* * *
“If you sign a contract, you’re required to fulfill your contract for the set amount of time on said contract.”
“But—”
“No buts, Isabelle. You’re not getting out of your contract.” My angry voice awards me the attention of the agents surrounding my office. “I don’t care if your cat gets run over by a truck or your grandmother dies. You signed a contract. You’re going to fulfill your moral obligation!”
My irritation centers more around my exchange with Regan Friday afternoon than Isaac and Isabelle’s disappearing act the past weekend, but since Isabelle is the closest person I can take my anger out on, she’s receiving the brunt of it.
Isabelle jumps to her feet and charges to the door when I growl, “Now go and do the job you’re paid to do!”
I should be ashamed of my attitude. I should slap myself in the face and pull my fucking head in before I make a fool out of myself, but I can’t. I’m beyond ropeable.
Just like Regan, I thought Isabelle was smart. I thought she’d see through Isaac’s tricks to obscure the man he is beneath the mask. I was so far off the mark, none of my darts came close to hitting the bullseye.
Isabelle is no longer seeing Isaac through the eyes of an agent but through the haze of a lover. I should revel in my triumph, be stoked my plan to force them together worked as I had hoped, but I didn’t factor love into the equation.
That woman who just raced out of here, she wasn’t sitting across from me to defend her position at the Bureau. She was protecting her man.
If this doesn’t make my job ten times harder, I don’t know what will.
* * *
For every week that passes, Isabelle’s influence in Isaac’s life increases. First, she defended him in my office, using the excuse she wasn’t cut out for my team. Then, she was seen dining with him at one of his restaurants. Although she didn’t appear to be his date, him carrying her out kicking and screaming after she kissed another man revealed there is more to their relationship than just friendship.
Now, she’s blubbering out an excuse as to why she knew intel on Isaac that an agent who wasn’t sleeping with him probably wouldn’t know.
“How do you know Isaac was a fighter?” I ask Isabelle while shadowing her into a conference room at the back of HQ.
Her big chocolate eyes dilate as she stammers out, “Umm. . . I’m just assuming. It doesn’t seem like an industry you’d get into unless you have some prior knowledge about it.”
I praise her flourishing investigation skills as I use a trick I was taught at the academy. It’s called a compliment sandwich. Hit them with a compliment, then smack them with a hard truth before finalizing your interrogation with another compliment. It usually stuns them enough they’ll reveal information without realizing what they’re doing.
Unfortunately, Isabelle is more clued in than I gave her credit for. She remains quiet, proving it wasn’t just her looks that helped her graduate the academy with honors.
I toss her a bone, hoping she’ll toss me one back. “We recently discovered Isaac was indeed a fighter in an underground fight ring during his college years. That fight ring’s organizer was Col Petretti.”
Isabelle takes in a sharp breath, revealing she’s heard of Col before. She also knows every word I spoke is true. Marked bills planted by the Bureau in Col Petretti’s operation will be the start of Isaac’s downfall. Although the money he banked during his college years wasn’t as high as the men surrounding him, it is enough for a search warrant.
That’s why I arrived at my office before the sparrows this morning, so I can prepare the documentation. I’ll ensure every i is dotted and every t is crossed so Regan has no chance in hell of stopping me from bringing Isaac in for questioning.
It’s time for the man to meet his maker.
My conversation with Isabelle takes a path I never saw coming when Brandon reveals an accident that occurred at the same time Isaac’s lump sum payments ceased being deposited into his account every Monday morning during his college years.
While Brandon updates Isabelle, I take in the report he’s grasping for dear life. There were two occupants in a car when it veered off the road upon hitting a section of black ice: Ophelia and Cj Petretti, only daughter and oldest son of Col Petretti. Ophelia was killed on impact. Cj spent weeks in the hospital recovering from his injuries before he fell off the FBI’s radar.
Fuck.
My heart does a weird beat when Isabelle asks Brandon, “Did Ophelia survive the accident?”
I realize my attention is focused in the wrong direction when Isabelle’s eyes flood with tears upon spotting the rapid shake of Brandon’s head.
* * *
My wish to have more money than sense smacks into me for the third time in a year when my old sedan struggles to keep up with Isaac’s town car weaving in and out of traffic.
Isabelle did a good job losing my tail when she snuck out of HQ hours after our confrontation, but since she isn’t behind the wheel of the car, and she’s being controlled by her heart instead of her head, I have no trouble maintaining a safe but close distance.
