“What is that?” I ask, pointing to it.
“An old cell, a dungeon I think, from when this was a real castle.”
Petra is frowning, peering through the woods at the half hidden stone structure. Patched in moss with a wooden door, the dungeon blends into the forest, looking as though it has not been used in decades. But then the sun glints off something shiny. I narrow my gaze. The dead bolt is new.
A shiver runs over me, and I keep my face averted, knowing that my expression of horror cannot be contained or covered up. Petra is keeping someone in that cell.
Dan
Eight hours after the initial attack, and I still have almost nothing. I’m pouring over the communication in and out of the island, but while we record every transaction, we don’t keep the content of the conversation. That is going to change.
My fingers shake as I scroll to the next page of calls, my eyes blurring. It’s been about twenty-eight hours since I last slept.
A knock on my door brings my head up. Anita, holding two steaming coffee cups, her hair loose and falling like a sheet of black silk over one shoulder, is framed in the glass. She’s wearing a bright green, thigh-length tunic and a pair of dark jeans. Her bare lips raise into a smile as I stare at her.
She looks well-rested, even with the lines of concern around her eyes.
I swivel my chair around and wave Anita in. Using her hip, she pushes open the door. "How are you doing?" she asks, crossing the office and extending one of the mugs.
I can smell it's chai, not coffee. Anita makes an amazing cup of chai: strong black tea, cardamon, cinnamon, and a heavy pour of whole milk.
The milk comes in tetra packs. It does not need to be refrigerated until opened. Our last shipment arrived six weeks ago; another will come next week. The company name and our contact there flashes through my brain, falls under brief suspicion, and then fades. We helped bring his mother’s murderer to justice. He has no family left. Besides, he’s not here enough to monitor George’s behavior.
I take the proffered mug. "Thanks, I'm okay."
Anita sits down in one of the other office chairs and spins back and forth on her toes, cupping her own mug. "When's the last time you slept?" She says it with curiosity rather than reproach, but I can't stop the hairs on the back of my neck rising like hackles. Leave me alone so I can figure this out.
"I'm fine," I say, my voice harder than I mean it to be.
She frowns, her dark, sculpted brows conferencing. "Dan." There is sympathy in her voice. Understanding. She holds my gaze, her beautiful, almond-shaped brown eyes not letting me turn away. "You need to take care of yourself in order to take care of the rest of us." I open my mouth to respond, but she leans forward and continues, cutting me off. "I understand how hard this is for you. But you have to let others help. And you have to sleep. Oh—" She gives me a smile. "And eat."
I turn away from her and back to my computer, scrolling through the list of calls again. "Anita, someone close to me is watching. I can't trust anyone.” I told Anita about George—she’s the only person I totally trust here.
"What about me? Can you trust me? Can you trust the rest of the Joyful Justice Council? When are you going to tell them?"
I grit my teeth and continue to scroll. I am not ready for them to know yet. Don't want to admit my failure.
"Dan." Her voice is lower now. "Tom told me what you did."
I turn to her quickly, anger sharpening my vision. "Tom? The guy you brought here without any background checks? And then suddenly we have an attack. You don't find that at all suspicious?"
Her cheeks brighten with color. "Without any background checks? He is my husband."
"That doesn't mean I trust him." My hands are shaking again, and I turn back to the computer before she sees it. The mug of chai sits untasted next to my elbow.
"Either let me help you, or I'll call the council myself." Her voice is steely. She's taken all pretense out and left behind only her bold, iron will.
"I need more time. I want to have something to tell them, a possible solution.” I keep scrolling through the communications, the black lines of text dancing in front of my exhausted eyes. There is nothing out of the ordinary here.
But then again, a call from George's family isn't out of the ordinary either. I sit back into my chair with a weary sigh and look at Anita. I'm being unfair. But so is she. My suspicions about Tom are warranted. She knows that.
"I'm sorry," I say. "I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that, but I am suspicious of Tom. I expect you can understand that.”
She nods. “I do. And I wasn't going to reprimand you for accusing him.” She takes a sip of her chai, her eyes turning thoughtful. "I was just going to suggest there might be a better way to investigate this."
“Like what?”
I turn fully toward her, picking up the cup and breathing in its spicy, sweet scent before taking a sip.
"First, I want you to get some rest. You need to sleep. To be clear-headed."
My eyes jump to hers. "Anita, you know I can go long stretches without sleep."
"From what I can tell, you've been up for over twenty-four hours, Dan." Her voice is cold. Calculated. She's been watching me.
"That's possible,” I hedge. “But, I often go long stretches without sleep. And I need to figure this out."
“I know how you get, Dan, the way you get sucked into your work and ignore the clock, but this is too much even for you. Nothing has happened since the attack. George appears to be the only one."
“Impossible. George may be the only compromised person who had the know-how to mess with our systems—to hack into the main servers. But he's certainly not the only person working against us. There must be at least one other person, someone reporting to whoever took George’s sister."
“But then they don’t have any power to hurt us.”
“I'm sure they're just waiting. Waiting for me to go to sleep so they can attack again.” The anxiety of the situation builds anew in my chest. I don't have time for this. I need to keep searching. I swivel back to my computer, putting the chai down away from my keyboard.
My gaze latches onto a call; George’s parents’ line, two hours before the attack…I have to ask him about it. I make a note in the text document I have open with all suspicious activity and set a hyperlink to the record. There are only four other calls on the list, and they are all long shots.
"Fine," Anita says, shifting closer to me, her elbow brushing mine. "If you won't rest, at least let me help you."
I glance over at her but don’t respond. She frowns at me, her eyes darkening. “I’ll call the council right now,” she threatens.
"Fine," I say. "I'm checking everyone's communications. Seeing what kind of calls have been going in and out recently. You can start checking emails. I doubt anyone would be stupid enough to put this in writing, which is why I'm checking calls first. But it can't hurt."
"How do I check emails?" Anita asks. I point to one of my other computers, and we scoot toward it together. Typing in my password, I bring up my system for tracking the email accounts of everyone who lives on the island. “Start at the top. Check George’s,” I swallow and force myself to continue. “Mitchel’s. And then move down.” Anita is looking at me, but I can’t hold her gaze. Yes, we are checking those closest to me first. “I’d look at the last ten days. See if you can find anything. We can go back further after that, but George got the call about his sister four days ago, so ten days is a good start.”
Anita nods, her eyes riveted to the screen.
I scoot back over to my console to continue my work. As I hear the clicking of Anita's keyboard, my shoulders begin to relax. I should have asked for her help earlier. I do trust Anita. And just because she has Tom here now doesn't mean we can't work together in the way we used to. Really, he changes nothing.
Unless he’s helping orchestrate this attack. In which case, everything will change.
Chapter Six
Declan
My jaw clenches, and I don’t respond. Just hold his gaze. Phelps grabs at the only file on the desktop and shakes it at me, the manila folder crumpling in his meaty grip. “You went through four other judges. Then show up at Justice Minerette’s house at ten o’clock at night like this is some kind of emergency!”
The manila folder gets mashed a little more before being smashed onto the desk again. “Then!” Phelps pauses to take a big breath, inflating his wide chest and standing to his full height. “Not only do you fail to apprehend Maxim and Rye, they actually knock out your men. And!” Another lungful of air, his face going a little purple around the edges. “I’ve got Senator Daniels breathing down my neck about how this was an illegal act.” He grabs the file again, shaking it. “Do you know how far up my ass he wants to shove this bullshit warrant? Do you know how much of a field day Maxim’s lawyers will have with this? What the fuck were you thinking?”
I’m guessing that’s a rhetorical question since it’s the third time he’s asked, but this time he just stands there, his frown so deep the wrinkles could hold a pencil. I clear my throat, and he raises his brows. “Take your time son, I’ve got all day.” His Texas accent is dripping with sarcasm.
I shift in my seat, sitting forward a little. “Well sir, I was thinking those two have gotten away with their crimes for too long and ought to pay for them. Joyful Justice is a dangerous criminal organization, and we need to do something about it.”
He shakes his head, snarling, and leans back onto his heels, lording over me. “You’re on administrative leave.” His voice goes low and almost sad—he sounds tired. “No pay. I’m gonna fire your ass as soon as I figure out how.”
Like I need your money.
I move to stand and he clears his throat, the color of his face normalizing. “One more thing before you slink off into whatever hole you climbed out of.” I raise my gaze to his. “I want you to go over your findings about the April Madden shooting with Officer Consuela Sanchez.” He shakes his head, making a sound of disgust. “Remember, the case you were sent to Miami to work on?”
I almost remind him April Madden is Sydney Rye aka Joy Humbolt’s mother, so the cases are connected, but I don’t. “Consuela Sanchez, sir?”
“Do you know her?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Her, sir?” I raise my brows, trying to drop the hint without having to say it. A woman on that case is a bad idea. Especially a woman of color.
“What?” He’s starting to smile, hoping to find a sexist racist in front of him. Hoping I’ll say something else that will sink me deeper into the shit, as if there is someplace lower to go after that fucking debacle.
“I’m sure she is very capable, but Men’s Rights Activists, specifically the Incels, are an all-male, mostly white group—they hate women. It’s why Jack Robertson shot April Madden.” Duh.
“I know that!” His voice raises again, the bluster coming back into his tone. “I read the reports you sent. Involuntarily celibates.” His eyes break from mine for a moment to glance at the gold ring shining on his wedding finger. “Poor bastards.” He shakes his head, his eyes returning to me.
Phelps and I both know my work on the Madden case was exemplary. Not an i left undotted or a t left uncrossed. I’m good at what I do. He clears his throat. “According to your reports, the community is online.”
“Mostly, sir. But they have meet-ups. That’s where I gathered a lot of my intel.” His gaze travels over my thick hair, muscled chest, and down to my gold watch. The Incels consider me a “chad.” A guy who can pick up women easily. They have no idea. “Using a confidential informant,” I clarify. “But I did the interrogations.” The Incels respect chads. They hate women.
With her allegiance to the “Her” prophet, and the crusade to free women from oppression, April Madden is the Incels’ worst nightmare. And she was an easy target. The Incels believe women oppress men, using their sexual wiles to control and manipulate us. Dumbasses.
“Sanchez is an excellent agent.” Phelps nods to himself. “Give her everything you’ve got.”
I don’t argue further. The fact is, my CI isn't going to talk to a woman. I turn to leave and am almost at the door when he barks my name again.
“Doyle.” I turn back to him. He’s leaning over his desk, fists resting on the wood. “Don’t go back to Miami. Leave Rye and Maxim alone.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I mean it,” he growls.
“I always take you at your word, sir.”
His eyes narrow and he nods once, turning to his chair, and I leave the office. Phelps’s secretary, Debra Armer, gives me a sympathetic smile. She must have heard the yelling. I offer a sheepish, bad boy grin in return that brings a touch of pink to the woman’s cheeks. I tip an imaginary hat to Debra and head down the hall—a disgraced man in his tailored suit under order to leave my quarry alone.
Like that’s going to happen. I almost laugh but hold it together as I wait for the elevator. Once I’ve briefed Sanchez, I’ll be back in Miami within hours. Maxim and Rye will pay for their crimes.
The night comes on fast—the crisp warmth of the bright fall day giving way to the chill darkness of evening—as I sit in a beer garden near the Capitol.
The bar’s backyard, smelling of dried leaves and car exhaust, provides a respite from the busy streets—a place to wait until my meeting with Sanchez, then onto a midnight flight back to Miami. To continue my work.
The space, empty when I arrive, fills with the same speed that the sun retreats. People in dark, government-regulation suits mingle under the strung lights, their beers clenched in white-knuckled fists, laughs strained until the first drink soothes their nerves, loosening their fingers and deepening their guffaws.
Settled into a dim corner, sipping seltzer, I check my phone repeatedly, waiting for the minutes to tick by. Keeping my eyes cast down to avoid attention, I almost make it to the appointed time without a single interruption save the waitress’s occasional visits to refresh my sparkling water.
I’ve only got another fifteen to go when a giggle brings my attention from the condensation dripping off my glass to the woman standing in front of my small table. A young, attractive brunette, wearing just enough make-up to appear professional without tipping over into harlot, stands before me. Her cheeks are flushed with either drink or nerves—when I meet her hazel eyes, she bites her bottom lip in a moment of hesitance before speaking. “Hi.” Her full lips spread into an inviting and friendly smile I can’t help but return. It’s just instinct.
Shifting to sit up from the slouch I’ve eased into while waiting, I raise one brow at her, letting a sparkle come into my gaze. Her cheeks brighten further. “Hi,” I say back.
She glances over her shoulder, pushing silky mahogany hair behind her ear. My gaze follows—three young women huddle together, all holding glasses of white wine. They gesture encouragingly to her, and she blushes even harder as she turns back to me.
“I’m Declan,” I say. “Do you want to join me?” I gesture to the empty chair at my table. She slides into it without a word, her almost-full wine glass settling in next to my seltzer.
“I’m Jane.” Her voice is high, and I detect an accent, something Southern maybe.
“Nice to meet you, Jane.” I lean forward, my eyes glancing at my phone for a moment before returning to hers. I have ten minutes.
Jane sips her wine. “I just saw you sitting over here all alone and…” I give her a warm, soft smile. “You looked like you could use some company.” Definitely Southern…Georgia, probably.
“That’s awfully nice of yo
u, Jane.” She drops her gaze when I use her name, the blush pinking her cheeks, turning them almost red…almost.
My phone pings with a reminder that I need to leave in seven minutes to make it the three blocks to my meeting.
The waitress passes, catching my eye, and I gesture to Jane’s drink and then for the check. She nods. “I’m sorry,” I say to Jane. “But I have to leave. I have a meeting that should take about an hour. Will you still be around? I’d love to finish our conversation.” Get you into bed and relieve some of my pent up frustration.
Jane’s mouth opens in surprise, and I lean my forearms onto the table, making my biceps bulge and inching closer to her. Jane’s hands flutter for a moment around her wine, unsure of what to say. “Give me your number,” I suggest, my voice low and thrumming. “And I’ll call you when I’m finished.”
The waitress returns with the check and a full glass of wine for Jane—who looks up at the waitress, almost for help. But the older woman is already moving on to the next customer.
Pulling the bill over, I glance at the total before dropping a twenty onto the tray. That’s a 50% tip. A little nectar to help lure my hummingbird…
“How about this?” I say, beginning to stand. “I’ll give you my number. And if you want to see me later, call.” I’m hovering over her now, and Jane watches as I slip into my tailored suit jacket. Her gaze strays to my tapered waist, and I control the surge of victory that pulses through me as I extract a card from my wallet.
Laying it next to her glass of wine, I lean forward, so my shadow falls across her, and the space between us is suddenly narrow and intimate. She sucks in a breath, her eyes dilating. “I hope you call,” I say.
She pulls that lower lip back under her teeth and nods just slightly. My fingers brush against hers in a brief goodbye, and I turn from the table. Her friends are all watching, and as my gaze lands on them they quickly turn away, pretending to be looking at the ground, or the sky…anywhere but me.
Betray the Lie Page 5
