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She ordered two bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches for us and tossed her menu on the table.
Her gaze was intense as she looked at me. “I’m worried about you.”
That concern was in every line around her eyes. I was supposed to be the one to keep her from worrying . . . not be the cause of her stress.
“Don’t.”
“Stop treating me like a little kid you can’t talk to.” Her worry quickly turned to anger.
“I can’t speak to you about matters I know nothing of.” I folded my hands on the linoleum tabletop.
“Why are you avoiding this? It’s not like you. You’re not afraid to face anything.”
I stared. Was that how she saw me? On one hand, I was glad. That’s what I wanted her to see. She had no idea that she and Teague were my biggest fears. That I was terrified something—or someone—might infringe on their happiness.
The waiter dropped off our sandwiches. Neither of us touched our food once he walked away. It was as if she were an eight-year-old again, holding her breath until she got what she wanted.
“I’m—”
She folded her arms over her chest and glared when that was all I could get out.
“It’s not as if I can walk into the FBI headquarters and ask to see their files on the investigation,” I finally said.
She made an unimpressed face. “I don’t see why not.”
If anyone would, it would be my sister.
“I’ll take care of this.”
“I don't believe you.” She tore off a bite of her BLT and retrieved her phone from her purse as she chewed. “If you won’t do something, I’ll find someone who will.” She jabbed at the phone screen. “I’m calling Daniel.”
