Page 2 of The FBI Agents Who Stole Me

I can’t say I blame them. They found everlasting love. I’m happy for them. I think. No. No. I definitely am happy for them.

“You gonna tell anyone what really happened with Julian?” Bash asks, like he’s casually wondering if I want fries with that.

My chest caves inward thinking of him. My heart threatens to follow into the pit, but I shove the ache down. I can’t let anything stand in the way of what I’m going to do. I’m too damn close.

“Not much to tell. Julian’s not the right person for me. It was for the best.” I stretch my mouth into something that might pass for a smile if Bash didn’t know me so well.

Bash scoffs.

“I don’t know if he agrees.”

Yeah. That makes two of us.

I flash him another grin I don’t feel and dig in my purse for my keys, pretending this whole conversation is beneath me. My fingers find the metal ring, and I absently reach for my phone too.

No notifications.

Because why would there be? This is the life I chose. Vengeance doesn’t leave room for good-morning texts or someone waiting up for you. Taking down the men who ruined my entire world is a full-time job.

I tell Bash good night and slide into the driver’s seat.

Taylor Swift fills the silence the second I start the engine. It’s a heartbreak anthem, and the irony isn’t lost on me. Of course, it’s about pretending you don’t have a broken heart. I crank the volume until the bass rattles the rearview mirror then pull onto the street.

It’s not until my second turn that I notice the car behind me. Blue sedan. It’s so unremarkable it could be anyone. Except it was parked on the street in front of the diner earlier, and now it’s behind me.

I take a left.

So does the sedan.

I glance in the mirror. The car is too close to be casual. I take another turn at random. This has to be my stupid nerves.

The damn blue car is still with me.

Shit.

Leather creaks under the grip of the steering wheel. I could be imagining it.

Paranoia’s a nasty little bitch, and she lives rent-free in my head these days. But I’ve learned to listen to her. She’s the reason I’m still breathing.

I make one last turn.

The sedan drops behind another car then shoots through the next turn and disappears.

Okay. Maybe it was only paranoia, then.

I turn into the run-down service lot behind my warehouse and hit the remote. The garage bay groans open beneath the building. By the time I kill the engine, my car is hidden from the street.

From the outside, the place looks abandoned: rusted siding, blacked-out windows, and the kind of building no one bothers looking at twice. That was the point when I bought it.

The first floor is warehouse space divided into three parts. One section stores equipment I can’t risk having traced back to me. Another is for far more nefarious endeavors. The third floor I have decked out for poker night. Even us criminals need hobbies.

My apartment sits above it, completely renovated with four bedrooms, a gym, a chef’s kitchen I barely use, and an office wired into every camera and security system on the property. Home, if a place this full of secrets counts as one.

I take the private stairs two at a time and slam the apartment door behind me. I lock it then I’m assaulted by the quiet. It’s the kind that makes your skin prickle.

“Jasper?”

My cat answers by leaping out from behind the couch like a tiny assassin. I yelp. He meows, black tail twitching like he’s proud of himself.