* * *
It wasn’t difficult to track down Isaac’s mysterious companion. She was photographed several times sitting in a yellow vehicle in the parking lot of his club. Just entering her license plate into the FBI database gave me access to her driver’s license details.
Megan Patricia Shroud is twenty-six years old and lives in a country town four hundred miles from Ravenshoe. She is unmarried and has no next of kin reported on her driver’s license. I expand my search on Megan, more out of curiosity than necessity.
When my eyes glance down at my cell phone vibrating on my desk, a broad grin carves my mouth when I discover a text from Harlow.
Harlow:Champagne is chilled, wine glasses are ready, and my bag is packed. I just seem to be missing one essential element????
Eagerly jumping from my seat, I snare my jacket from the back of the chair. After snatching the print-out of Megan’s license, I make a beeline to Alex’s office, passing by Brandon’s desk on the way to hand him Megan’s details.
“Thanks, and have fun,” Brandon shouts as I bolt by.
Alex's eyes lift from the documents he’s scrutinizing when I tap on his office door.
“I just wanted to let you know I’m heading out for the weekend,” I inform him, stepping into his office. “I also wanted to say thanks for letting me have this time off.”
Even though I had to grovel, Alex did have a legitimate reason to refuse my request. I’ve only been a part of his team for a little under five months, and I’ve already put in a request for vacation, so I’m grateful he accepted my pleas.
“It is fine, Isabelle.” The sternness of his tone doesn’t match his words.
“Bye,” I murmur when his eyes resume perusing the documents in his hand.
Just as I’m about to exit his office, Alex calls my name. Cautiously, I pivot back around to face him.
“Make sure you keep your phone on you. If we need you, you’ll have to return from your trip early.”
Smiling, I nod and walk out of his office.
“Like filing and scanning can’t wait until I return,” I mutter under my breath.
Pulling my cell phone out of my pocket, I return Harlow’s message.
Me:Pop that cork. I’m on my way!
17
Isabelle
“I’m not taking it.”
I remove my microscopic bikini from my suitcase for the third time the past thirty minutes.Every time I turn my back, Harlow places the minuscule scraps of material back in against my wishes.
“Trust me, you’ll want that bikini.” She over accentuates the words “trust me.”
She cocks her sculptured brow as she holds my tiny black string bikini out in front of her, pleading for me to take it. I’ve already packed a swimsuit, but it covers a lot more skin than my scant bikini does. Harlow extends her arm, placing the bikini to within an inch of my hands, and executes her best puppy dog eyes.
She smiles and murmurs, “Yes,” under her breath when I confiscate the thin scraps of material from her hand and shove it into the side pocket of my suitcase.
I enter my walk-in closet in pursuit of a slip I can wear over my bikini. Harlow rolls her eyes when she notices me packing a Hawaiian print cover-up into my overstuffed suitcase.
Once I’ve finished packing my bag, I wheel it into the entranceway in preparation for our departure.
A short time later, my intercom screeches through my apartment.
“Hi, come on up,” I greet into the intercom.
Leaning over, I push the button to unlock the security door in the lobby. A massive buzz shrieks through my eardrums when the door latch is released. Dropping down to my knees, I refasten the zipper that just busted. My head clusters with giddiness from my sudden movements. I probably shouldn’t have mixed Xanax with champagne, but when Harlow said we were flying, I knew I needed something to take the edge off my fear.
