Rockwell Agency: Boxset

by Dee Bridgnorth

“You’ll it out,” Jack said. “Just keep your wits. Take risks. Double down. This is your big break. Don’t forget—you’re actually doing this. You’re talking to and spending time with a real dragon shifter.”

  “I am, right?” Lydia asked, leaning her head back against the brick wall of the building. “I mean, everything we looked at says that it’s this agency—these people. This is where the video was filmed. That dragon’s wing. It’s clear as day in that video, Jack.”

  “I know it is,” Jack said. “You’ve found dragon shifters. Now …do what you have to do next.”

  She had hung up from the phone call feeling a bit better, and when she had walked by the building manager’s office only to see that he wasn’t in, she’d breathed a sigh of relief. She could say that she had tried to talk to the man, but that he wasn’t in. By the time she got on the elevator, she had talked herself back from the dead-on panic that she’d been experiencing, and now she just had that inner tension to carry with her up the three floors in the elevator.

  When she stepped off the elevator, she saw Quentin immediately, and for a moment she forgot entirely about her supposed missing person’s case. He was so striking, walking down the hall like that. Tall, and broad, and lean, and looking like the perfect mixture of rugged and slick. She wondered if all dragon shifters were just naturally more attractive than humans, and then she made a mental note to add that question to her research log. She would need to meet Quentin’s friends to help her answer the question, in addition to doing further reading. There was quite a bit of material on the theory that dragon shifters existed, though much of it contradicted itself.

  She would be the one to write the one definitive book on the group of people that had consumed her life for years.

  “So,” Quentin said, stopping in front of her as they drew nearer to each other. “What did the building manager say?”

  “He wasn’t in his office,” Lydia told him, speaking confidently because for once her response wasn’t a lie. “I looked around a bit, but I didn’t see him anywhere.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  Lydia nodded, hugging her arms to her chest. “I know …I’m sure he could have helped us.”

  “I talked to one neighbor,” Quentin said, after pausing for a long moment. “Let’s go back inside the apartment.”

  Lydia walked with him, his hand at the small of her back, guiding her inside ahead of him. He closed the door behind them, and she was suddenly very aware of the fact that they were alone. It was a ridiculous reaction, but she couldn’t seem to stem her excitement suddenly. She was alone with a dragon shifter. He had touched her repeatedly. She was really here in this moment, living her dream.

  “The neighbor I spoke to didn’t remember seeing Ginny,” Quentin said, taking a seat on the couch and bouncing lightly on the cushion, as though testing it out. “How long did you say that she’s lived here?”

  “Oh, a while now,” Lydia said, vaguely, taking a seat across from him in one of the armchairs that faced the window looking out over the trees at the back of the building.

  “Give me an estimate.”

  Lydia looked back at him, racking her brain to see if what she was about to say would contradict anything she had already said. It was a horrible question, because he could so easily prove her wrong by looking at the lease. It was another thing that she should have thought of, but she hadn’t—she had to accept that. She hadn’t thought this through like she should have, and now she had to do what Jack said. She had to double down.

  “A little over a year at this place,” Lydia said. “Somewhere around that time frame anyway.”

  Quentin nodded, his eyes trained on her in a new way. She didn’t know him well, of course, but she could detect a change in the way he was looking at her now, compared to how he had looked at her before. That gentleness that she had seen from him wasn’t there, and he was looking at her more like a witness than a victim.

  The tension within her grew, clawing at her insides again.

  “Why do you ask?” Lydia asked, as casually as she could.

  “Because the neighbor I did talk to said that she’s seen a guy coming in and out of this apartment up until about two weeks ago.”

  Lydia felt her mouth go dry, and she did a quick risk assessment, trying to figure out which answer to go with. Did she say the neighbor must be mistaken? Did she try to back up and say that Ginny often had a male visitor? Was that male visitor her dad? Was it a brother? No—then where were the dad or the brother now, if Ginny was missing? A caretaker? A doctor?

  She had to say something. “Did she?” Lydia said, crossing her legs just for something to do with her body. “Did she say how often?”

  “She implied that it was on a daily basis. She said he left early and came back late.”

  “An older man?” Lydia asked.

  “She didn’t specify what he looked like.”

  “If Ginny was having a male visitor, I didn’t know about it,” Lydia said, deciding that the only safe route was denial—denial in the context of assuming that the man was in some way connected to Ginny because, of course, she had lived here for over a year. “It might be good to ask more questions about that. If there was a man in her life that I didn’t know about, that could change everything.”

  Quentin was studying her closely, his eyes narrowing slightly as she talked. And she knew that he was testing her. She knew that the doubt had set in, and that he was talking to her now as a person who either knew more than she was letting on, or who had made the whole thing up. That gentle reassurance was no longer there from him.

  Lydia swallowed hard, but outwardly forced herself to remain calm. “What do we do now?”

  “I think we should go back to my office,” Quentin said, standing up. “We need to do your intake forms, with all of your information. And I need to make notes of what we’ve learned, do some research, and see if I can get some kind of lead on your sister.”

  Back to his office. That was exactly where she wanted to go. In fact, if they could conduct the rest of the investigation from the Rockwell Agency itself, that would be ideal for her. If she could talk more to the other agents, and if she could watch them all at work, then she would be doing what she came to do. If she could hear little whispers of conversation or—and this would be really amazing—if she could catch a glimpse of one of them actually doing something that only a shifter would do. If she could sneak out and follow one of them, so that she could actually see one shift, that would make the rest of her life. It would make all of this worthwhile. Every bit of it.

  “Yes,” Lydia said, standing up quickly. “That sounds great.

  Besides, the less time he spent in her staged apartment, the better. Now that they had done this bit, and he was still willing to work with her, maybe she was in the clear. Maybe he would chalk up this apartment as not that helpful and pursue other ways of finding Ginny. Maybe she could let him do that for a few days and then say that Ginny had contacted her and that she was fine. Then they could go on to enjoy the friendship they would have developed by then, and she could get a window into his world.

  Maybe this was all actually working out perfectly, and her panic had been exactly what Jack had said—misinterpreted guilt.

  Lydia followed Quentin out of the apartment, waiting as he fixed the door so that it would stay shut on its own after he had forced open the lock. They rode down in the elevator and walked out to his car together, and Lydia didn’t much notice that Quentin was quiet. She was too busy planning the future friendship they would have once all of this necessary part at the beginning was over.

  Chapter 7

  Quentin

  Quentin drove back to the agency in relative silence. Lydia didn’t talk much either. The vibe between them was very different than it had been on the way to the apartment, and he didn’t know if she picked up on it or not. She played her cards close to her chest. She had surprised him with her answer to his question about the man the neighbor had seen. He had
expected her to stumble more and perhaps to give some story that would explain why he had been there, and Ginny hadn’t been. But she’d played it perfectly. She’d said that Ginny must have had a male visitor that she hadn’t known about, and that it could break the case wide open.

  It was plausible. It had made him wonder if he had jumped to conclusions.

  He didn’t think he had. But her answer had given him pause.

  Quentin needed to do some more thinking, and he needed to get more information from her. So, when they walked into the agency, he was entirely focused on the task at hand. He didn’t expect to run into Barrett and Ryan on their way out.

  “Hey,” Ryan said, walking towards him with a smile. “Wrong way, man. It’s quittin’ time.”

  Quentin slapped his friend lightly on the shoulder. “Going home to the wife, then?”

  Ryan laughed. “Yes…and no. Going home to my love who will be my wife someday, yes.” Ryan nodded to Lydia. “Hey there.” He offered her his hand. “I’m Ryan Minton. I’m one of the agents here. You must be working with Quentin.”

  To Quentin’s surprise, Lydia appeared almost beside herself. She put her hand into Ryan’s and shook it vigorously, stumbling slightly over her words. “Hi, I mean, uh, hello. Nice to meet you. I’m Lydia Winn.”

  She seemed to be glowing with enthusiasm to meet Ryan, and Quentin was taken aback by it. Ryan was a likeable guy and good looking. It wasn’t that uncommon for women to fawn over him, but Quentin had just referenced Ryan’s girlfriend and the love of his life right in front of Lydia. It bothered him more than he cared to admit that she was all but flushing as Ryan smiled at her, and that was just ludicrous.

  He suspected that she was a liar. In fact, he was almost positive she was a liar. So why should he care who she did or didn’t fawn over? He shouldn’t—that was the answer to that. He absolutely should not care at all, and it should not have occurred to him that she hadn’t acted that way when she met him.

  Why would he want her to?

  Yes, she was beautiful, and interesting, and had a certain something about her that intrigued him, but the bottom line was that she was a client and not a prospect, and she was probably a liar!

  Barrett made eye contact with Quentin, nodding at him to step aside with him. Seeing that Lydia was perfectly content to chat with Ryan, Quentin walked a few steps away with Barrett, crossing his arms over his chest. “Did you find anything?”

  “Yeah,” Barrett said. “I was going to call you on the way home and give you what I found. There are more women by the name of Ginny Winn than you might think, but none of them live in this area. There’s a Ginny Winn who has a sister named Lydia Winn, though, and she lives in Oregon.”

  “Oregon?” Quentin asked. “They both live there?”

  “No. Ginny Winn lives in Oregon. Lydia Winn lives in Idaho.”

  Quentin shook his head, not understanding. “And they’re the only people who fit?”

  “Unless there is another set of sisters named Lydia and Ginny Winn,” Barrett said, shrugging his shoulder. “And I looked into those apartments …”

  “Yeah, they come furnished,” Quentin said, muttering to Barrett so that his voice stayed low. “I know. I found that out from a neighbor.”

  “They’re usually for people who are in town on business,” Barrett said. “They’re not typical housing.”

  Quentin nodded. “Yeah. That could be explained, I guess. I mean, the woman sounds like an invalid from Lydia’s description. But the Oregon and Idaho thing …” He shook his head again. “Is it possible that their records haven’t updated yet?”

  Barrett gave him a look. ‘You know that’s not how that works.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Quentin said, looking back over at Lydia again. “I need to get back to her. Thanks for looking that up for me.”

  “Let me know how it goes,” Barrett said. “I’ll be on call.”

  “Thanks.”

  Quentin walked back over to Lydia and touched the back of her arm, interrupting her conversation with Ryan. “Let’s head on back. They’re right—it’s late. We need to get a move on if we’re going to make more progress today.”

  Ryan seemed a little surprised by Quentin’s abrupt interruption, but as Quentin steered Lydia away he looked back at Ryan and gave him a meaningful look. He didn’t know if his friend fully understood, but Ryan nodded and held his hands up in a hands-off gesture.

  Walking Lydia down the hall, Quentin brought her into his office again, closing the door behind them. “Let’s get the intake paperwork done first.” He sat down at his desk with a businesslike demeanor that was a far cry from his kind approach to her earlier that afternoon when she had first come in. “I’m going to need you to fill out some forms with your basic information. Your address, your telephone number, your occupation—stuff like that.”

  “Oh, I don’t have a job, though,” Lydia said, acting nervous again as she sat down.

  He looked at her over the paperwork he was organizing. “I thought you supported your sister.”

  Lydia flushed. “What I mean is, I just quit.”

  “I see,” Quentin said, nodding. “Well, then answer accordingly on the form. You can still put your former occupation. When did you quit, exactly?” He knew he sounded like he was interrogating her, but there was little that he could do about that. Not knowing what her motivation was or if she was trustworthy was getting under his skin.

  “Not long ago,” Lydia said, not meeting his eyes, as she looked over the forms. “I don’t understand why all of this is necessary,” she said, gesturing to the intake information. “What does any of this have to do with whether my sister is missing or not?”

  Quentin tilted his head. “Whether she’s missing or not? Are you saying there’s a possibility that she’s not?”

  Lydia darted her eyes up at him briefly before looking back down at the form. “Of course not. I’m just saying—I don’t see what this has to do with the fact that she’s missing.”

  “She’s not missing.”

  The words came out of Quentin’s mouth before he fully knew he was going to say them, which was unusual for him. He always had a plan, and he rarely lost his power of self-restraint. He didn’t even get a glimpse of the future and hear himself saying the controversial words that he knew were a risk even though he believed them.

  Lydia looked up at him, her expression shuttered. “What?”

  “She’s not missing,” Quentin said, knowing there was no going back now. “I don’t know why you’re saying she is, and I don’t really need to know. But you and I both know that apartment wasn’t Ginny’s. I don’t even know if Ginny Winn exists, but if she does then she lives in Oregon, and she probably isn’t missing. She definitely doesn’t live in an apartment in Baton Rouge that comes furnished and, up until two weeks ago, belonged to a man who worked long days and only came home late at night. She definitely doesn’t wear a random collection of clothes plucked from different stores. She definitely doesn’t love to cook yet has nothing of note in the kitchen. She definitely doesn’t live somewhere for a year without any neighbor seeing her or knowing her. She definitely doesn’t sit in her house all day and do absolutely nothing other than shop on the laptop that is nowhere to be seen.” Quentin sat back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest and shaking his head. “You lied, Lydia. You walked in here, and you fed me some story for some reason. I don’t know what your game is, but I’m not playing it.”

  “Quentin …” she started to say, stumbling over his name.

  He shook his head. “No. I don’t want explanations. I really don’t. I don’t want to know why you came in here and wasted my afternoon with this. I don’t want to know why you have that apartment. I don’t want to know what your agenda is. I just want you to leave right now, unless you can look at me and tell me that you truly believe that your sister is a missing person—look at me, tell me that, and convince me. Otherwise, get out.”

  “Please, I can explain,” Ly
dia said, leaning forward in her chair, her pale face even paler, so that the freckles dusting her nose were even more pronounced by contrast.

  “Is your sister a missing person?” Quentin asked, getting angrier by the minute because she wasn’t responding like an innocent person telling the truth. She had lied to him. She had made up an elaborate story. Staged an apartment. It was insane!

  Lydia hesitated for only a moment, then shook her head slowly. “No. She’s not.”

  “Then get out of my office, and do not come back.”

  Quentin was unyielding in his expression, in his body posture, in everything. He stared at Lydia as she sat in her chair, trying to keep it together. Only when she got to her feet did he look away, only listening as she gathered her things and walked out of his office, closing the door behind her. When he heard her leave the agency, he dropped his head into his hands, his elbows resting on his desk. His fingers dug into his dark hair, gripping there, as he tried to get his temper under control. He didn’t lose it often, and he hadn’t completely lost it with her, but he’d been close.

  The worst thing that anyone could do to Quentin was to misrepresent something to him—especially something so serious. There were rules in life, and people should abide by them. Telling the truth was the most basic of those rules. Without that foundational principle, the world would fall into complete chaos. Things were the way that they were—they were never just whatever someone wanted to say they were. There was order, and there was structure, and there was truth.

  Lydia had flown in the face of all three, and he had intended to find out why she had done it, but the more it became apparent that she was simply fabricating everything, the more intolerant he had become of her presence.

  Why she had done it would remain her mystery—not his. Quentin was done with Lydia Winn.

  Chapter 8

  Lydia

  Back in the apartment that she had spent two days staging so carefully, Lydia sat curled up on one of the kitchen chairs, spoon deep into a pint of triple-fudge ice cream. Her hair was piled on top of her head, she was wearing sweats that she slept in when it was cold, her face and feet were bare, and her eyes were red-rimmed from the many tears that she had shed since fleeing Quentin’s office and driving back here as fast as she could.