Chapter 30

CHAPTER THIRTY

Athena

I push out of the stairwell and step onto the floor to the knowing—and pitying—look on Connie's face.

She passes me a mug of coffee without a word, and I'm grateful that she's given it a rest.

Space.

It's been a week of space.

A week without a word from Cam.

I gave in and texted two days ago.

But he didn't respond, and now I'm back to my normal pre-Cam life—pulling twelve-hour days and finalizing a raid on a warehouse in the outskirts of Oakland, its ownership hidden in a long line of shell companies, no tie to the Lyon's evident.

At least until I'd realized exactly who Peter Auclair was—or rather, who he's related to.

Second cousin to Frankie's father, Francis Lyon, former head of the Lyon crime conglomerate.

Peter Auclair has all sorts of connections…

And a gambling addiction.

Including on NHL games.

Including on Eagles' games—and most often, betting against them.

Fucking asshole.

But he also sold a property in Oakland to a local mid-level crime boss who we know is involved in illegal activity. So now it's putting pieces in place to nail Peter Auclair and stake out the warehouse.

The last week of digging has unearthed up several unsavory actors with their fingers in the criminal pie, all with rap sheets a mile long.

Now it's a matter of narrowing them down while keeping an eye on the warehouse and shutting down the last outlet of the Lyon's favorite money-making schemes.

Trading in people.

Innocent women. And girls.

That's the worst part. They're trafficking fucking underage girls who have no safe space and get swept up in shit that's dangerous and over their heads, and they have no way to get out?—

No more.

It has to stop.

And well, gee, I wonder where I got that drive to do something— anything —good came from.

Because even though Cam hasn't called, my mom's been blowing up my phone.

Buzz-buzz.

Ugh. Right on cue.

I rub the throb at my temple, skim through the text that's both a plea and an insult, and then I thank Connie for the coffee and head into my office, doing my best to go about my day. I need to process the intel coming in, need to forward any new leads, and then I have to get out of here early enough to get some sleep.

I was on stakeout duty last night, and though I have tonight off, that doesn't really mean anything.

The pieces are in place, but an earthquake could hit at any time, rattling the parts free, shaking out some rats who'll nibble on the corners. It could easily all blow up and when it settles, still make sense, still mean that the puzzle pieces fit, or it could all explode and send everything we've worked toward scattering toward the four corners of the planet, never to be united again.

We're walking the tightrope of time to gather information and time to fucking act already.

But soon enough we'll be taking that swan dive onto the acting side of the canyon.

And I don't know exactly how soon that will be.

So, I need sleep.

And tomorrow night I'll be back on stakeout duty.

I inhale slowly, exhale just as slowly, and push down my fatigue so I can focus on the intel, can do my necessary research, can get through all of my work and go home to rest—and do that all before I have to endure another one of Connie's pity coffees.

Okay, the coffee's fine.

It's the looks that come with it…and the fact that I must look miserable enough that she hasn't asked when she's going to meet Cam again…

And that the department dinner for spouses and agents she previously scheduled has mysteriously disappeared from our team's joint calendar.

My heart throbs, but like I've done for the last week, I shove down the hurt and focus on work.

Cam needed space.

I gave it to him.

That was the right thing to do.

I just…well, I can't stop thinking that I should have made him stay, should have made him see, made him understand just how much I love him?—

Buzz-buzz.

"Ugh," I groan, knowing that, sooner or later, the whole space thing is going to end—whether it's because he comes to his senses or because I run out of patience and end up smacking some of that sense into him, I don't know.

I just…

Can't exist in this limbo any longer.

But…I can give him some more time.

Not much more. But… more.

Buzz-buzz.

Sighing, I flip my phone over, know what I'm going to see on the screen—or some variation of it—even before my eyes trace over the words.

And yup.

My mom wants money.

I type out my normal response, offering food or to pay for a hotel room or to set her up in rehab, but this time, when I go to send it…I hesitate.

Hit the backspace button.

What has she done for me?

Martha's cinnamon rolls and wonderful hugs. Cam's gentle hands and teasing words. Lex's unwavering support. Chrissy's smiles. Rory's shoulder bumps. Cookie nuzzling my face when the tears threatened to come.

They deserve my time, my energy.

My love.

But my mom?

Why do I keep doing this?

Buzz-buzz.

I look…and see more vitriol, more hatred, more…

Not Jackson.

And…I'm tired. Done.

"Enough," I whisper, tapping at that button until I delete the entire reply.

But that's not enough.

Not when it's making me feel like this.

So, I hold my breath as I tap the screen and…block her.

Yes she's my mother. Yes, she provided half of my DNA.

Yes, I have this yearning need to protect people. Full stop.

Even those I don't like. Even those the rest of the world doesn't see the value in.

I have to believe that they can change, can be better.

Because otherwise how can I believe that the strides I've made in my own life are long-lasting? How can I believe Cam will see, will understand, will come back to me?

And without that belief, how can I know that I won't turn out like her?

So, I've clung to the ashes of a relationship, desperate to make it make sense, to work, to give me what I need.

For years, I've clung to it.

But…I don't want to any longer.

It can't be what I need.

I want this time and energy to go elsewhere—to go toward building a life with Cam and making friends like Rory and Chrissy, and helping people who aren't trying to constantly use and hurt me.

I need to unload this heavy burden.

I need to be done so I can move forward.

So…

I block her number and delete her texts, and I give myself a sliver of peace before I wrap up my work, head home, and spend the late afternoon napping and cuddling with Cookie.

And hoping that Cam comes back to me.

"Meow!" Cookie chirps hours later, making biscuits on my face until I'm awake enough to give him dinner.

"Fine," I mutter, filling up his bowl and checking his automatic water fountain before heading to the fridge. I should cook something healthy and balanced.

With vegetables.

Instead, I decide on a cinnamon roll, a bag of gummy worms, and two fingers of whisky.

It's a painful reminder of Cam…and also the thing that sends the last of my patience splintering.

"Why the fuck am I standing here miserable and alone?" I mutter, going for my phone. Enough is enough. I'll call him, make him listen.

And if he doesn't pick up…

Well, then I'll let myself into his place again and make him see reason.

There. Done . Good plan. Break.

Only, I know that neither of those is going to happen the moment my fingers wrap around my phone.

Call it instinct, but I already know who's calling, even before I flip it over to see the screen.

And…yup. One glimpse of the number there tells me I'm right.

Making Cam see sense tonight is off the table.

Along with that cinnamon roll and the gummy worms and the glass of whisky.

"Phillips," I say after swiping my finger across the screen to answer the call.

"Rendezvous at the warehouse in forty-five," Sandra orders, disconnecting before I can reply.

Sighing, I put the cinnamon roll back in the freezer, dump the whisky down the drain, and then gear up, head out, and?—

Set about doing what I'm best at.

Work.

And only work.

But I take the gummy worms with me.