Chapter 28

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Athena

Cam talked a big game.

And he more than lived up to it.

I'm still sore as hell the following week as I walk into my office, climb the stairs slowly, and come out of the stairwell to Connie's knowing look.

Namely because I've spent every day for the last week hobbling into the bureau because Cam has spent our evenings making sure I know precisely how special my love for him is.

I've been wined and dined and orgasmed into submission, and I can't give a fuck.

Because I've been thoroughly fucked.

Heh.

"Am I going to meet this boyfriend of yours?" she asks, passing me my now daily and much-needed cup of coffee.

I yawn as I take a huge gulp from the mug, feeling that sweet, sweet blast of caffeine hitting my veins. "No," I say then add when she looks crestfallen, "Okay, maybe ."

Her face lights up, and I know I've gotten played as she peels off at my office, waving and saying, "I'll hold you to that."

Sighing, knowing that her statement is fact, I take another sip of coffee and ignore her smug look as I push inside and settle down at my desk, boot up my computer. I pull up the Lyon case file as I sip the coffee, but even though I refill it a half-dozen times over the next hours, it doesn't give me any clarity, and by the time I've had lunch, I've run through all the new information that came in overnight.

Instead of twiddling my thumbs—or banging my head against my desk in frustration—I switch gears, pop into my work email (and know that Jean-Michel's staff is good to have found it), and pull up the message that he sent me.

And I start going through it. Again.

For the umpteenth time over the last seven days.

A click brings up all of those files.

Another gives me access to the personal records of the staff.

It's an intrusion, I know that, and probably a half-dozen steps beyond what any normal employer would give an investigator, but I also trust JM's instincts. If he says something is up with someone in the organization, I believe him.

And, frankly, I would love to find something to nail that asshole of a coach to the wall.

But just like my other run-throughs, today's doesn't yield anything either, and so by the time I'm done looking for any obvious connections, I'm ready to knock off for the day.

Logging out of my computer, I gather my stuff so I can go home, change, feed the tiny he-cat demon, then meet Cam and the others for Game Night at his place.

Yup. The others .

As in, his friends and teammates, who are really freaking nice. And while I already knew I liked Chrissy—because kind, lovely cat lady—I really like her now. She's sweet and funny and driven and has a cat named Joan of Freaking Arc, who's as badass as the medieval warrior must have been and tolerates Rome's corgi pup with my namesake.

And she's competitive, which I respect, along with her bestie, Rory, who's just as nice, and just as cutthroat as they battle their way through board and video games alike, even though neither had apparently played the latter until Cam introduced them to drug that is battling orcs and dragons.

We women bonded over the difficulties of double-jumps even though my indoctrination started earlier, mostly because Lex and the older Jackson brothers spent their share of hours shooting each other on screen or bickering over a teamwork game that required them to cook a meal together.

If I had a penny for every time I heard, "I need more lettuce! Chop faster!" I would have a lot of pennies.

But we didn't play Overcooked last weekend, and I didn't get yelled at about cutting enough vegetables.

Instead, we played old-fashioned board games and threw down over orcs.

And tonight we're doing it all over again.

Smiling, I hurry through my shower, throw on a pair of jeans and a halfway decent shirt then make sure to give Cookie plenty of cuddles and, well, cookies . Then I'm out the door, into my car. I buckle in and am halfway out of the garage when the niggle hits?—

No, when the Mack Truck of a realization hits, slamming into my head with all the finesse of that big truck and leaving me dazed and spinning on the side of the road.

Road.

Shit .

I slam on the brakes, stopping my reverse, and wrench the gear shift into drive. I gun the gas and pull back into the garage with a squeal of tires that's likely loud enough to concern the neighbors.

I'll apologize later, I think, as I slam on the brakes again, stopping mere inches from colliding with the inside wall and slamming the transmission into park.

"Fuck," I whisper as I snag my purse and all but leap out of my car, sprinting for the house. "How did I miss it?"

I tear into the house so quickly that Cookie sprints away from me, knocking over shoes and who the fuck knows what else as he skitters through the house.

"Sorry," I call as I catch the door before it can slam into the wall and close it behind me. But that's all I have time to do as I hurry into the kitchen, pick up my laptop, and open up the Lyon case file.

As I scroll through the files and the notes I made, trying to remember where the fuck I'd seen it.

"Come on," I whisper as I read rapidly. " Come on ."

My phone buzzes, but I only distantly hear it, and I can't pull my focus from the files anyway.

I need to find it.

Need to put the rest of the pieces together.

I need to…

Find the confirmation of why the asshole of a head coach for the Eagles looked so familiar the other day at the rink.

And as I search for it, I don't hear the texts, don't hear the calls.

I'm just in the zone.

Searching.

Finding .

And by the time the door to the mud room crashes open, who knows how much later, I've printed near-on fifty pages, scribbled my way through almost an entire legal pad, and covered my island with papers.

But…I've figured out the puzzle, sorted out the fucked-up mess of the Eagles, and so I'm smiling as Cam hurries out of the hall and into the kitchen.