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CHAPTER8
Cannon
It’s beenthree days since Kase’s surprise break-in. We’re ready for the next move. I called Jackson, an old military buddy who’s now an uptight FBI agent.
“I’m not saying there’s an investigation into Roman Hughes,” Jackson says in an even tone. He screwed me over the last time I worked with him, but that’s because he’s not into shady shit. He’s all about protecting the innocent and taking down bad guys, and in his opinion, since I’m not officially law enforcement, I’m lumped into one of the former groups. It’s because of our history that he assumes I’m in the innocent group.
I’m banking on his unwavering morals and patriotism. “But you’re also not saying that there’s not an investigation.”
Jackson grunts. Busted. “If there’s something snowballing about this, it wouldn’t just be the bureau involved.”
I won’t complain about more eyes on Roman Hughes. “So, if I sent you proof, would it get to the right sources?”
“Lannister, come on.” His resigned tone makes me grin. Got him.
“Hypothetically speaking. If you couldn’t use it officially, could you use it to find out where to look yourselves?”
“Hypothetically, maybe.”
My grin widens. Jackson might be a rigid rule follower, but in the end, he wants to nail the villains, and Roman’s nasty.
“Hypothetically, anyone who gets you that data would not get dragged in further, right? There wouldn’t be repercussions for how it was obtained?”
“Jesus. If you’re talking about theft or hacking—”
“Talk to you later, Jackson.”
“Fine. Fine. I’ll see what I can do. But, Lannister, I’m doing this by the book even if you don’t.”
My days of obligatory obedience are over. Sometimes, a job just has to get done. “I don’t expect anything less. Keep an eye out.”
I hang up and stare at my blank computer screen. It’s all rolling along. Kase and Jacobi can tank Roman’s life using legitimate law enforcement. I don’t know how Penelope’s divorce will work while Roman’s getting raked through the US legal system. I don’t care. The sooner we can stop him, the better.
A small voice at the back of my mind keeps asking whether Penelope really is as clueless as she seems. Viscerally, I know she had nothing to do with any of it. I blame my mother’s influence for making me want to question her.
I can’t believe she knows everything. She knows the worst about me. She figured it out on her own. A pimp for a mother. A disinterested father. The career I abandoned.
I admired you.
That’s what broke me. Girls like her admired me. They wanted to grow up and dance with someone like me. They wanted to be the ballerina that Erik C. Petrov tossed into the air. They wanted to be Odette to my Prince Siegfried. They wanted to hold his hand and bow after a show. And to do that, they flocked to my mother’s school. And were abused. Because of me.
The sense of responsibility had nearly crushed me. I chew on the tip of a pen. I haven’t been lost in the past this much since seconds before I walked into that recruiter’s office. Mother went to jail, and I went to basic training.
Penelope calls from the kitchen, “Dinner’s ready.”
I hold in my groan. I never would’ve guessed what an awful cook she is until this last week when she’s been able to move around. My stomach rumbles, oblivious to the fact that it’s Penelope’s food. It’s hard to fuck up smoothies, and those are the limit to her knowledge.
I’ll down whatever she serves. She’s not being judged, and she’s trying to contribute while I work. But some days are harder than others.
Since Kase dropped the bomb of how nasty Roman really is, Penelope has overcooked pasta noodles until a white gelatinous mess was left behind. She has baked chicken until it could be labeled as jerky. The dessert she attempted was supposed to be cookies, but I could use them as throwing stars. They’d knock a guy out.
The closer I get to the kitchen, the more the undertones of char are apparent. The hood over the stove is going full blast and the window’s open to battle the slight haze. How did the smoke alarms stay silent?
Penelope’s chewing on a nail by the table. “I, um, fried some burgers.”
I roll my lips in to keep from grimacing when I see what’s on the plate. The burgers and the attempt at cookies look remarkably the same.
Her puffy lower lip is sticking out as she hurries around the table, rearranging the plates and forks she already set down. She’s worried how I’ll react. I’ve gutted through everything she’s served and I’m not about to stop. It’s the least I can do after comparing her to my monster of a mom.
