by Shandi Boyes
How fucked up am I?
Who thrives on other people’s unhappiness? I know misery loves company, but this is ridiculous. I’m better than this.
Or so I thought.
I wait for the familiar bell of the elevator advising its doors are closing before I take my frustration out on the entryway table. When I send it flying across the room, it knocks my laptop off the dining room table before it smashes the protective glass barrier around the fireplace. It feels good freeing some of the anger tearing me up inside, I’m tempted to see how sturdy my dining table is by taking a baseball bat to it, but before I can, an unfamiliar voice sounds through my ears.
“I would have never guessed she was the reason for my missing files…”
I move closer to my laptop, certain that’s where the voice is projecting from.
“I don’t know how long this has been going on, but from what I’ve unearthed so far this week, it appears to have been occurring for a few years.”
When I flip my laptop over to face me, the man reflecting back at me doesn’t match the strength of his voice. He has a deep, gravelly tone that belongs to a fit, early thirties man. This face is gaunt, white, and has more similarities to mine than I care to share.
My heart pains for Dane when he says, “Then the rest of the money… God, I don’t even know where it’s gone. Our mortgage is above our means, and Kristin is driving my old sedan.” Determination sparks in his eyes when he stares down the lens. “But I will find out. Put your money on it—”
“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath when a second person joins the frame. I can’t see much of the face of the person who snuck up on Dane unaware, but it doesn’t take away from the sickening act occurring. She has wrapped an extension cord around his neck. It isn’t in a loving way.
When the blonde pulls Dane’s mobility chair out from beneath him, I drop my eyes to the ground. The sound of his struggle is more than I can handle. I don’t want to watch it. His gurgles as he fights to fill his lungs with air thrusts images of the last time I saw Joey into my head, but instead of letting it knock me down as many other things have the past few weeks, I recall how much lighter my shoulders felt when I was given closure.
I want Grayson and Alex to experience the same relief, so instead of continuing to dispel my rage, I do what I was trained to do. I protect, I serve, I honor, and I obey.
It just isn’t to the person I thought it would be.
34
Brandon
I scrub a hand over my eyes when my phone commences hollering. I fell asleep on my sofa—again—even with it being designed to discourage couch sleepers. Even someone without a dime to their name would choose a cardboard box in a cold alleyway over my couch. It has my back out of whack as well as my mood.
Aware no one would call this early unless it were urgent, I snag up my cell phone, slide my finger across the screen, then squish it to my ear. My caller breaks into a panicked script before I have the chance to issue a greeting. “How did you hack into Dane’s bank accounts? He didn’t leave his shit open for anyone to see. He was pedantic about security.”
My surly mood is heard in my reply. “Good morning to you, too, Alex.”
Not that Alex cares how I’m feeling. He’s as bad as Isaac. Unless it directly affects him, he doesn’t give a fuck about anything or anyone. “You hacked in like you did Regan’s laptop, didn’t you? Hung around until you got what you needed?”
“No. I had a search warrant for a very valid reason—”
“Dane wasn’t rogue!” he interrupts, having no clue he’s once again shifting his anger onto the wrong person. I’ve spent the last sixteen hours combing through evidence on a case that has nothing to do with me for him, so the least he could do is give me some fucking respect.
After giving him a moment to calm down, and perhaps myself, I say, “I never said he was.”
The pause must have done Alex some good. He’s thinking more rationally now, albeit a little hesitant. “The warrant was for Kristin?” I barely pop out a halfhearted sigh when he demands, “Tell me everything you know, Brandon.”
“I don’t know anything.” I do, but I’m sure as fuck not giving him all the details. My first search was illegal, so if news of it gets out, my career will nosedive even more than it already has.
“Tell me everything you fucking know, Brandon!” Confident shouted words won’t rattle me, Alex low-balls with a tasteless threat. “Or I’ll make sure every agency from New York to Burbank knows the real reason you go by an alias.”
Does that mean what I think it does? Is he aware Melody was raped by my brother? If so, it’s fucked he’s using that against me. If I had it my way, I’d drag Madden’s name through the mud. The only reason I’ve kept quiet is because Melody doesn’t want her name associated with a political scandal. She wants to give it the merit it deserves. I owe her that much to see her request through. It’s the least I can do after I failed her so badly.
Although I’m pissed about Alex’s demanding ways, I hit him with a fact that will knock his attitude down a peg or two. “Kristin made a $30,000 payment to Gabriele Francesco two weeks before the FBI’s raid on Substanz.” I give him a second to absorb my first disclosure before hitting him with another. “It was refunded in full the day following Dane’s accident.”
He clicks on rather quickly. “Because the hitman didn’t get his mark?”
An agreeing hum has barely left my lips when someone’s fist pounding into a steering wheel sounds down the line.
“Alex…” I pull my phone away from my ear to check our call is still connected before squashing it back up against it. “Are you there?”
When my question is answered with nothing but silence, I realize Alex wasn’t beating the steering wheel with his fists. He used his cell phone.
Cursing, I disconnect our call before trying Alex’s work number. He didn’t let me finish, so he isn’t just working off half-truths. If he’s going home as suspected, he could potentially walk straight into a death trap.
When the phone in Alex’s office rings out two times in a row, I resort to a new low.
With my number being unknown, I didn’t anticipate for Isaac to answer as quickly as he does. “Unless your calling to tell me what got Isabelle so worked up after seeing you yesterday morning, I don’t have time for you.” His tone is thicker than usual, incapable of hiding his anguish.
“I need Regan’s cell phone number.”
He’s quick to deny any knowledge of her existence, but before he can hang up on me, I aim to sway his opinion on the matter. “I could have hacked into her laptop, but this was quicker and more respectful. Which would you prefer me to do?” When nothing but his burly breaths come down the line, I add, “Please. It’s urgent.”
I don’t know what gets me over the line, the desperateness in my tone or Isaac’s eagerness to keep me out of his records, but he hands over Regan’s details with only the slightest threat. “If I find out this wasn’t critical, my reputation will live up to your expectations.”
While murmuring out a halfhearted agreement, I scratch pen to paper, farewell Isaac with a grunt, then punch Regan’s cell phone number into a device tracker I designed during my time with the analyst division of the Bureau. It’s faster than the old version, and it brings up Regan’s location immediately.
It’s worse than I thought.
Alex isn’t just heading straight into the line of fire.
So is his girlfriend.
After punching an alert into the Bureau’s mainframe, announcing gunfire at the Bureau-owned apartment block Alex lives in, I dial Regan’s number while hightailing it to my car. I could get in shit if it’s a false alarm, but I’d rather be cautious than sorry. Some mistakes you can’t undo.
I learned that the hard way.
It takes Regan a few seconds to answer, but when she does, I’m confident Isaac gave me the wrong number. “Hello.” She only speaks one word, but her tone is so brittle, I’m confident she’s on
the verge of crying. That’s not like Regan at all. Not in the slightest.
“Regan?” The unease in my voice is understandable. I feel like I’m about to be snagged in a trap. When a whoosh sounds down the line, I take that as confirmation I have the right person. “Is Alex with you?”
“No, he’s in his apartment…” I hear her forcefully swallow before she mutters, “… with Kristin.” The brutal slam of my car door drowns out what she says next.
After pressing the start button on the dashboard, I pull my seat belt across my torso. “He’s with Kristin?”
The whoosh from earlier returns. “I think?”
“You think or you know?” I don’t mean to snap at her, but I’ve had enough assumptions the past few weeks to last me a lifetime. It’s time for me to start working off facts.
As I throw my gearshift into reverse, then tear out of my parking bay, Regan replies, “I don’t know. He cuffed me in his car.” When I curse under my breath, her panic doubles. “Why does it bother you if he’s with Kristin?”
“Because he didn’t let me finish.” I push my car to its absolute limit. I’m not going to lie, I need the hit of adrenaline that comes from a sting. I’ve missed it more than I realized the past year and a half. “Kristin didn’t just organize the hit on Dane, she killed him, Regan. She was brought in for questioning this afternoon.”
“Is she still under arrest?”
Air leaves my lungs in a hurry when I shake my head. “No. She was released two hours ago.”
When I hear Regan throw open a car door, I shout, “Authorities are on their way,” before giving my car the thrashing of its life.
I race through the streets of Ravenshoe feeling more alive than I have the past year. Only one moment in time has trumped it. When I kissed a trail from Melody’s neck to the waistband of her panties. The taste of her skin on my tongue should have been enough. I should have appreciated what I had.
Instead, I fucked it up.
I always fuck it up.
As I skid to a stop next to Alex’s old sedan, I shake my head, ridding it of the negativity bombarding it. My already brisk strides double when the ricochet of a gun being fired bellows down the stairwell I’m climbing. It’s a quick pop, pop, pop noise that’s closely followed by a fourth bang. The final shot appears to be a higher caliber than its predecessor.
With the firing of multiple guns waking them from their sleep, several agents leave the safety of their apartments. Mercifully, none of them mistake me as the intruder. I may not be a part of their team anymore, but they know I’m not a baddie.
“FBI agents. Put down your weapon,” I shout before pushing open Alex’s partially cracked open door and storming into his living room.
The scene is one I’ve entered many times before, but for once, the good guys won. Two small blonde girls are clutching Regan’s thighs. Alex has been shot in the shoulder but appears stable, and Kristin is lying lifeless on the floor with three bullet wounds to her torso and one to her head.
I should be pleased by the outcome, it could have ended much worse, but for some reason, I can’t find joy in it. I guess my mom’s old saying is true:
Every thought is a battle
Every breath is a war
But once you give up
You can’t win anymore.
35
Brandon
“Did you catch up on any sleep today? You look like shit.”
I roll my eyes at Phillipa before accepting the towel she’s holding out for me. I’m in the bathroom in my apartment, and she has no respect for privacy.
While wrapping the towel around my waist and grabbing another from under the vanity to dry my shaggy hair, I ask, “Did Kristin pull through?”
Phillipa waits for me to get myself into some sort of order before she shakes her head, acting ignorant to the liquor she smells leeching from my pores. “Her daughters will stay with Alex until their next of kin arrive.”
My lips twist. “I thought Alex was their guardian?”
Phillipa sighs. “So did I. Turns out Kristin changed that part of her will when Dane’s insurance fell through. She couldn’t suck him dry anymore, so she went after his parents.”
A pfft vibrates off my lips. “From the reports I read, that’s the equivalent of seeking blood out of a stone. They don’t have any money.”
I can only work off what I’ve seen, but it appears as if Kristin was accepting payments from Isaac without Dane’s knowledge. Was it for illegal purposes? I don’t know. That’s something Grayson’s team will look at when they endeavor to unearth how all the storylines surrounding this town are merging into one.
When Phillipa lifts her chin, agreeing with me, I gesture mine to my open bedroom door, requesting a minute to get dressed. A halfhearted grin tugs at my lips when she rolls her eyes. She hasn’t flirted with me since the gala. I assumed her lack of interest was because her cover was blown. I’ve been thinking differently the past few days.
I can’t one hundred percent testify to this, but I’m reasonably sure her focus was on something else—or should I say, someone else. You can’t continue crushing on someone when a new crush shows up. Only fools who believe they can reignite old flames give that notion a run for its money.
After yanking on a pair of sweatpants and tugging a shirt over my head, I join Phillipa in my living room. “How did you get past my security?”
She pulls a ‘duh’ face. “You mean the digital lock with Melody’s date of birth as the pin?”
Not needing further explanation, I pace into the kitchen, eager to get back to the commiserating I was doing before sweaty pits demanded an intermission.
“Did you want a drink?”
Phillipa’s eyes drop to the almost-empty bottle of whiskey in my hand before they return to my face “I thought you were more a margarita type of man?”
“I’ll down anything if it takes the edge off,” I mutter before I can stop myself. “Don’t,” I plea when the humor in Phillipa’s eyes switches to worry. “I had my ass chewed out by Grayson before I entered the shower and was eyed like a freak by Alex earlier today. I’m at my quota for explaining myself today, so either drink with me or leave me to drink alone. Please.”
After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, she mutters, “I’ll drink with you.” The tension depriving the air of oxygen eases when she mutters under her breath, “Just don’t blame me if I ram my tongue down your throat after a scotch or two. It was proven without a doubt two weeks ago that I get randy when drunk.” When my brow cocks, wordlessly demanding an explanation, she gives as good as she’s getting. “Don’t go picking locks you don’t want open, BJ. Because if we unlock this vault of craziness, we’ll move straight onto yours.”
More than happy to miss that shitshow, I pour us a generous serving of whiskey before nudging my head to the living room, wordlessly inviting for her to join me in there.
When she follows me with only the slightest groan, I ask, “What’s the reason for your visit?” I shut down the lie I see in her eyes before she can deliver it. “Don’t act like you flew down here for no reason, Phillipa. You like me, but you don’t like me that much.”
She scoffs. “I like you a lot, thank you very much. I just found out the hard way that my feelings would never be reciprocated.” After snatching one of the whiskeys out of my hand, she throws down the double shot in one hit, then slams the empty glass onto the coffee table. “I saw you kiss Melody. It sucked.” If I thought her first confession was shocking, it has nothing on her second one, “Then I kissed Julian. It didn’t mean anything. We were both drunk, and we had no clue who the other was until you invited me to Melody’s ranch a few days later.”
“You said you handled the ransom Julian paid to Castro.”
“No,” she corrects, her voice fierce. “My team did. I was too busy…”
When her words trail off to silence, I fill in the quiet. “Pretending to be an FBI agent. Got it.”
She rolls her eyes before lock
ing them with mine. There’s something in them I haven’t seen before. “I kind of like him, but I shouldn’t because I don’t really know him.” If she were a cartoon, love hearts would be bouncing out of her eyes right now. “But I do. I do like him.”
Although nothing but honesty is heard in her voice, I’m still lost. “And you’re telling me this because…” I understand I have the boy-next-door, best-friend persona down pat, but still, this seems odd.
My eyes snap to Phillipa when she mumbles, “Because there’s a possible conflict of interest.”
I stare at her, begging for her to fill in the blanks.
When she leaves me hanging, I squawk, “How?”
“Do you remember how we theorized about Melody possibly being sold?” When I nod, her big exhale fans my face with whiskey. “I’m reasonably sure Julian was sold.”
The thrashing of my heart juts up my words. “Reasonably sure? Or sure sure? I can’t accept half-assed assumptions, Phillipa. I’m way beyond that.”
My throat works hard to swallow when she mutters, “He was sold. He could have quite possibly been the first…”
“The first…” I gulp when I read the truth from her eyes. “The first baby sold by the Castros’ baby-making syndicate?”
She screws up her face before nodding. She isn’t apprehensive. She’s cringing over the high pitch of my voice. “It gets worse.”
“I don’t know how, but hit me with it.”
Phillipa waits for me to finish my whiskey before spilling her guts. “You also have an undisclosed conflict of interest.”
I’m about to say, ‘No shit, Sherlock.’ Melody was Julian’s fiancée—if not still—so that automatically links me to Julian’s case, but I realize I’m way off the money when I see the worry in Phillipa’s eyes.
“Who?”
I’m desperate for another shot of whiskey when she mutters, “Olivia Wilde. Previously known as Ophelia—”