Fractured by Deceit

by Jami Gray

  She gave me a doubt-filled side look and a careful nod but didn’t say anything.

  The final ding sounded, and I let her go. Stepping through the opening first, I did a quick assessment of the hallway. Empty both ways. Despite the soundproofing, I could hear soft murmurs from behind the closed doors of the other occupants. I moved aside, keeping a hand on the elevator door so it wouldn’t close, and motioned Megan out.

  When she moved into the hallway and turned to her apartment, I followed, the persistent itch making me uneasy. Busy monitoring the hall, I almost ran into Megan when she stopped short. My hands closed on her rigid shoulders. Following her fixed gaze, I realized she was staring at her door, which wasn’t fully closed.

  I pulled her back and to the side and put a finger to my lips. Her throat worked as she swallowed, but she wrapped her arms over her stomach and nodded, keeping quiet and still.

  Since I wasn’t currently carrying, a fact I’d remedy as soon the opportunity presented itself, I put my back to the wall on the hinge side of the door. Before I pushed it open, I visualized the layout of Megan’s apartment, cataloguing angles where her possible intruder could be situated. Thanks to the open floor plan, the possibilities were restricted to the couch, the kitchen, and a hall to my left.

  Not keen on getting plugged full of holes, I dropped into a crouch. My focus narrowed to surviving the fatal funnel of the doorway and clearing the apartment. Using the flat of my hand, I shoved the door wide and braced.

  Fortunately, there was no welcoming hail of bullets, so I rushed into the room, staying low to present a limited target, my head on a swivel. Light from the patio painted broad strokes through the apartment, but a quick scan didn’t reveal anyone lurking in the shadows. I stayed closed to the walls near the door as I took in the no-longer-neat living room.

  My instincts were grumbling that I was late to the party, but I wasn’t ready to risk letting Megan in until the entire apartment was cleared. Praying she’d stay put, I made quick work of the task. I hit Megan’s room, and my anger spiked, threatening to breach my control. The violation of her personal space was unmistakable. Drawers were partially open, their contents spilling out and onto the floor. A few bottles of whatever feminine shit she had on the dresser were leaking across the top of it and clogging the air in a sickening mishmash of odors. Books had fallen to the floor in a haphazard pile by the end table, and torn sheets of paper were mixed into the mess. When I flicked on the light in the walk-in closet, I found more of the same.

  I stalked out of her room and over to the one that belonged to her sister. The previously closed door was open in invitation. In that room, I noted fewer signs of a search. Either the intruder hadn’t been too interested in that room, or Megan’s sister was a lax housekeeper.

  By the time I retraced my steps back to Megan, I had no doubt that whatever this was—threat or warning or both—was aimed at her. Stepping through the door, I barely had time to brace before a pale-faced Megan rushed at me. I held her back by not moving out of the way. “Hold up.”

  She rocked to a stop, rolling up onto her toes before dropping back to her heels. Her hands landed on my chest, this time not to pet but to push me away. “Move, Bishop.”

  I had to give her credit—she almost pulled off making her words a command if I ignored the slight hitch at the end of my name. “Not until you take a breath and agree to stay at my side.”

  I didn’t think she could get much paler. I was wrong. “Oh God.”

  Realizing she’d taken my advice the entirely wrong way, I pulled her hands away from my chest. I held onto one of them just to ensure she’d stay at my side. “It’s a mess, but that’s probably the worst of it.”

  It was a lame attempt at reassurance, but it seemed to work. She stilled, and watching her pull it together, I couldn’t help but admire her inherent strength as she faced another violation. It might not be as bad as the one she’d already endured, but it was another shitty addition to the already craptastic pile she was dealing with.

  “Ready?” I asked.

  After getting her nod, I led the way inside, taking time to turn on the hall light. Behind me, she gave a small gasp, and the hand in mine tightened and pulled free. “Holy shit.”

  “Hang tight.” Leaving her frozen at the edge of the living room, I closed the front door and came back to her side to survey the mess. Her reaction was justifiable. At first glance, it looked like someone had torn through the room with a vengeance. Only on closer inspection did the destruction’s pattern become clear.

  “Keelie is going to be pissed.” Megan sounded angry, which made me happy.

  “I’m assuming you two have renter’s insurance.”

  She toed a torn-up couch cushion. “We do, but we’ll need a police report.”

  “I’ll call Delacourt and let her handle that.” I had no intention of spending the next couple of hours dodging questions I couldn’t answer.

  “Sounds good.” She spun in a slow circle, taking in the stuffing scattered like snow. “What on earth did they want?”

  Instead of answering, I gave her something else to focus on. “Why don’t you check out your room and let me know if anything’s missing.”

  She gave me an absentminded nod and headed down the hall alone.

  I made the call to Delacourt, who promised to have someone come by to take the report. Of course, she then demanded I catch her up on what had happened with Wolf. By the time I finished, Megan reappeared.

  Hanging up with Delacourt, I asked, “Anything missing?”

  “Not that I can tell.” She leaned against the wall, arms wrapped over her stomach, and stared at the living room. “What the hell was the point of this?”

  In the short time I’d spent with her, I’d learned not to sugarcoat my answers. “To rattle you.”

  She switched her gaze to me. “Well, they succeeded. I’m not sure I can sleep here tonight.”

  She said that as if staying had even been an option. “We won’t be. We’ll get a room after we talk to Delacourt’s police contact.”

  “I should call Keelie,” she murmured, wan and drawn with defeated exhaustion.

  “Tomorrow’s soon enough. For now, let’s see what we can salvage.” Noting the fear creeping back into her shadowed eyes, I decided it was time for a distraction. In the kitchen, a little poking around netted me a broom and dustpan. After a little more digging, I struck gold, locating a half-full box of garbage bags.

  I turned to find her standing there with her hands out. “Here, let me.”

  Recognizing her need for action, I handed over the broom and dustpan then moved into the living room. Picking up one of the couch cushions, I noted the long rip. I stacked the rest of the cushions in a pile. A judicious application of duct tape would be enough for most. “Got any duct tape?”

  From the kitchen came the sound of her rummaging, then she returned with the familiar gray roll. “Here.”

  I took it from her and went to work on taping the cushions back together. We worked in silence, the quiet broken by the rough rasp of tape and the dull clink of shattered dishes being dumped. With the last cushion temporarily repaired, I started restuffing.

  “Bishop,” Megan called.

  I looked up.

  She was shaking her head. “What are you doing?”

  “What’s it look like?”

  “Okay, why are you doing that?”

  Because it keeps me busy and keeps me from stewing in my temper. “Might as well salvage what we can.”

  She stood there, broom held like a staff, the dustpan forgotten in the hand at her hip. “Should we even try?”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, not that I’m familiar with filing police reports, but should we have left things alone until they got here?”

  She was probably right, but I knew what an impending panic attack looked like, and Megan had been a hairsbreadth away. “I’m sure sweeping up the broken dishes and doing a patch job on the cushions won’t undermine
their investigation.” I was betting that there wouldn’t be much to find by way of fingerprints. This toss job held too many professional markings.

  A knock sounded, followed by Rabbit’s distinctive drawl. “Y’all home?”

  I took a step to the side until I could see Rabbit coming through, Jinx on his heels. “You beat the police.”

  “We were nearby when Delacourt called.” Jinx picked her way around Rabbit and moved to Megan. “Hey, Megan, sorry about your apartment.”

  Megan managed a half-hearted smile. “Unfortunately, it’s my sister’s.”

  “Even worse.”

  “Yeah.” Megan blew out a breath. “Bishop, if we’re not staying, can I go grab some stuff while we wait?”

  I gave her a nod and shot Jinx a look. “I’ll come help,” Jinx said.

  “Thanks.” Megan turned and led the way down the hall.

  As the two women disappeared, Rabbit stopped next to me. “Quick-and-dirty job.” He eyed the intact TV and electronics, and his hazel eyes grew cold and turned serious. “Scare tactic.”

  “Yeah.”

  He dropped his voice. “What the hell does she know or have that’s got someone runnin’ hot?”

  I grimaced. “Hell if I know.”

  “Any luck with Wolf?”

  Since Megan was having a hard enough time coming to terms with the idea that she might have joined the psychic brigade, I kept that theory to myself. “Not much, but we’re meeting with Rico tomorrow.”

  Rabbit’s eyes narrowed. “‘Not much,’ but you’re bringing in Rico?” He folded his arms. “What ain’t you sharin’?”

  “It’s not mine to share,” I muttered. Then, so he’d stop pushing, I added, “not yet.”

  Before he could continue, a brisk knock announced the arrival of the authorities.

  Chapter Eleven

  Filing the report with the officer didn’t take nearly as long as it would have if the colonel hadn’t thrown her weight around, tapping a grizzled detective she knew to step in. Then there was brooding, impatient Bishop, whose attitude probably helped speed things along, too. Either way, a little more than an hour later, Bishop herded me out of Keelie’s apartment, leaving Rabbit and Jinx to stick around until the police were done.

  Bishop didn’t say much during the ride, which worked for me as I took advantage of the unexpected break offered by his quiet and tried not to think or feel. It wasn’t as hard as it sounded to accomplish.

  By the time we pulled up a hill and turned into a drive ending in a two-car garage that fronted a mid-century ranch, my eyes felt like they’d been scrubbed with a Brillo Pad. As the Jeep slowed to a stop, my brain decided to kick into gear, providing an increasing whirlwind of questions and worries that, despite my exhaustion, guaranteed there would be no sleep that night.

  The engine went silent, and Bishop said, “How are you doing?”

  Instead of blurting out the obligatory “Fine,” I poked at my response. The cautious optimism I’d woken with was long gone, extinguished by uncomfortable possibilities and surprise attacks. Fortunately, what replaced it wasn’t the familiar numbness but was, instead, gut-churning frustration and an annoying collection of unanswered questions. “You know what sucks the most about all of this? Say we manage to get through and unlock my memories. Maybe we get a face, and if we’re really lucky, we might get a name, but what then?”

  He shifted in his seat until he was facing me, one arm resting on the steering wheel. “What do you mean? We follow up.”

  Caught up in a bout of cynicism, I waved a hand between us. “Right, but then what?” I dropped my arm and made fists in my lap as I stared out the window, my voice tight. “You confront them with a kidnapping accusation, and they play dumb. It’ll come down to their word against mine.” I turned my head and met his gaze. “There’s no proof, and even if you found something, it still would come down to the crazy chick with PTSD versus whoever did this. Whoever is behind all of this is damn smart with seriously deep pockets, because it takes money to hide someone that deep for that long. Money and brains versus amnesiac me. There’s no way to make that work.”

  “You’re not giving yourself, or us, much credit.” There was no judgment in his tone.

  He might have been right, but… I forced my fists to relax and looked away. “It’s not that.”

  “Sure sounds like it.”

  I kept my attention on the fading light drifting across the front yard, knowing I wouldn't have the courage to share if I looked at Bishop. “I can’t shake the feeling we’re being…” I trailed off, unable to find the right word.

  “Played?” Bishop supplied.

  Sliding him a side look, I nodded.

  His mouth opened then closed, and he looked thoughtful. He tapped the steering wheel twice with his knuckles. “Do you know what my ability is?”

  Not sure where he was going with his question, I shook my head.

  “I know things.” Picking up on my confusion, he continued, “The official label is claircognizance or ‘clear knowing.’”

  That word triggered the memory of a long-ago conversation with my siblings about how perceived psychic abilities were categorized. Anything with “clair” attached to it fell into one of the four major intuitive groups. “So you’re like Risia? You can see the future?”

  He shook his head. “Not quite. Think of Risia as a pre-cog on steroids with an accuracy rating that’s off the charts. She gets sucked into visions, but what she sees can change because the future is fluid, altered by individual choices.” He looked away with a grimace. “I don’t see things. I feel that something is going to happen, and then it does.” His gaze came back to mine. “It’s knowing things beyond a shadow of a doubt. There are no triggers, no bad feelings, just knowing something will happen or why it will happen.”

  “Okay.” I drew out the word, feeling my way around his explanation. Rubbing my palm over my knee, I tried to figure out the difference between knowing and seeing the future.

  He must have read my confusion because he added, “Rabbit once described my talent as a psychic data download.”

  It was such a strange image. I asked, “So you’re a psychic computer?”

  That earned me a half laugh. “Maybe. The theory is that it is a mix of precognition and telepathy, like a combination of instinct, mind reading, and thought transference. Let’s just say that considering the advantages I tend to have in most situations, I’m not the one you want to play games with.”

  There was a familiar arrogance in his claim, one I’d heard with my brother, Dev. Since no one could lie to Dev, it not only left him cynical, but it also blinded him to the truth that no one could outrun the odds—that despite his gifts, someone would eventually manage to slip a lie past him. Maybe I was too tired to make his explanation work, but I wasn’t sure how it helped. “Are you saying that you know we’re being played with?”

  He looked away, his jaw flexing, before he turned back to me. “There’s no doubt we are. I just don’t think they understand who they’re playing against.”

  “And you do?” The question escaped before I could stop it. I raised a hand, half in apology and half to stop whatever answer he’d give me.

  He ignored my hand, the line of his jaw tightening. “When information came in on where you might be held, the colonel wanted to hold off on going in until she was certain it wasn’t a false lead. I knew it wasn’t, and I knew we had to act immediately.”

  Something in his tone made me brace myself. “Why?”

  “Because if we didn’t get you out within forty-eight hours, you would be dead.” He paused then dropped another revelation. “It’s also how I know that your suspicions are right.”

  I stilled, like a rabbit in the presence of a wolf, as a sense of dread settled like a stone on my chest. Arguing was futile against the utter conviction in his voice. Working against the heaviness in my chest, I wheezed, “What?”

  In the shadowy interior of the Jeep, it was hard to read his expres
sion, especially when he quickly locked it down as if prepping for an explosion. “You’re worried you’re being used against the team, a tool to destroy us.”

  Even though it wasn’t a question, I managed a nod.

  He gripped the steering wheel. I was so focused on that telling reaction that it took me a moment to register his gentle, “You are.” Then I jerked at the impact.

  A soundless wail tore through my mind, threatening to spill out, but a combination of pride and denial refused to give it voice. My tenuous belief that I hadn’t broken under the relentless mental torture shattered, and for a breathless moment, my world stilled, waiting for the approaching storm. Shame and fear rose, only to be sucked under by a tidal wave of fury and resentment.

  “No.” My denial came out as a whisper but then rose to a scream. “No, no, no, no!”

  Hard hands cupped my face and dragged me forward, and then my words were cut off by a hard kiss. The shock of it snapped me out of my hysteria and forced me to focus on breathing—not an easy task with Bishop sharing my breath. When he finally lifted his head, he left me breathing hard, my emotional storm momentarily held at bay.

  Staring into his dark eyes, I shared the only truth I had. “I need to leave.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.” Unable to hold his gaze while I struggled to get a handle on my feelings, I closed my eyes, but it didn’t help. “I won’t be the reason you get hurt.” Hurriedly, I tried to cover my slip by saying, “You or your team.”

  The hands on my jaw tightened then relaxed. “You won’t be.”

  My bitter laugh hurt my ears. “You just said differently.”

  “No, I said they wanted to use you as a tool, not that they would succeed.” His utter conviction made me lift my eyes and pull back, but Bishop didn’t let me get far. He waited until my gaze met his before he said, “Six months, Megan. They had you for six months and couldn’t break you.”

  I sneered. “You’re so wrong—they sure as hell did. Otherwise, this discussion would be moot.”

  “God dammit, woman,” he growled, his dark gaze bright with frustration and anger. “You were the one who came to us. You’re the one who agreed to let Wolf do his thing. If you’d broken, we wouldn’t be having this fucking conversation because you’d be under lock and key.”