With Hayden ensuring a minimum two-room gap between Regan and me all afternoon, I’ve had a lot of time to think. Most of my focus centered around the incredibly unbelievable connection Regan and I shared in the field, but some thoughts were more bitter than sweet.
Regan didn’t just confess to being in the car that claimed Luca’s life when it crashed into a tree; she divulged much more profound secrets—ones I doubt she’s ever confessed. She said Luca had an endless list of men.
At first, I thought she was a little jumbled, but the more I played our interactions through my mind, the clearer her confession became. She admitted she loved Luca in a way he could never love her back, that she has kept his secret for years. That can only mean one thing. Luca was gay.
Although surprised by the revelation, I’m not entirely stunned by it. It was obvious from the outdated posts on Luca’s Facebook wall that he was a man who craved attention. He sought it in any fashion he could get it, whether positive or negative. He cared for Regan, but not in an all-encompassing way a man besotted with her would.
That should have raised my first suspicion.
Why would you crave attention from nobodies when the absolute cream of the crop was directly in front of you, striving for your devotion? Luca did because Regan couldn’t give him everything he needed. Luca knew it; I know it; Regan is just a little slow receiving the message.
It is understandable. Her entire life was wrapped around Luca’s, so everything she thought she knew perished with him.
I can’t wait to show her it didn’t.
A flurry of buzzes, dings, and a cow mooing sounds through the truck in quick succession when we enter the outskirts of Colendale, Texas.
My hand delves into my pocket to dig out my phone when Sally laughs, “Everyone knows when the Myers are in town. Our cellphones light up like a Christmas tree. The joys of having sporadic service on the farm.”
While smiling to hide my grimace, I punch in the four digit code the salesperson at the Ravenshoe airport had me select when setting up my new phone. I can’t believe I didn’t check if I had service when Brandon failed to make contact. I assumed the forensic team still combing through the evidence was the cause for his lack of contact. I’m a fucking idiot.
After scrolling through the email alerts updating me on Isaac’s whereabouts and upcoming schedule, I stop at an email from an encrypted server.
Forensics found a partial match from the glove, sending details to mainframe. Theresa wants to be kept updated. BJ.
Forgetting that I can’t access the FBI’s database from a cell, I store Brandon’s details into my contacts before opening up my Safari app. It takes me attempting to log in three times before I remember mobile connectivity isn’t viable.
“Fuck!”
It dawns on me that I said my curse word out loud when Hayden growls, “You’d do best to tone down that language before we arrive at the church. Do you hear me, boy?”
After swallowing the brick in my throat from his deep snarl, I dip my chin. I’m in two places, torn between being a man and an agent. If Regan’s safety wasn’t involved, I’d shut down my phone and devote all my attention to supporting her during this difficult time. Instead, I reply to Brandon’s email.
Can’t access data. Forward dets to this number.
I jot down my new cell number at the end of my message.
Like all good technicians, Brandon’s reply is almost immediate.
What happened to your original phone?
My teeth grind out the string of profanities I can’t say since Hayden is watching me like a hawk as my finger punishes the screen of my phone.
Shit breaks. Get the fuck over it.
I don’t know Brandon any more than the woman who sold me my latest fandangle cell, but I can imagine him laughing at my reply. . . or dying, once I read his message.
Anger management is always an option. . .?
Thankfully a second message quickly follows the first.
I’m joking. Forwarding the information now.
The file is big, so may take a little to download.
“Not as long as it will take for your teeth to grow back after I ram them down your throat,” I mumble to myself.
My wish to kill Brandon fades when a text message pops up on my screen a few seconds later. He wasn’t joking about the file size. Before I’ve even clicked on the blue folder icon, my phone announces its storage is near capacity.
