much she’s asking. “If you’re willing to type up the report, I’ll let Alex believe you discovered the photos.”
“I don’t want to take your credit, Izzy.” It also isn’t a conversation I want to have with Alex until I have all my ducks lined up in a row.
“You’re not taking my credit, Brandon,” Isabelle assures, stepping closer. “You’re helping me out. I’m snowed under here.” She waves her hand across the stacks of boxes she still has left to scan. In a normal office, a task like this would take a day or two at most. But since the copier here requires manual loading of each page, Izzy will be stuck in here for months. “This isn’t even a small dent in the boxes left in the conference room.”
I take a few minutes to deliberate on a response. In all honesty, my initial reply is hell-to-the-fucking-no, but a bit of pondering breaks a small ray of sunshine through the thick cloud hovering over my head. If I disclose the information Isabelle unearthed to Alex while revealing I could have a possible connection with our target’s past, I won’t have to include my discussion with Dimitri in our conversation. It’s a win-win really. I get to keep an informant’s identity undisclosed while ensuring the Bureau continues hunting the right man.
Relief floods Isabelle’s eyes when I jerk up my chin, approving her suggestion for me to compile the report to present to Alex. “But you’ll get the credit for finding the connection between Isaac and Col.”
I leave the supply room like I have a rocket strapped to my back. I should go straight to my desk to commence drafting my report, but instead, I head to the roof for some privacy. And perhaps to assure myself I’m not going crazy.
When several long minutes of sucking in fresh air doesn’t budge the elephant from my chest, I dig my cell phone out of my pocket and dial a number I rarely use.
“Petretti’s Restaurant, are you making a reservation or placing an order?”
I swallow the lump in my throat before saying, “I wish to order the Peking duck. I heard the orange glaze is divine.”
The hostess says nothing. She just patches me through to the private number I’m requesting. When Dimitri answers two rings later, I crack like a teen under pressure. “Can you send me a photo of your sister?”
“What?”
“I need a photo of your sister. A photo of Ophelia. The Bureau has some on file they believe are her. I want to double-check that they are her. They make fuck-ups all the time. This could be a fuck-up.”
“All right. Calm down. Which contact?” Dimitri’s tone reveals he’s only doing this because of the heads-up I gave him about the IRS. If it were for any other reason, he would have hung up by now.
After sweeping the area to ensure it’s free of nosy-parkers, I say, “The secure email server Grayson set up two years ago.”
“The one you told me to only use in dire circumstances?”
“Yes!” I run my fingers through my hair when my voice ricochets off the rooftop. “This is an emergency. I need a photo as soon as possible.”
Since nothing but sheer desperation is echoing in my tone, my phone pings two seconds later before Dimitri advises me to check my emails. I fumble so much I almost drop my phone when I lower it from my ear. Fear isn’t something I readily feel, but I’m certain it’s the cause of the shaking of my hands when I log into my email to download the image Dimitri attached to an email that will disappear within thirty seconds of me opening it.
After taking in the image Dimitri sent that unequivocally confirms my Olivia is Isaac’s Ophelia, I squash my phone back against my ear. I’m tempted to smack it against my head another six times for good measure, but hold my punishment for a more appropriate time. “When did Ophelia die?”
“Six years ago—”
“Not the year. The actual date.”
I know the answer I’m seeking. I read her death certificate three times this weekend and have the ability to retain anything I read, but my brain is nothing but puree right now. I’m stunned I can talk, even more so when Dimitri replies, “January 14th.”
It reveals I have more than a minute connection with our target’s past. It could completely fuck me over.
I bedded a mafia princess.
A mafia princess who had supposedly died nine months before we fooled around.
Fuck!
21
Brandon
Alex’s head pops up from