5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

IZEL

I’m sipping on the soda Mr. FBI got me, and all I want is to get the hell out of this place. It’s cramped, it’s stuffy, and it feels like a prison. I’ve had enough, so I decide to make my great escape. I get up, ready to waltz out of the building when a uniformed officer steps in my way, blocking my path.

“Whoa, there, miss. You can’t just walk out of here,” he says, with that no-nonsense cop tone.

I give him a frustrated look, but there’s no arguing with the officer. So, I’m forced to sit back down. I just want to be anywhere but here.

I decide to watch the news on TV. The anchor’s talking about Cassie being found dead. My roommate is gone, and all the emotions I’ve been trying to keep at bay come crashing down. It’s a sickening feeling, and I can’t escape the reality of it.

Then, I feel it. The unmistakable sensation of eyes on me. I slowly glance around, and there he is, SSA Richard Reynolds, standing at the door, studying me like I’m some lab rat. It’s enough to make me jump out of my seat, ready to bolt out of this place.

Before I can make my grand escape, he speaks, and it’s like a bucket of cold water thrown in my face.

“You’ll be staying with me.”

I blink, incredulously, like I’ve misheard it. “Say what now?”

He doesn’t say a word, just stares at me with that intense FBI-agent expression. So, I say it, because it needs to be said.

“No fucking way. I am not staying with you.”

Richard clears his throat, getting all professional on me. “Look, you need witness protection, and we’re working on it. But until then, you’re going to need an officer with you at all times to ensure your safety.”

I’m adamant, pissed off, and my patience is wearing thin. “I don’t need anyone babysitting me. I can take care of myself.”

“You’ve just had a close call with the serial killer, and your roommate is dead. I get that it’s probably not sinking in because of the adrenaline, but you need someone to look after you.”

“What are you, my therapist? Move—”

“Miss Montclair, if you want to stay alive, you’re going to have to trust me on this.”

I can’t believe the audacity of Mr. FBI. He says I need to trust him, and I just laugh, a cold, cynical laugh.

“No, I have a death wish, remember? So let me the fuck out of here,” I snap at him.

I start brushing past his imposing figure, but he’s quicker than I gave him credit for. Mr. FBI grabs my arm, and yanks me back, pulling me so close that I’m almost a shy inch away from bumping into his chest. The anger, the defiance, it’s all there, but it’s nothing compared to the fear that shoots through me.

He leans in, and his voice is like a low growl in my ear. “You’re going to stay with me, whether you like it or not.”

I’m shaking, but I push back. “I’m not your pet.”

“If you don’t obey, I’ll press charges on you for not complying with a murder investigation, and you’ll find yourself locked up in no time.”

I’m struggling, twisting desperately to break free from his hold, but it’s no use. He’s got me pinned down, and there’s no escape. I’m pissed, furious even, but I know he’s got the upper hand. I bite out a begrudging “Fine,” and he finally lets me go.

With a sly, almost victorious smile, Mr. FBI says, “Good. We’ve already got your clothes in my car. I just need to take care of a few things, and then we’ll be out of here.”

I nod, without looking at him. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, but it’s the only way out. This whole situation is sick and twisted, but maybe, just maybe, I can use Mr. FBI to get out of it alive.

After the tense standoff, I’m left waiting for a while, and then Richard finally comes for me. He asks me to walk, and I don’t argue. He follows behind me as we make our way out of the building.

Once we’re outside, he heads to his car, and I take the passenger seat, gazing out of the window. The day’s been long and draining, and I can’t remember the last time I had a decent meal. The smell of food wafting in from the Chinese takeout place we passed by makes my stomach grumble, but I keep my mouth shut. No need to give Mr. FBI the satisfaction of knowing I’m hungry.

But then he surprises me. He breaks the silence, asking casually, “You want to grab some takeout?”

I don’t answer, and I don’t have to. He takes the hint by pulling over at the nearby Chinese takeout. He heads inside, leaving me in the car. I watch the world outside, feeling like I’m on the fringes of some morbid, corrupted reality.

When he returns, he’s carrying bags filled with the delicious aroma of food. My stomach rumbles louder this time.

He passes me a box of food, and I don’t waste a second. I dive in, shoveling the food into my mouth as if it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted. It’s heaven in a takeout box, and I don’t care if I’m making a mess. I’m too hungry to be polite.

Just when I think this meal is the highlight of my day, Richard’s phone rings, and he picks it up using the Bluetooth system in his car. He’s talking about some personal matter, and I end up eavesdropping. It’s not my fault if he’s talking loud enough for me to hear.

At some point, I hear him address someone as “Ashley.” The conversation is intimate, too intimate for my liking. He’s saying something about not being able to have sex tonight because he’s “occupied.”

Ashley? Who the hell is Ashley? And what does he mean by “occupied”?

Richard finishes his conversation and hangs up. He turns his attention back to me with a nonchalant look on his face, as if he’s done nothing out of the ordinary.

“Ashley was going to be a one-night stand.”

Did I just ask that out loud? It’s one of those moments when you realize your thoughts slipped out of your mouth, and I’m cursing myself silently.

“Well, how gentlemanly of you to call your girlfriend a ‘little fuck.’”

Richard starts driving, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “She’s not my girlfriend, and I don’t have one.”

“Why not? Too busy solving crimes?”

He lets out a dry chuckle. “Not just that. I have a crazy schedule, and relationships don’t exactly fit in. Besides, I’ve seen the kind of shit I deal with, and I wouldn’t want anyone I care about to be dragged into it.”

I nod, taking in his words. It’s starting to make more sense. The guy’s got a demanding job, and it’s not exactly nine-to-five. The life of an FBI agent isn’t one for the faint of heart, and it’s no wonder he doesn’t have time for romantic entanglements.

As Richard keeps driving, I steal glances at his side profile. He’s not just good-looking; he’s the kind of good-looking that could make hearts stop. Dark, tousled hair and piercing powder blue eyes that could melt glaciers. But I’m not about to admit that out loud. The man’s the definition of eye candy, and it’s hard to tear my gaze away.

But, of course, he catches me ogling him because he glances in my direction, and a sly smirk curls at the corner of his lips. I quickly look away. Maybe it’s the stress of the day, or maybe I’m just stuck in a car with a guy who’s way too easy on the eyes.

Clearing my throat, I decide to change the subject, mostly to stop embarrassing myself. “So, earlier… when you said ‘it could be bad,’” I start.

He glances at me, that smirk still playing on his lips. “I didn’t say that.”

I roll my eyes, but my pulse kicks up a notch. “Well, something like that.”

“Mhm,” he hums

“Well, it couldn’t be that bad.” I stretch out in the passenger seat, adjusting the seatbelt.

He shoots me a look out of the corner of his eye, and his lips twitch into a humourless smirk for some reason. “You think so, huh?”

I shrug. “It’s just a job.”

“Yeah, it’s just a job. A job where you walk into houses and find body parts scattered across the kitchen. Or when a kid calls 911 because they heard their parents get shot, and by the time you get there, they’re hiding in a fucking closet covered in blood.”

I blink, turning to face him fully now. “Okay, so… maybe it’s a little bad.”

“A little?” He lets out a sharp laugh, gripping the wheel tighter. “I’ve pulled bodies out of rivers so bloated, you can’t tell who the fuck they were. Ever smelled decomposing flesh? Trust me, once you do, it sticks with you.” His eyes stay on the road, but I can tell he’s back there in his head, walking through those crime scenes like it’s just another Tuesday.

“Yeah, well, monsters exist. It’s not exactly news.”

“Monsters, yeah. But they’re not the worst part. It’s the aftermath. It’s the survivors—the ones who make it out but wish they hadn’t. The ones who keep living with that shit inside them.”

I cross my arms, masking the sudden unease settling in my chest. “What, like PTSD or something?”

His eyes flick to me. “Or something .”

“What?” I ask, leaning in slightly.

“There was this girl once… Lyla. She was trafficked, smuggled in from Sweden. Ended up trapped in a house for seven months. No one knew she was there. By the time we found her, she was...” He trails off, shaking his head as if to scrub the image from his brain. “Well, she wasn’t in good shape. She was scared out of her mind, barely talked. We put her in witness protection. We couldn’t ID her. No records, nothing. She didn’t want to talk about who she was, where she came from. Probably Lyla wasn’t even her real fucking name.”

I frown. “Why couldn’t you ID her?”

“Because she killed herself,” he says mechanically.

For a moment, I sit in silence, just watching him. He keeps talking, filling the car with more cold details about the case. I bite the inside of my cheek, forcing myself to keep it together, but it’s eating me alive. How the fuck can he be so emotionless about this?

I cross my arms, pretending to look out the window, but I can feel the words bubbling up, and before I know it, they slip out. “She didn’t kill herself. You did.”

His head jerks slightly, like I slapped him, but he doesn’t look at me. “What the hell are you talking about?”

I clench my fists in my lap. “She was cooped up in a fucking house for seven months, and then you put her in another cage. You didn’t help her, Richard. You just moved her from one prison to another.”

“We put her in witness protection. That’s the protocol.”

“ Fuck your protocol !” I snap, louder than I intended, but I don’t care. I’m too angry. “You should have asked her what she wanted. Maybe she didn’t want to hide away. Maybe she needed to see the world again, to be free. You didn’t give her that chance.”

His jaw tightens, and he says nothing, just keeps driving like my words don’t mean shit. Like they’re bouncing off some invisible wall he’s put up. “You didn’t save her. You fucking killed her.”

Still, nothing. Just the same cold, dead stare.

“Are you not even a little bit guilty? You know, a girl lost her life because you were too busy following protocol.”

He exhales sharply, like he’s frustrated, but he still won’t look at me. “Guilty for what?”

“For doing nothing!” I nearly shout. “For sticking to your fucking rules while someone needed you , not the system. You just let her slip away.”

“Let me tell you something. Guilt doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t bring people back, it doesn’t fix the fucked-up shit in this world, and it sure as hell doesn’t help me do my job.”

“That’s it? That’s your excuse for not giving a shit?”

“You think guilt is supposed to make me better at what I do? No. It makes you weak. And in this line of work, weakness gets people killed. You follow the protocol because it works. You follow the rules because they keep people alive. I’m not here to save everyone. I’m here to do my job, and that’s what I did with Lyla.”

The car lurches to a stop, the sudden jerk snapping me out of the spiral I’m in. I glance over at Richard, who’s gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping him from losing control.

I open my mouth, ready to spit out something—anything—before I can even think it through. “Fuck this.”

He doesn’t answer, doesn’t even flinch. His grip on the wheel loosens slightly, and he pulls the car into park, finally shutting the engine off. But I’m already moving, shoving the door open before he’s even finished parking. I burst out of the car, slamming the door behind me like a teenager.

What the fuck am I doing?

I stand there, staring at nothing. This is what he wanted. I am feeling stupid as hell. I gave myself away. I let him get to me.

I close my eyes, forcing the anger down. This isn’t me. I’m not supposed to care. Slowly, I take another breath, grounding myself. I know better than to let my emotions show, especially around Richard.

I hear his car door open and shut behind me. I don’t move, but I can feel him watching me. For a second, I wonder if he’s going to say something, throw my outburst back in my face. But instead, I feel his hand on my arm.

With a deep breath, I finally turn back to him. “You coming in or what?” he says, motioning toward the house with a nod of his head.

I don’t respond, just nod slightly and let him lead me. He walks beside me, his hand falling away as we head toward the house in silence.

We reach his home, and I take in the view. The house is decent, more than decent, actually. It’s spacious, big enough for at least four people to live comfortably and still have room to spare. The furniture is sleek and new, a far cry from the messy, cluttered apartment I used to share with Cassie.

Richard starts putting his things on the table, arranging his gun and wallet with precision. It’s clear that he’s used to being in control, to having everything in its place. He looks over at me and says, “You can take the room down the hall to the right.”

I follow Richard’s instructions and make my way down the hall to the right. The room is simple, much like the rest of the house, lacking any personal touches or decor. It’s just a space, a place to sleep, and I’m not expecting much more.

There’s a large, comfortable-looking bed against one wall, a spacious closet for my use, and a small desk with a chair by the window. The window overlooks the backyard, offering a glimpse of a garden that’s been neglected for some time.

A knock on the door interrupts my thoughts. “You can use the bathroom to freshen up. I’ll be in the room next door if you need anything.”

I give a small nod and place my bag carefully on the bed, feeling the softness of the comforter beneath my fingers. Taking a deep breath, I glance around the room, anchoring myself. After a moment, I begin to look for my phone, but it’s not in my bag. A wave of anger washes over me as the thought crosses my mind that Richard might have taken it. I have this recurring feeling that my privacy is being intruded upon.

I storm out of the room and walk in the direction of his. I push the door to Richard’s room open, and what I see leaves me momentarily stunned. He’s just stepped out of the shower, with only a towel wrapped around his waist. The towel hangs so low, drawing my attention to the defined V-shape of his abdomen and the toned muscles sculpting his body.

But it’s not just the muscles that draw me in. It’s the scars. Jagged lines and faded slashes crisscross his skin. They’re stark against the tan of his body, somehow enhancing his beauty rather than detracting from it. And in that moment, I feel a pang of something I can’t quite name—envy, maybe. Because I have scars too, hidden beneath my clothes, but mine don’t look like his. Mine aren’t beautiful. They’re messy, chaotic, ugly reminders of everything I’ve lost and broken along the way. His scars speak of strength; mine are just proof of my destruction.

He glances at me with those piercing blue eyes. His voice breaks me out of my trance. “Need anything?”

“Where is my phone?” I snap back to reality, and my face probably is betraying the shock and embarrassment I’m feeling.

He looks puzzled, running a hand through his damp hair. “Your phone? It wasn’t at the crime scene.”

I can’t shake the feeling that something’s off here. But it’s hard to focus on anything else when the image of his nearly-naked body is burned into my mind. I try to push away the flush of embarrassment and concentrate on the issue at hand.

“Are you sure?” I stammer, struggling to keep my eyes on his face and not let them wander. “It has to be with...”

But I can’t do this. He’s too naked for me to have this conversation. The sight of his bare chest is distracting, and I feel my cheeks heating up again. The words are jumbled in my head, and I can’t seem to string them together.

“Screw this,” I mutter under my breath, spinning on my heel and storming into my room.

I haphazardly toss my clothes aside, yanking them from my bag and scattering them across the floor in a frenzy. One by one, I empty every pocket, shake out every folded piece, then check underneath, hoping to spot that familiar screen. But nothing. My phone is nowhere to be found. Did I drop it somewhere? Did someone steal it? The possibilities are endless.

A few minutes later, Richard knocks on my door. He’s dressed now, thankfully, and there’s a steely resolve in his eyes.

“We need to talk about this.”

I cross my arms, not in the mood for a lecture. “Talk about what? You stealing my phone?”

He steps into the room, shutting the door behind him. “I didn’t take your damn phone. I have no reason to.”

I scoff, rolling my eyes. “Oh, I’m sure FBI agents are all saints with impeccable morals.”

He grits his teeth, clearly losing patience. “This isn’t about my job, Izel. It’s about trust. You need to understand that I’m not your enemy here.”

I take a step closer, unable to control the anger bubbling within me. “Trust? You expect me to trust you after you've been holding me hostage in your house?”

Richard, his anger slowly subsiding, takes a step back. “Is there someone you need to call? You can use my phone.”

I roll my eyes at the offer. “I don’t need your phone or your fake concern. Just leave me alone.”

I don’t wait for a response. I’m done with this whole situation. I start walking in the opposite direction, away from Richard, but he has had enough of my mistrust. In a swift, almost predatory move, he pushes me against the wall, his face dangerously close to mine. His anger flares up, and he gives me a warning that sends a shiver down my spine.

“You don’t want to test me, Izel. You’re in deeper than you realize, and I can make your life a living hell. You need my help, whether you want it or not. Now, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. But make no mistake, crossing me is the last thing you want to do.”

The threat in his words is crystal clear, and I’m left breathless, trapped between the wall and his unflinching eyes. The room feels suffocating and I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve just crossed a line that I’ll regret.