when I read the new article about Melody’s engagement to Julian McMahon. Because Julian’s family are gazillionaires, news of their only son’s engagement is supposedly page six news. The article was printed with a photograph from several months ago, but the timeline of events show Julian proposed a mere hour after I reached out to Melody.
Talk about being a schmuck. If proposing is the only trick you have up your sleeve to have your girlfriend forgetting the ghosts of her past, you’ve got issues.
Not as many as me, but still.
Fuck! It’s been almost seven years, so why can’t I let bygones be bygones. Melody has moved on—clearly—so why the fuck can’t I?
Because you swore an oath to protect her until eternity long before you knew the meaning of the word.
Frustrated, I drag my arm along my desk, removing the contents on top in one quick sweep. Because the agents surrounding me are too busy inconspicuously watching Alex’s rant from afar, they’re none the wiser to my childish tantrum.
I’m not surprised. I’m not a threat to anyone except myself, don’t you know?
With my teeth gritted, I bend down to gather up the files I was in the process of sorting. They’re brimming with documents, bank records, and movement sheets that correspond with our target, Isaac Holt. But that isn’t all the files I’m gathering. There’s a thick manila folder I didn’t notice earlier. It doesn’t have the name of our target on the seal. It’s the file I asked Melody to unlock for me.
As I scoop up the evidence that the old Melody is still hiding inside her somewhere, I scan my eyes across the office. This file is so confidential, it has more than one private stamp embossed on it. It even has a CIA seal.
Confident I’m not being eyeballed, I gather the file into my hand, hide it with my thick winter coat even though its extra humid today, then hightail it to the room every agent seeks when they want privacy—the supply room.
“What do you mean you’re not going to share the information you’ve unearthed with Isabelle?” Grayson questions down the line. His voice is as hoarse as mine, like he too has been sitting on a hard floor for over three hours, sorting through evidence on a massive injustice. “If she knows the type of men Isaac is hiding from prosecution, perhaps she won’t be so eager to keep his secrets. He’s harboring a rapist, Brandon. They’re the worst of the worst.”
“A rapist who gave testimony saying my brother was the ringleader of the gang rape of Gemma Calderon-Levesque.”
“Hold on, what? Go back. What the fuck did I miss?” Grayson sounds as shocked as I felt when I read Hugo’s testimony from a rape case five years ago. It happened when Madden, Gemma, and Hugo—a member of Isaac’s security personnel—were deployed in Afghanistan. “Which brother are we talking about?”
“Madden.” Considering I only spoke one word, it shouldn’t have been as hard to express as it was. “Initial reports given to the JAG officer state Madden approached Gemma in the alleyway outside of a local bar. She was disorientated and dizzy, seemingly unaware of where she was. Madden said he tried to help her. Gemma’s testimony didn’t verify his version of events. She said Madden, along with an additional five officers, attacked her, and that Hugo stopped their assault.”
“Jesus H Christ.” I hear Grayson scrub at his beard. “Why would she change her testimony?”
“That’s the thing, she didn’t. She’s always maintained her side of the story. She is adamant Hugo never assaulted her.”
A chair creaking into place sounds down the line before Grayson asks, “Then why did he plead guilty to her rape?”
A shudder rolls through me when I recall the images attached to the file. They were when Gemma attempted to commit suicide. It was the night following my father slaughtering her in the witness box. He still had contacts in the military from his years of service, and they were more than happy to have a decorated defense attorney step in to help one of their own. Gemma was also an officer, but her name didn’t have military distinction attached to it. Madden’s did.
When I update Grayson on all aspects of my findings, he curses—loudly. “This is more fucked-up than my family shit. Jesus, punk.” He takes a breather for a second before asking, “Is this the first time your father has stepped in like this?”
I almost nod before the faintest memory filters through my head.