by Shandi Boyes
“I had considered ditching my phone, but it’s kind of like a safety net for me. It reminds me of home.”
She nods, fully understanding what I mean as she too has many crutches she’s not willing to let go of just yet.
“I heard you’re moving back to the ranch. Is that true?”
Sadness crosses her face first, but it’s quickly gobbled up by happiness. “Yes, I think it’s time. There’s nothing here for me anymore.” She doesn’t need to mention Mr. McGee’s name for me to know who she’s talking about. The tabloids make up for her lack of words, much less rumors of McGee’s many affairs the past decade.
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. Not just for what happened with Mr. McGee but with Joey as well.” My teeth crunch when I almost lose the plot at the mention of Joey’s name. It was easy to believe Julian when he said Mrs. McGee doesn’t deserve the wrath of Joey’s ill-judgment, but it’s harder believing it is okay for me to still care for Joey.
“Don’t apologize, Melody. I just wish you would have let Brandon be there for you as he was for me. I’m sure losing Joey hurt you as much as it did us.”
“It did. It was just a… different type of grief.”
Mrs. McGee curls her hand over mine. “Then why did you leave? I still, to this day, can’t fathom why you stayed away for so long. I understand Joey represented your father—”
“It wasn’t that. That isn’t why I left.”
“Then, what was it?” There’s no malice in her tone whatsoever. She truly wants the best for me. I just don’t know how I can be honest with her and not ruin the legacy of her son. She loves Joey, so much so, I could never burden her with the guilt and hurt I’m feeling. Joey killed himself because he couldn’t live with what he had done. I don’t want the woman I’ve seen as a mother blaming me for her son’s death. I already blame myself, so there’s no need to place the burden onto someone else’s shoulders.
When I feel tears prickling in my eyes, I make an excuse to leave before they can fall. “I’m sorry. I forgot about an important meeting. I must go.”
When I leap up to my feet, Mrs. McGee mimics my movements. “Melody, honey, what’s wrong? I swear to you, nothing you could ever tell me would have me looking at you differently.”
I want to believe her, but I can’t as my secret isn’t just about me. It’s about her blood. “It’s nothing. I’m fine. Give Brandon my best wishes.”
I snatch up my purse before hightailing it out of the bakery. I barely make it halfway down the block when the hairs on my arms prickling to attention slows my brutal speed. After swinging my head to the left, I slowly drag it to the right. I stop holding my breath when I spot Julian standing at the corner of the bakery. He knew today was going to be hard for me, but instead of discouraging me against it, he positioned himself in an area where he could dispense soul-fixing hugs in an instant.
It makes me love him even more.
13
Brandon
“Head in the game, punk. This is your punishment for scouring the pages of gossip magazines to keep up to date on your girl’s life instead of being a part of it.”
While riding the elevator to the floor of Isabelle’s apartment, I respond to Grayson as if he’s standing next to me instead of talking shit in my ear. “For one, how is a date with a gorgeous woman classified as a punishment? And two, I wasn’t scouring the pages. I just happen to stumble upon an article about her upcoming engagement party.”
“Bullshit. I don’t even need to hack your phone to know you have her name on google alerts.”
I use the elevator’s ding announcing I’ve arrived at Isabelle’s floor as an excuse to ignore Grayson snickering in my ear. I haven’t stopped searching for news articles that include Melody’s name since her engagement was announced two weeks ago, but I’m never going to admit that to Grayson. He has a memory like an elephant. He never forgets anything, and he forever uses my neuroses against me.
“Remind me again why you need to listen in on my dinner date with Izzy?”
I wait for Grayson to respond before rapping my knuckles on the white door of Isabelle’s apartment. “Because she didn’t request you to get the file she did for no reason. There are too many loose threads for us to brush this off as a coincidence.”
He’s right—again. Still fucking sucks, though.
With Alex breathing down my neck, I didn’t put two and two together until much later than I care to admit. Annie’s father was a police chief. He hadn’t pulled over a rundown Mazda for a registration check in over two decades, so why the fuck did he do that the day he was killed?
If it wasn’t the first time he had done something odd on the job, I would have brushed it off as a cop not being able to step away from the role when he isn’t on the clock, but his name has popped up too many times the past two weeks to utilize that pathetic excuse.
Police Chief Langfield was the arresting officer cited on the non-doctored police file Isabelle requested. He was first on the scene when Marjorie Hawke, Hugo Marshall’s baby sister, was mowed down by suspected mafia associate, Roberto Petretti. Even with Langfield witnessing the accident, his name wasn’t on any of the official documents lodged with the court when Roberto was offered a plea bargain, nor was he brought forward as a witness.
If that isn’t suspicious enough, he was killed on duty only five short weeks later.
It happened to be the same day Roberto disappeared off the face of the planet.
Coincidence? Unlikely.
“Either Tobias trained Isabelle better than he trained us, or Isaac opened up to our Honey Pot. It’s the least he should have done after you revealed he’s a cheating scumbag.”
My jaw tightens as the memory of Isabelle’s whitening face fills my head. Alex didn’t have much luck tracking down Isaac’s whereabouts the weekend Isabelle went away with Harlow, but it was obvious Isaac was with Isabelle. Not only did she attempt to resign the day after they returned, Isaac was seen walking with her to her door. It was a mere two hours before he was spotted on a date with a mysterious blonde. I showed the image of them kissing to Isabelle the following morning, hopeful it would get her back on the straight and narrow. It seems to have worked. Reid, Alex’s head of surveillance, hasn’t logged any activity between Isaac and Isabelle in weeks.
I’m drawn from my thoughts when Grayson says, “Whatever the reason, we need to record your conversations to ensure our asses are covered if the shit hits the fan.”
“Recorded officially?”
“Fuck no,” he replies, his voice almost a roar. “We’ll let the Bureau know when they’re—”
“Privy to know.”
“Exactly,” Grayson pushes out with a laugh.
He stops chuckling in my ear when Isabelle throws open the front door of her apartment as astounded by Isabelle’s figure-hugging dress as me. Even with her not being on my radar doesn’t stop me from dragging my eyes down her body. She has an extremely enticing form.
When my eyes land back on Isabelle’s face, she greets me with a smile, acting oblivious to my gawk. “Brandon, hi. Come in.”
As my eyes float over her impressive crash pad, a whistle sounds from my lips. “Wow, Isabelle, swanky residence.”
She presses a hurried kiss to my cheek before guiding me into the foyer. Grayson makes gagging noises when I hand her a floral bouquet of irises and baby’s breath. He can forget the morals his mother instilled in him the instant he left for university because it was only his mother reciting them to him. I wasn’t so lucky. I didn’t just have my mother reminding me about how to be a gentleman, I had Melody’s mother as well.
“Thank you,” Isabelle replies before offering to take my coat.
Once she has it hung in the coat closet, I follow her into her state-of-the-art kitchen.
Grayson mimics my earlier wolf-whistle when we enter the modest yet well-fitted space. “Is the dodgy camera you installed in your button this afternoon playing tricks on me, or are they high-end appliances
I’m seeing?”
Since I can’t reply to Grayson, I flick the microphone in the third button of my shirt to shut him up instead. People can have nice things without being suspected of criminal activity. I had to prove that before I was offered a position in Tobias’s team. He was more suspicious of wealthy men than me.
Grayson laughs before the familiar creak of his office chair sounds through my ears. Why am I not surprised he’s still at work this late on a Saturday?
My annoyance takes a back seat when a delicious scent filters through my nostrils. Years ago, I would have recognized the smell without a second whiff, however, since it’s been a very long time since I’ve sampled these scents, I take a second undignified long sniff to authenticate the claims of my hungry tummy.
“It smells delicious in here.” When I rub my stomach like a hungry gorilla, Isabelle giggles. “It smells just like my grandma’s kitchen used to smell.” My mouth salivates when I finally distinguish one of the scents. “Mariana meatballs?”
“Nah, dipshit. It’s the smell of desperation.”
Ignoring Grayson’s swipe at my non-existent dating skills, I raise my index finger in the air. “Hold on.” A smidge of hesitation crosses my features when I discover the cause for the extra grumble of my stomach. “Oh, for the love of God, please tell me that’s homemade peanut butter and chocolate chip cookies?”
“They’re due out of the oven any minute,” Isabelle replies before she makes her way to the oven to check on two trays of baking cookies.
“She has good social awareness skills. Tobias taught her well,” Grayson murmurs in my ear as shocked that she unearthed my favorite cookie flavor without asking me. “Now we just need to work out whose team she’s on. Time to bring out the charm, big boy. Just try and do it without drooling on the camera. I’m smelling your spike in body temp all the way in New York. I don’t need to witness the travesty firsthand.”
I roll my eyes at Grayson’s comment before joining Isabelle in the kitchen. When I attempt to snag a cookie from the tray she places onto the counter, she slaps away my hand. “They need to cool and harden.” She pushes a memory of my mom to the forefront of my mind when she adds, “And you’ll spoil your dinner if you eat them now.”
My mom never let me eat cookies before dinner, and don’t get me started on how much of a scrooge she was with the uncooked cookie dough. Fast hands were a much-needed skill in my childhood, and I’m not just talking about the times Melody and I fooled around under a thick blanket.
Mistaking my reminiscing face as one of disappointment, Isabelle sets down a tray of still-warm cookies in front of me. Her eyes roll when she asks me if I’d like a glass of milk with my cookies is as cute as hell. It also explains Isaac’s immediate interest in her. She’s beautiful, but there’s something in her eyes that brings out men’s protective sides in an instant. It makes you desperate to keep her safe, even knowing you’re too late. She’s already been hurt.
I recognize that look anywhere. I saw it in Melody’s eyes, and I was only five at the time. The second time it was just shy of her nineteenth birthday. It was when she galloped down the stairs of my family ranch demanding to know why I wasn’t there for her. That was the last time I saw her up close. She kept her distance at Joey’s funeral, and the angry blonde I wrangled at the airport wasn’t the Melody I knew. She was a ghost of herself. Almost soulless.
My thoughts snap back to the present when Grayson reminds me that I haven’t answered Isabelle’s offer for a glass of milk.
“Yes, please.” I cringe when I spray her counter with cookie crumbs. I either spoke with a mouth full of food or drifted off into my memories for another awkward thirty seconds. I went for the earlier. It didn’t make it any less awkward, though.
Smiling at my apparent daftness, Isabelle moves to the fridge to secure a jug of milk. She fills a glass to the brim before inquiring, “Brandon, can I ask you something?”
I swallow down a cookie almost whole before jerking up my chin. “Anything.”
The silent pledge I made to her months ago is still current. If she wants to flip the lid on everything right now by confessing she’s romantically involved with Isaac, I’ll help her through this because I remember what Mr. Gregg taught me. It’s okay to tiptoe on the wrong side of the law as long as you find your way back. Isabelle is tiptoeing. She’s just failed to pivot back around. Tonight, might be the end of that.
Grayson’s balk isn’t as soundless as mine when Isabelle finally asks her question, “Do you think Isaac Holt is a criminal?”
Although stunned she’s commencing our ‘date’ by bringing up Isaac, I’m man enough to answer her question without the slightest bit of scorn in my tone. “His file—”
“Don’t tell me what his file says, tell me what you think,” she interrupts, her voice a cross between hopeful and panicked.
“Don’t do it, Brandon. Don’t fall into the trap. She’s not your friend.”
I ignore Grayson’s advice by replying, “I don’t know what to think.” Because in all honesty, I don’t. Isaac’s case is trickier than the men I’ve previously investigated. His empire doesn’t dabble in drugs, the prostitute conglomerate, or underage sex trafficking rings. Other than having Henry Gottle, Sr.’s number on speed dial, he seems like a legitimate businessman.
Does that mean he’s undeserving of the Bureau’s scrutiny? No, it doesn’t. My father presents himself as an upstanding moral citizen as well, and he’s as conniving as they come. Isaac is shady. That alone deserves scrutiny.
But I won’t pass that knowledge onto a woman who could possibly be sharing his bed. “But I will say one thing, I’ve been part of this investigation for nearly a year, and I’ve not yet stumbled on one shred of information that corroborates Alex’s presumptions of Isaac.”
A confused crinkle pops between Isabelle’s brows. “Do you think he’s hiding something?”
“Are we still talking about Isaac, or have we switched to Alex?”
Grayson’s warning growl to keep his brother out of this almost drowns out Isabelle’s reply, “Both.”
“Everyone is hiding something, Isabelle.” I lock my eyes with hers before breathing out, “Even you.”
Like all women stuck in a situation they never anticipated, she doesn’t refute my highly accurate recount of events. I don’t necessarily believe she’s lying to me, but she is definitely hiding secrets behind the massive barrier she forever places between us.
Perhaps this will help her lower them.
“Speaking of secrets, that file you requested has arrived.”
When her eyes snap to mine, I nudge my head to my leather satchel hanging on one of her dining table chairs. I’ve taken out anything that links Hugo to a rape I’m not yet convinced he committed, but it has the basic information Isabelle is seeking.
“Can I?”
When I lift my chin for the second time, she smacks an overzealous peck onto my cheek. It causes Grayson to release a sequence of moans I’d give anything never to hear again.
His goading doesn’t last long. My mention of his brother the second time tonight shuts him up rather quickly. “You have to promise Alex will never find—”
“Alex will never know,” Isabelle interrupts, her eyes the most honest they’ve ever been. “I promise, Brandon.”
“Once this is done and dusted, you better tell me what’s the go with the two of them.”
I peer at my reflection in the mirror of Isabelle’s dining room before dropping my chin, approving Grayson’s request without words.
When he hums out a similar agreement, I rib Isabelle with my elbow. “Come on, I’m dying.”
I’ve scrutinized every single word in the report she’s about to read more than once, but I’m anxious to observe her response. Will she look at the report through the eyes of an agent or a civilian? How she responds will guide how Grayson and I will handle our joint investigation from here on out.
After brushing away a tear sitting high on her cheek
a few minutes later, Isabelle says, “That’s incredibly sad, but it doesn’t warrant the shroud of secrecy.”
“No, but this does.” I hand her a heavily redacted court document. It wasn’t like this in the file Melody gave me, but I can’t unlock all my secrets in one go, or this will end even more disastrously than a skeptic like me could have predicted.
Isabelle’s silence reveals she’s aware of the name on the police report she is perusing, but she keeps her cards close to her chest.
I do my best to change that. “Roberto didn’t do any time behind bars, even with being arrested at the scene and recording a blood-alcohol level three times over the legal limit. His name was never reported in any news or press articles. He would have had to give the DA something substantial to get a plea that lenient.”
“Or someone,” Isabelle mutters, her voice surprisingly firm for how wet her eyes are.
I’m about to ask her if she has any idea about who that could be, but the tapping of keyboard keys stops me. Grayson only ever punishes his keys when he’s pissed at someone attempting to undermine his hacking work.
I twist to face the kitchen before pointing out the saucepan hidden beneath a plume of black smoke. “Hey, Izzy. Is that supposed to be smoking like that?”
Isabelle’s eyes bulge out of her head. “Shit. The Mariana sauce.”
When she races to the kitchen to save our dinner, I devote my attention to Grayson. “What’s going on?”
His words come out jarringly, compliments to how hard he’s hitting the keys on his keyboard. “Someone is attempting to piggyback my feed.”
“Which feed?”
He swears, tells them to back the fuck up before he answers my question, “The one in your button.”
“They know I’m wired?” Panic resonates in my tone. I’ll be kicked out of the Bureau if they discover I went to a fellow agent’s house wired to the hilt. I’m not worried about the loss of salary, I have enough money in my bank account to keep me living comfortably for two lifetimes, but I’m worried about how I will occupy my time. The Bureau is all I have. Excluding my mother, I have no contact with the rest of my family. I’m pining over a girl who’s going to marry a billionaire for fuck’s sake. I’ll have nothing if I’m kicked out. I don’t even see Grayson hanging around if I can’t help him with his quest to find Katie. It sucks, but it’s the truth. I’ll have nothing. I have nothing.