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“Travis. We're aiming for rugged chic." He shrugs like this isn't the strangest thing I've heard in weeks. "You need something?"
"Not fashion advice."
"You sure?" He eyes my faded jeans and quarter-zip critically. "I think you could really pull off Cottagecore. Especially with the weather turning cold. How do you feel about-"
"I'm good," I assure him, making a mental note to ask Travis what in the absolute hell he was thinking by poking the previously hibernating fashionista. "I'm here about something kind of important, actually. Mind if we step inside?"
"Okay - first of all, fashion is very important. It is how you present yourself to the world, Jacob." He sighs heavily. "Second, of course, come on in. What can I do for you?"
I wait until we're both inside his office and the door is closed, not wanting any eavesdroppers to gossip and get Casey's hopes up. "What's the latest on Casey's dad?"
Frowning, Ace carefully drapes the shirts over the back of his couch and takes a seat at his main monitor. He does something that looks almost fake with how quickly his hands move. A tab pops up, a surveillance picture of Casey's dad appearing at the top. It's dated yesterday, 7:09 PM Detroit time. At least he's back in Michigan. It means he's getting colder in his search, nowhere near any of the truth anymore.
"He stopped asking questions about the fire?" I ask.
"Yeah. They let him submit Casey's DNA to be tested against all the remains that were found. Since there were no matches, and since the official story is that no one made it out of that party alive, he seems to have decided that was a false lead."
"And still no Google searches for DuGray or any travel sites for France?"
"None."
"Hmm." I lean against the desk, eyeing the man on the screen. He looks like he's aged 10 years in the last few months. It would make Casey very sad to see him. "Is his department still respecting his need for time off? Have they started sniffing around his contract to push him out?"
"It looks like they might be losing their patience. Especially because of all the toes he keeps stepping on during his search. They contacted lawyers last week, but it seemed to just be a perfunctory phone conversation to see their options."
I grind my teeth, fighting with myself. Ace saves me from the battle. "There's no way we can let them contact each other, Jake. You know that, right?"
"I just - we worked around the rules for Carter and Maison to talk while Carter was still in the Roarke compound. Why can't we do that again? One phone call. 5 fucking minutes."
"Because his dad is a cop, man. He won't accept that. He won't settle. He'll dig harder. He'll go fucking insane."
"Casey would tell him not to."
"And you think he'd believe Casey that he's not being forced to call him and say those things? Really?"
I fist my hands, hating that he's right. Hating that this is Casey's life. He should get to see his dad. Just one fucking time.
"If they saw each other in person, his dad would believe-"
"Don't even try it." Ace looks at me like I've gone insane. "If you got caught, the boss could take Casey from you. He'd revoke his deal of a new identity. Probably Carter's too, since Casey knows Carter's and could give the information away. At the very least, Carter would have to start all over again somewhere else. Casey also knows that the safehouse is only 70 miles outside of that town they lived in together, so the safehouse would have to close for good. All the survivors would be relocated. And then Casey would be wide open and unprotected."
"I know."
"Do you?"
"Yes." I shove away from the desk, realizing this whole thing was a stupid idea. But I pause at the door, realizing there might be something else I can give Casey. Something almost as good as his dad. "What's DuGray up to? I know we have him on the back burner since he hasn't replaced Casey yet and Elliot is our priority. Any chance he's been sniffing around an auction or anything?"
Ace's smile is slow and mischievous. "Let me find out.”
The knot in my chest loosens. "Thank you."
Chapter Forty-one
Casey
About a minute into my session with Dr. Singh, I blurt, “I’m with Jake now.”
Dr. Singh stops in the middle of asking a question about how I’m sleeping, his jaw hanging open for a moment. When he recovers, he slowly puts his pen down and clasps his hands together. “You’ve spoken of your desire to be with him before. You were nervous he wouldn’t feel the same. Did you speak with him about it? Or did he come to you?”
