Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

Ats

I close the file and lean back in my desk chair, staring at my computer screen and trying to make the facts fit.

Lex and I spent almost five years trying to close down an organized crime ring that centered around the small coastal town of Stoneybrook on the other side of the country.

We finally cracked it when we managed to nail the ringleader—Frankie's dad.

Yeah, it's complicated and made shit seriously heavy for Lex when he was falling in love with her, but the bosses of the Lyon crime ring were eventually taken down, Frankie was cleared, and her and Lex could ride off with their happily ever after into the sunset.

But that doesn't mean all parties who were working for the Lyons just turned over a new leaf and got on the straight and narrow. The lifelong criminals we weren't able to take down didn't start volunteering for senior charities or to paint over graffiti on the side of buildings or to clean up dog poop assholes leave on the street.

They're still out there.

Still doing illegal shit.

Still hurting people.

And one of them killed Tommy.

I rub the throb in my temple and sigh.

I just don't know which one.

Same as I can't be absolutely certain that a group of those Lyon criminals—the mid- to high-level bastards who managed to slip out from beneath our net—are in the Bay Area.

I just… feel it.

The pieces seem to line up. My gut tells me I'm right.

But then again, my gut led to Tommy getting killed, so what the fuck do I know?

I exhale again, rub more determinedly at the throb.

I'll find him. I know I will.

I just need to keep working, keep pulling the pieces together, keep?—

There's a knock at the door and I look up, see my new boss, Sandra, leaning back against the door frame. "Pack it in."

I frown. "What?"

"It's seven-thirty," she says. "You've been here since six"—I open my mouth to play dumb, but she talks over me—"cameras, Ats, plus you know that Connie keeps track of everyone's hours, so don't try to bullshit me."

Suitably chastised, I close my mouth.

Connie is the office mom—and just like most good moms in the world, she has her fingers on the pulses of all of the agents in her department.

Which means there's no way I can lie my way through this.

"I know I'm close," I mutter.

"Says every agent, all the fucking time," Sandra quips then tilts her head to the hall. "Pack it up, pack it out. We're going to the bar."

"No, I'll?—"

"Grab your shit and come out with us," she interrupts, absolutely no room for argument in her tone.

Fucking hell.

I look longingly at my computer.

"Don't even think about it." Another tilt of her head to the hall. "Come on. I'll even buy you a beer."

Knowing I've lost, I give in with a sigh, log off, and grab my jacket and purse.

And then…

I follow her.

Scowling, I sit on my stool, nursing my beer at a local hotspot called Bobby's.

It's all sticky old wood and blond oak tables. A bar that's seen some things?—

At least in this room.

The front of Bobby's almost made me turn around and walk right the fuck out—Sandra's interference and Connie's wrath or not.

But, sensing my impending tactical retreat, Sandra had slipped her arm through mine and drew me through the dance music and flashing lights, through the throng of young bodies rubbing all over each other, down the hall, and into?—

A much better space—in my opinion, anyway.

The old-timers hanging in their usual spots, a group of women who look like they've been friends for years cackling around a table in the corner, bartenders who know their patrons' names, and us—a group of new colleagues sitting awkwardly at a high top table.

Luckily, the Eagles game is on and providing distraction.

Mostly because it's a battle as the match winds down in the third period, the Eagles down a goal and looking to tie it up.

Cam is looking to tie it up. I can see his focus when the camera pans to him on the bench, can see how hard he's working when he's on the ice. And he's flying around, skating faster than should be possible, slamming his body into guys on the other team, getting knocked down in front of the net, blocking shots?—

Doing all the things I've seen him do in the many games I've watched.

But…

It doesn't seem to be enough.

None of what he or the other guys on the Eagles do seems to be enough.

Not with under two minutes left between them and the end of the season.

"Damn," I hear and blink, refocusing on the game, realizing the commercial break is over and the play's started up again. The specks—one of which is Cam—speed around on the ice.

But, I realize, not in the direction we want.

They're zipping toward the Eagles' net, and I spot Cam trying to catch up with a fast fucker from the other team. He's closing the distance?—

"Come on," I whisper.

Five feet behind.

I clench my beer.

Two feet, almost close enough to reach the puck, but he's also almost out of room. Their goalie is right there and there's a guy from the other team who's caught up too and?—

"Shit," I whisper, realizing that Cam's already seen what I've only just clocked.

He dives to disrupt the pass…

Too late.

The puck flies across the front of the net.

Lands right on the other guy's stick.

And—

I lean forward.

Then close my eyes, shoulders sinking as everyone watching the game groans.

When I open them again, it's to see the guys from the Grizzlies hugging each other and slamming into the boards, to see Cam—his front covered in snow, his expression slicing my insides to ribbons—push up to his skates and head to the bench.

His Coach leans in and I can't hear him obviously, but I can see his face, can see that it's not encouragement.

And those claws rake across my insides again.

Cam. Well…he doesn't deserve that.

And maybe that's why, as I watch the Eagles go out with renewed energy, as they battle all the way down until the final buzzer goes, I decide to do what I do next.

Regardless of how dumb.

"This is fucking stupid," I mutter an hour later as I jab at the keypad that will open the garage door, holding the six-pack of beer bottles under one arm, the paper bag under the other.

My purse swings forward and whacks me in the face as I squint and try to see the numbers, trying to remember the code Martha put in.

Knowing without a doubt that I'm overstepping.

And breaking and entering.

But is it really breaking and entering if I know the code to get in?

Pushing that prevarication aside, I sigh in relief as the keypad flashes green and the heavy metal garage door begins rumbling open. Then I'm walking across the shadowed space, twisting the knob and giving another relieved sigh when it twists, when I can pull it open, when there's no alarm for me to contend with inside.

I need to have a talk with Cam about safety.

But later.

I hit the button to send the garage door sliding closed then walk down the hall.

Into the kitchen.

And I settle in to wait.