Page 88 of Ballrooms & Blackmail

My jaw tightens.

This is exactly what I wanted.

To focus on work. To find a way to make sure River is safe.

Forever.

But, fuck, if it doesn’t feel empty.

Pascal sighs. “Christ, man. Just call her.”

I shake my head, grab the file, and read it through. Then I tell him my thoughts on the trail—still the same shit, still getting closer, still a fucked-up, tangled mess.

He listens. Nods. Says, “I agree. Attie thinks she’s close to something, but I’m thinking if that leads to yet another fucking shell game, we should go on the offensive.”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“We’ve been chasing our tails trying to go after them, reacting to their volleys.” His mouth hitches up. “I think it’s beyond time that we lob a bomb of our own.”

“How would we possibly do that?”

“You still have Sergio’s number.”

My brows drag together.

Then the pieces start sliding into place.

“What does Attie think about using it?”

“That we’d better not fuck up her investigation.”

I sigh. There is that.

Then again, the wheels of justice are notoriously slowly…and most of the time, fucking broken.

“Still,” I say, “it’s the best leverage we have, especially if we play it right.”

We talk for a few more minutes before he pushes to his feet. “We’re taking Brooks out for a couple beers while the women do their bachelorette thing. You going to join us?”

“No,” I tell him immediately.

He shakes his head. “Christ, man.”

“I’m busy.”

“Now, you’re running scared.” A beat. “The only question is whether or not you man up in time.”

With that, Pascal leaves.

And unfortunately, he takes all of my excuses with him.

Three hours later, I’ve run out of work and I’m standing in the middle of my office staring at my phone.

At River’s contact on my phone.

Pathetic.

Absolutely pathetic.