I know, I know. That shit show wasn’t my fault. Hoarse from yelling at them from the crease. Still kind of sucks though. I’ll call you from the bus if you’re still up.
Forest
I’ll be up! This sucks the way ANY loss sucks. But some smart guy told me you have to live by goalie rules. So you’re not allowed to think about it tomorrow.
He hearts my text, and I discover that I like it a hell of a lot better than the thumbs up.
Too bad I fall asleep before he calls me. The next morning I wake up in an empty bed, a missed call on my phone.
Damn it all.
Forty-Six
Can I Ask You a Few Questions?
Forest
The next night I’m working a shift, but Beck and I have arranged a call—six o’clock my time—when Beck is on his way to the arena for tonight’s game. So I’m watching the clock like it owes me money.
Luckily, it’s a quiet night in the bar so far. Izzy is behind the bar with me tonight, and I’m letting her mix all the cocktail orders for practice.
At 5:58, a customer takes the barstool right in front of me. He’s wearing a navy-blue suit and glasses that are steamed up from the sudden change in temperature. He removes them as I set a coaster down on the bar. “What can I get you?”
“Just a Coke if you don’t mind. Are you Seth Forrester?”
“Depends who's asking.” I say it with a smile, so he knows I’m only half kidding. Then I grab a glass and fill it with ice.
He opens his wallet and shows me… Is that a badge? “Jay Callahan, FBI. Can I ask you a few questions?”
Wild. I push the Coke button on the soda gun and fill his glass. “Not gonna lie, that sounds serious.”
He smiles. “It is, but not for you. I need to show you a few photographs and ask you if you recognize anyone.”
“Sure thing. Lot of people come through here in a week, though.”
“Just try, okay?”
“Sure.”
He puts a leather folio on the bar and pulls out two glossy printouts with four photos on each one. He spins them around, and I give them a glance. All the men on the page are wearing army uniforms, and I don’t know any of them. Then I turn to the second page and immediately lock eyes with an image of another army dude. The bottom falls out of my stomach.
It’s him. The guy who drugged me in my own home. The guy who emptied my bank account as well as my self-esteem. Instinct causes me to reach out and cover his ugly smirk with my hand.
“Forest?” Izzy says, and her voice sounds like it’s a mile away. “Remind me what’s in a Moscow Mule?”
Vodka, ginger beer, and lime. The words don’t come out of my mouth, because I’m drowning. I lift my hand and look again at the face I’ve been trying to forget.
“Forest.” Izzy lays a hand on my arm.
The FBI agent comes to my rescue. “Miss, it’s vodka, ginger beer, and lime. Can you give us a moment?”
“Of course. But Forest—your phone is ringing.”
I glance down at my phone. Beck’s face lights up the screen, and I answer like I’m grabbing a lifeline. “Beck?” It comes out as a gulp.
“Hi. You okay?”
“Hell no. There’s an FBI agent here. He just showed me a photo of him.”
