by Krista Holt
“What about the girl?” He flips through some pieces of paper next to the computer. “Reagan. It is Reagan, right?”
“Yeah, it is.”
“Is she okay?”
I glare at the wall. “Define okay.”
He draws in a long breath. “Are you going to lose it on me?”
“No.” At least not yet. “Do you need anything else from me as my official representation?”
“I think things are fine for now. I can’t guarantee they won’t want to question you about the senator’s disappearance, though. If they do, I’ll be in touch.”
“Fine. Let me know.” I grab my coat and put it back on.
“Where you heading?”
“I have somewhere I need to be.”
“Nice non-answer,” he yells after me
I don’t say anything in reply, letting the door slam closed behind me as I leave the room.
* * *
The interior of the car is cold.
I’ve been sitting out in front of her apartment for hours. I don’t know why I hope she’ll suddenly appear. It’d be a bad thing if she did. One more thing I’d have to deal with, so I’m thankful she’s sticking with her routine. It spares me from telling one more lie.
My finger works over the bracelet as her words bounce around in my head. “This can’t be undone.” My finger moves onto another stone. “I hate you.”
There are no words to describe how much I’ve failed her. How much pain I’ve inflicted, some on purpose, most done accidentally, but all of it hurt her. All I can think about is her face. Her face when everything fell into place, when it all came crashing down on her. The truth she’s always wanted. I saw the flicker of hope. The smallest burst of light, as if she hoped I would prove her wrong. Tell her why. Explain in some plausible way that what she saw wasn’t the truth. Then Saul laid his hands on her, and I just stood there, watching that hope die in her eyes. I’ll never forget that look.
I drop the bracelet into the cup holder. Crossing my arms over my chest, I relax into the leather seat, preparing to fall asleep in the Mercedes for the second night in a row.
My eyes close, and I swear the second I fall into oblivion, the phone rings. I cast a hand around the passenger seat, trying to find it.
“Yeah.”
“Get to New York. Now.”
CHAPTER 41
Reagan
“Night, Reagan.”
I turn from my computer as Brent walks by. “Heading home?”
“I am. Don’t stay too late. It’s concerning how often you’re here.”
I force a smile. “I’ll leave soon.”
He gives me a wave as he walks out the door, and I sink into my chair.
It’s been three days since Nic . . . I mean . . . since that night. Faking normalcy is taking its toll. I’m not sleeping, and the dark circles under my eyes are getting harder to conceal. My coffee consumption is increasing to the point where I should consider an IV, and my appetite is gone.
Becca knows something is amiss. She asks me constantly if I’m okay. Part of me wants to laugh because I don’t know if I will ever be okay again. Instead, I assure her that I am fine and blame my distraction on work, which thankfully is true. I need to tell the occasional truth, it keeps me sane.
I feel the safest at work, and if that isn’t irony, I don’t know what is, considering my work is what put me in Nic’s crosshairs. But at least the Rayburn Building is secure; no one can hurt me here. It’s the trips between my apartment and the office that grate on my nerves. My imagination or my fear, I’m not sure which, runs wild. Every shadow is sinister. Every stranger walking toward me is the one sent to kill me. That’s why most of the staff left hours ago, and I’m still here, unable to force myself to leave.
I’ve made it through another day, I remind myself. Nic didn’t randomly appear. I’m safe. For now.
To pass the time, I check the notifications on my personal phone. I have a few missed calls and voicemails from Simmons and several unread texts from Becca. My finger hovers over the screen, trying to gather the nerve to listen to Simmons’s message when Scott sneaks up on me.
“Did he text you?” he asks, standing directly behind me. I jump in my chair, spinning around quickly. My knees knock into his legs before he can take a step back.
“No, it’s just a pissed off FBI agent. Nothing else.”
He clears his throat. “I’m heading out. Want to get something to eat with me, and then I can drop you off at home?”
My shoulders sink in relief. “Yes. Please.” I stuff my belongings in my purse and follow him out.
“How are you doing?”
“Fine,” I lie.
He picks up on it as we wait for the elevator. “My mom has this saying that fine actually means you’re barely holding on by a fine frog’s hair.”
My nose scrunches up. “What?”
“My family’s originally from Louisiana. Things are weird down there.”
I look at him and then burst out laughing, for the first time in days. Scott joins me, and the sound of our laughter spills out of elevator as it opens into the parking garage. It echoes on concrete, traveling up and down the empty aisles.
“It’s not even that funny,” I gasp. “But I can’t stop.”
“No, it isn’t.” Scott chuckles, pointing toward an older SUV. He opens the passenger door for me.
“Thank you.” I hop inside, tugging my coat out of the way as he closes the door.
“Any thoughts on what you want to eat?” He gets in on his side.
“No. I’m not really that hungry. Whatever you want is fine.”
“Well, then, southern comfort food it is.”
I soak in the warmth from the heater until he stops in front of a restaurant with a pig outlined on a flashing neon sign. “Are you kidding?”
“No.” He grins. “Come on, you’ll like it.”
He holds open the door, letting me enter first. A waitress with a frilly apron seats us at Scott’s usual booth in the back corner. She hands me a menu and asks me what I want to drink.
I almost order coffee, but change my mind at the last minute. “Can I get a Shirley Temple?”
“Sure thing, dear.” She pats me on the shoulder. “I’ll be back to get your order in just a minute.”
“Shirley Temple?” Scott grins.
“I don’t know.” I laugh at myself. “What’s good here?”
“They serve breakfast all day long, so if you like that kind of thing, go for it. They make good gravy.”
“Is that some sort of southern idiom?”
Scott chuckles. “No. It means they have good gravy, but the burgers here are amazing.”
I move the menu out of the way as the waitress deposits the cherry-loaded drink and Scott’s coffee on the table. She pops her hip to the side. “What are you having?”
“I’ll have the burger and fries.” She gives a cluck of approval before waltzing away, taking the menu with her. “You come here a lot?”
“Enough for them to know my order.” Scott pours a little cream into his coffee, no sugar, and takes a swallow. “I don’t like cooking for myself.”
“Me either.” I take a sip of my drink.
“The place kind of reminds me of home, I guess. You found anything that reminds you of California?”
Nic. I shake my head. “No, not really. Everything’s different here.” More complicated.
“It’s not uncommon to be little out of sorts when you move here. Things move fast. Everyone seems to know everybody else, except you. I remember being overwhelmed when I first started working on the Hill. Not to mention everything you’ve had on your plate,” he continues. “It must be a lot.”
Of course, he wants something. It seems like everyone is trying to get something out of me, using me for their own selfish purposes.
I cross my arms over my chest. “Is there something you want to ask me?” I tilt my chin up a little.
He watches as I put myself
in a defensive position and then meets my eyes. “You dodged me earlier. Are you doing okay?”
“I’m really tired of people asking me that.”
“Yeah, I know.” He takes another drink. “I got the same question all the time when I got back from overseas. It gets annoying after awhile.”
My arms fall to my lap. “Afghanistan?”
“That was one of the places.” He glances out the window. “It’s hard to readjust to life after seeing some of those things.”
“I can only imagine.”
“Still, I’d never been kidnapped before . . . until the other night.”
I deflate. My shoulders drop and I catch my forehead in my hand. “I’m so sorry about this. This is all my fault.”
“No.” He cuts a hand toward me. “I didn’t bring it up for that reason. What went down was not your fault. It was his.”
The waitress appears with our plates, setting hot burgers and salty fries down. “Need anything else?”
We both shake our heads. “We’re good,” Scott assures her. “Thanks, Luanne.”
“Of course, sweetie. Holler if you need anything else.” She pats him on the shoulder before walking away.
I pick up my burger, and take a bite to hide my grin. “This is really good,” I mumble around the tasty combination of meat, bread, and Thousand Island dressing.
“Told you.” He swipes some fries through the ketchup pile on his plate.
We consume half of our meals before Scott’s expression turns contemplative, like he’s trying to decide whether he should say something or not.
“Spit it out.” I reach for a fry.
He leans closer to the table that separates us, resting his forearms on the edge. “When I got back, nothing made sense. I’d gone from a warzone to eating fried chicken in my mother’s kitchen within the span forty-eight hours. Some of my best friends died over there, and here I was, back at home, like nothing happened. Everything felt like it was upside down.”
I slowly set the fry down, listening.
“And if there’s one thing I know, it’s that it’s easier if you have something to focus on. A goal. Something to drive you past the victim stage and into being proactive about it.”
My brow wrinkles.
“It’s easy to get stuck there,” he continues. “Constantly thinking about every bad thing that has happened. To let it run through your thoughts constantly. What you could have done differently, if you’d just done this or that. You can put down roots and camp there if you let yourself. That’s happening to you, Reagan. You aren’t sleeping, that burger is the first thing you’ve eaten today, and you’re drinking enough coffee to kill a small horse. You’re frozen.” He pauses, weighing his next words. “Decide what you’re going to do. Are you going to ride this out, and hope it gets better? Or, are you going to do something about it?”
I hesitate, but Scott goes back to eating. He finishes his burger and most of his fries before I quietly admit, “I don’t want to let him get away with this.”
“Me neither. So, we’re going to go downtown to the FBI Headquarters, like Cameron arranged, and put the screws to him,” he says, so calm and confident. “They’ll arrest him and then this will all be over.”
I exhale shakily. Could it really be that easy?
“If you’re done, I’ll take you home.” Scott pushes his plate away.
I wad my napkin into ball and drop it onto my empty plate. Scott pays our bill, refusing to let me pay for my half.
“Thank you,” I say, tucking my wallet away.
“Don’t thank me. It’s the least I could do for a fellow kidnap buddy.”
“That’s awful.” I fight a grin.
“It made you smile.”
I shake my head and get into the SUV, giving Scott directions to my apartment. We pull up to the curb in front of my building, and I breathe a sigh of relief when there’s no sign of the Mercedes.
“What are you looking for?” Scott asks.
“Nothing.”
“You think someone’s following you?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“I thought I saw someone the other day but couldn’t be sure.” His eyes sweep the street.
“Be careful, Scott. I mean it. He has a long reach.”
He tilts his head to the side. “I want you to have this.” He reaches into the center console and pulls out a gun. He takes it firmly in hand, sliding the holster off the muzzle. “Have you ever fired one of these?”
I swallow hard. “A long time ago.”
“It’s already loaded,” he continues, “all you need to do is slide the safety off here.” He points to a small red switch near the trigger. “And then point and squeeze the trigger.” Scott hands it over, placing it gingerly in my hand, which opens subconsciously, accepting the heavy weight. “Just don’t shoot him in the back. They’ll never believe it was self-defense.”
“How do you have this?”
“Yeah, yeah, I know it’s illegal within D.C., limits, but I’m a combat vet. No one wants that on the front page of the papers. I like to think of my time in the Middle East sandbox as allowing me a certain amount of leniency.”
“I don’t know, Scott.”
“I’d rather you have it if you need it, than need it and not have it. I’m not sure what mess we’re getting into, and you need to protect yourself.” His hand reaches to the ignition and turns the motor off. “Put it in your purse, and I’ll walk you to your door.”
I carefully situate it inside my leather handbag and get out. He crosses the street a few steps behind me, following me into the brightly lit lobby.
“You’ll be okay from here?” he asks tersely.
“I’ll be fine.” I press the call button for the elevator.
“Call me if you need anything.”
“I appreciate it, but I’ll be fine. Despite what’s happened the last couple of days, I’m used to taking care of myself.”
He grins briefly. “Night, Reagan.”
“Night, Scott,” I echo back, offering him a small wave as I step inside the elevator.
Becca is sitting on the couch when I open the door to the apartment. “I was just about to call you. I was getting worried.”
“Sorry. I was at dinner with a co-worker.”
“Is he cute?”
I think back to dinner and Scott’s careful attention and kindness. “Yeah, he kind of is.”
She sits up earnestly. “Tell me more.”
“Nothing is happening.” I push away all the implications her interest stirs up. “I’m still not over my last mess of a relationship.”
“You should be. Nic is a jerk.” She turns back to the television.
Trust me, I know.
CHAPTER 42
Nic
“Get the hell out of my office. Now!”
My father’s angry voice makes everyone jump to do his bidding, except me. I slowly pull myself out of the chair. Enzo exits the room as soon as he gets the door open, and Saul follows.
“Not you, Nicola.” My father sighs. “You stay here.”
I bite back a groan and sit back down. I’ve spent the last few days in the city and it’s been more than enough time to prove that my father and I can’t co-exist in the same state, let alone the same house.
“What?” I agitatedly tug on my sleeve.
“You disappointed me most of all. You didn’t get a name, like you promised me you would. You didn’t get anything out of that girl. I let you spend the last month distracted because you swore she would be useful, and she wasn’t. Kill her.”
Everything inside me freezes. I’m pretty sure my heart stops beating.
“No.”
“Excuse me?” His hand stills. Looking up from the newspaper on his desk, he stares at me. His non-reaction is more threatening than if he had exploded with rage. It’s a flashing caution sign, and I ignore it.
“No,” I repeat myself. “We can’t kill this girl.”
“And why
not?”
Answers swirl in my head, none of which I can say to him. I bite my tongue, taming the anger roaring through me, or at least preventing it from escaping my mouth. “If you do, the committee’s investigation will cease being about the FBI and become a witch hunt for us.” I struggle to keep my voice level. “She was very clear that they are looking for an FBI agent, not one of us. If she suddenly goes missing, the other guy will spill everything.”
“So kill them both.” The leather chair creaks as he leans back, glaring at me. “What is this really about? I’ve never had you in here arguing to save a life before. You’re usually begging for permission to take one, or at least you would have been before going away to that school. It made you weak.” His eyes narrow shrewdly. “Or is it the girl? Is she doing this to you?”
“I couldn’t care less about her. I’m trying to prevent you from opening up our operation to a whole new level of scrutiny. We don’t own every member on that committee, and they could make life difficult for us if they choose to. They lean on the FBI. The FBI leans on us, and the next thing you know, we’re all lining up for weekly cavity searches. I assume you don’t want that. Am I wrong?”
He contemplates my words for a moment. “Fine. Don’t kill them, but keep them on a short leash. If either of them gets the bright idea to go against us, you let me know—after they’re six feet below. Do you understand me?”
“I do.”
“Good.” He rests his hands on his stomach. “I’m grooming you to be my right hand, Nicola. Don’t make me question my resolve.”
This might seem like praise to the untrained ear. It’s not. He’s testing me.
I clear my throat. “I need to return to D.C. and keep an eye on them both.”
“Go.” He waves a hand toward the door.
“I’m taking Enzo with me.”
“Why not Saul?”
“He doesn’t listen. And as precarious as this all is, I don’t have time for that.”
“All right. I suppose he can stay here. I’ll put him on that other thing, yeah?”
“Sure.” I arch one brow, asking a silent question. Can I go now?
He gives me a nod of approval. My hand grips the doorknob when he speaks again. “You’ll follow through if you need to, right, Son?”