“You need to bring it back a few years. I’m certain Isaac’s connections began months, if not years before he moved to Ravenshoe.” He shuffles down the papers so Isaac’s college portfolio is at the start of my timeline. “He started college with $895.34 in his bank account. He graduated with over eight million dollars.”
An impressive wolf whistle leaves my mouth. It annoys me more than Grayson’s earlier comment. Isaac doesn’t deserve my praise, not even a bigamist old-fashioned one.
* * *
Grayson and I put the two-hour flight time from Texas to Florida to good use. I have a better timeframe of Isaac’s life to work with, and I’ve been updated on any events that occurred the five months I was absent from his case. Unfortunately, the last half of my statement only took a few minutes. Unlike me, the past few months have been extremely profitable for Isaac. His latest dance club is one of his biggest moneymakers. He’s killing it—figuratively.
I hope he enjoys his last few weeks of freedom, because things are set to change now that I’m in charge of his operation.
* * *
Silence falls over the office I once called HQ when Grayson and I enter a little before 6 PM. The standard workers are still here, the same dingy desks, and moldy windows looking out on the alley. Even the bell I placed above the door is in working order. There’s just one difference: I know how to run a tight ship.
“No one is to leave this office before the target leaves his. If the target sleeps from 3 AM to 11 AM, you now sleep 3 AM to 11 AM. If he dines at a restaurant that charges $100 for a plate of sauce, you now eat at a restaurant that charges $100 for a plate of sauce. If he’s fucking a two-dime whore in a back alley infested with rats. . .”
I pause, certain they’ve got the picture.
The hum that follows proves they do: “We fuck a two-dime whore in a back alley infested with rats.”
“That’s right. We’ve dropped the ball so many times during this operation that a clean-up crew will be called in sooner rather than later, so if you don’t want toloseyour job, I suggest you startdoingyour job.”
I point to a six foot one man with a medium build on my right. “I need these desks moved to the top floor of this building. Organize it.”
He attempts to seek further information, but my glare cuts him off. I’m not holding his hand. I’m giving him an order. What more information does he need than that?
“On it,” he stumbles out with a nod, realizing there’s a new sheriff in town.
“You?” I click my fingers two times as I struggle to place a name with a face I’ve seen before.
“Michelle,” the blonde fills in, stepping closer.
I nod in thanks, appreciative of the eagerness on her mid-forties face. “There was a techie who worked with the team before he was relocated five months ago. His name was Brandon James. I want him brought back to my team—no matter what the cost.”
She nods, revealing she is aware of whom I am referring to. Her enthusiasm is snatched away when I add on, “I want him transferred as a field agent.”
“I. . . ah. . . I don’t have the authority to do that.”
“You don’t, but I do.” I dig out my wallet and hand her my business card. “If you have any troubles, refer them to me. Just dropping my name should keep their inquisitiveness on the down low, but if it doesn’t, I’m more than happy to convince them to look elsewhere.”
“Okay.” She scurries off to do as asked, proving she’ll fit into my team nicely.
“For the rest of you. . .” I scan the near dozen men and women eyeballing me with stunned astonishment. “. . . I suggest you go home and kiss your family goodbye, because from tomorrow morning, your ass is mine until we bring this case to the courts.”
Seven
Regan
“This can’t be right?”
I toss the folder Ayden handed to me onto a stack of many before slouching into the sofa in my parents’ living room. It’s been five hours since Raquel came clean to our parents about her pregnancy, and I’m still living off the high.
Well, I was doing a mighty fine job pretending her news was the reason for my adrenaline-thick blood and jittery stomach, but that all came tumbling down when Ayden and my dad began to slap me with some cold, hard truths.
After taking a generous sip of the fourth glass of wine my mom handed me five minutes ago, I raise my eyes to Ayden. “Isaac wouldn’t lie about this. He told me he was sending money to Alex’s family.”
“Isaac wasn’t lying.” This isn’t coming from Ayden. It’s my dad who is speaking. “For the past five years, he’s been funding the living expenses for the family of the man shot outside of a strip club—”
“Cabaret club,” I correct, glaring at him over the glass of red I’m chugging down more than I’m enjoying.
