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“Honestly, I…” I let out a sigh. “We didn’t have signal.” I actually haven’t even looked at my phone. On the way back to the helicopter, I fell asleep in the back seat and woke up when we were in transit.
“And your tracker?”
That question puzzles me. “It should’ve worked. I had it.”
“Last known location was the helipad eight miles away.”
“Oh.” A visual of the box where he stored my bag has me shifting to my other foot. “The storage box must have blocked signal.”
“Storage box?”
“In the helicopter. It was this black bin. I didn’t think about it. Tree took our stuff and put it in there before we loaded up. Gemma wanted to pay, so she instructed him to leave my pocketbook back at the helicopter.”
“You didn’t think I’d worry?” His blazing eyes are a veritable storm cloud threatening lightning bolts.
“I didn’t have a signal. But I had my tracker. And I left the note.” My gaze tracks to the immaculate kitchen counter. My insides twist. The headache worsens, and my mouth feels like sandpaper.
I bypass him and enter the kitchen, open a cabinet, get a glass out, and run the tap water.
He remains in place, lips in a flat line. “Do you want to hear about my day?”
I swallow about half the glass of water and set it on the counter with a clink. The room shifts, or the floor or the walls do. It’s hard to tell, but it’s clear I’ve still got alcohol in my bloodstream. “Not good?” My question comes out high-pitched.
“No, Sophia. Not good doesn’t come close. It started with a note. Then the discovery your last tracked location was at a helipad. Then a gazillion unanswered texts.”
My gaze falls to the box of wine and my handbag lying on top of it. I move over to it, a sense of dread filling me. It never occurred to me that the tracker wouldn’t work. It’s a CIA tracker. I figured they worked anywhere in the world.
“Guess what my first thought was?”
I dig in my bag for my phone. My cheeks burn. I turn on the phone. I let out a breath of air. Only three missed calls and four texts. That’s not too bad.
“Sophia? What would my first thought have been?”
I lift my gaze from the phone and cringe under the accusatory glare. Gemma and I were out having fun, drinking the day away, but, yesterday, shit. “You thought she saw through the Lauren thing.”
He rubs the back of his neck, and his forearms flex. Aunt Alex would say he’s calming himself down. He’s bothered. Worked up. Or exhausted.
“What happened?”
“You mean other than me beating myself up for not having been more circumspect about the risk? For not having been here to protect you?”
“Hold on.” I step forward, calling out that patriarchal bullshit. “I don’t need protection.”
“Really, Sophia? How long ago was it you promised you wouldn’t go out on your own?” I open my mouth to argue that this is different, but his lips curl into a venomous scowl and I shut my mouth. “There is no I in team? Ever heard that before?”
“I didn’t know my tracker wasn’t working!” It’s not like I set out to do this on my own. Even when I got in the helicopter, I didn’t know where we were going. I didn’t know she planned on drinking all freaking day.
“Let’s go back to my day.”
My legs weaken, and my stomach falls. I want to curl up in bed, but instead I pull out a kitchen table chair and sit. He remains standing. Livid. Lividly standing. Is lividly even a word?
“Your father knows about us now.”
“What?” I look up at him, completely confused. “Did…” My stomach drops. How the hell would my father get involved? “What did you do? Did the operation get compromised?”
“What did I do?” He pushes off the wall. “What did I do other than prepare to unleash hell to find you?”
“Don’t be mad at me!” Yes, I’m shouting, but my head hurts and my stomach is out of sorts, and I should’ve been tracked.
