the drawers in the entryway table before making my way into the kitchen. I don’t have my equipment case with me, but even a novice can scan for bodily fluids with basic gear you’ll find in any house. Although I don’t recommend doing this if you enjoy vacationing. Semen shines the brightest because of its mix of chemicals, and it lasts the longest, so you’ll generally find every bit of bedding in a standard hotel room will be coated in it. The amount will have you demanding to speak to the manager immediately.
