Chapter 11
GRAYSON
The drive from San Diego to San Francisco is long, but it’s worth it to keep Macy’s unborn child safe.
Due to her due date rapidly approaching, she couldn’t fly commercial.
Although this division of the FBI has access to a private jet, the fundraiser has never been an official bureau-assigned or funded operation.
It’s always been solely on Macy’s shoulders.
The eight-hour road trip gives us plenty of time to talk and plan our next steps. Not all our conversations center on the case we’re currently working on. More often than not, it slips into personal territory.
I’ve tried to tell Macy about Cameron, hating that I can’t hammer her about honesty while being deceitful, but like all the other times I’ve attempted to tell her, fate intervenes before I can.
The first time today was when we got cut off by an irate motorist. The second time was when Macy rammed my head into the window to ensure she didn’t miss the off-ramp for a disgustingly unhygienic restroom, and the third, now, is from the GPS announcing that we have arrived at our destination.
I swallow a lump in my throat while my eyes drink in the sprawling grounds surrounding a large estate.
When Macy pulls up in front of a palatial-sized mansion, I exit the car, eager to stretch.
My jaw drops at the sight before me. The estate is massive, featuring manicured lawns, an elaborate fountain, and a mansion that suits the leafy street of this gated community.
My family never went hungry, but even a multimillionaire would feel out of their comfort zone in this monstrosity.
“Wow.” I shift on my feet to face Macy. “This is…” With words eluding me, I shrug.
Macy musters a fake smile, but it does little to slacken the tension sparking in her eyes. “It’s a lot.” Her voice is tinged with a mix of nostalgia and bitterness. “But it isn’t my life anymore.”
I raise a brow and impatiently wait for her to elaborate.
She inhales deeply while looking around as if she’s seeing the place for the first time.
“When I became a part of the bureau, my parents weren’t exactly thrilled.
My mother wanted me to follow in her footsteps, to take over the ‘family business.’” She air quotes her last two words.
“But I wanted something different. I wanted to make a difference.”
Reading between the lines, I say, “You wanted to find your sister.”
I’m not asking a question, but she still agrees with me. Our stories are remarkably similar yet distinct. We have the means to find the people we’re seeking, but the conditions attached make the assistance useless.
Macy’s is in the form of money, and mine is in the form of protocols.
I return my focus to Macy when she continues. “My parents don’t hold back when they think they’ve been done wrong.”
I nod, the struggle all too familiar. “Is that why they cut you off?”
“As far as I’m aware.” Her smile gives off the vibe that she’s not affected by their decision, even though she is.
“They stripped me of my inheritance and told me I was on my own. At first, it was hard, but I don’t regret it.
Every day I spend at the bureau is another day I get closer to finding Kendall. ”
I take her hand in mine and give it a reassuring squeeze. Before I can say that I too believe we’re getting close, a butler appears. He’s dressed in a crisp suit and looks every bit the part of a butler you’d expect the uber-rich to have.
“Miss Macy, Mr. Grayson.” He bows his head, beginning his greeting with a friendly gesture. “Welcome. Please follow me. I will show you to your room.”
As we shadow his brisk trek through the grand entrance, the opulence of the expansive foyer is almost overwhelming. The floors are marble, and nearly every wall holds expensive artwork. It’s a far cry from the modest apartment Macy and I have been sharing for the past two days.
The butler leads us up a staircase and down a long hallway before we stop in front of large double doors. He opens them to reveal a luxurious suite with a king-size bed, a sitting area, and a balcony that overlooks the gardens.
“Please make yourselves comfortable.” The butler dips his head before heading for the door. “The gala will begin in an hour. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Thank you,” Macy replies, her voice polite but distant.
Once the butler leaves, I turn to Macy, my eyes wide.
“Please don’t say anything. It’s flashy but superficial.
It doesn’t mean anything. This”—she waves her hand around the opulent suite—“couldn’t get Kendall back.
” Her shoulders sink as she sighs. “They didn’t even try.
The first forty-eight hours are critical, and they sat on their hands and whined about her being too spoiled to appreciate what she had. ”
Understanding congeals my blood, but I also feel the need to defend myself and Tobias. “We did everything we could, Mace.”
“I’m not blaming you or the team assigned to her case. Truly, I am not. I just…” As her words fall into silence, she slumps onto the bed and then blows a wayward curl out of her eye. “They wouldn’t let me report her disappearance until three days after her abduction.”
I gasp, shocked. The first forty-eight hours are the most critical time for a victim. If they’re not found in that time frame, they’re generally not found. I’m just praying like fuck for an exception for Macy and me.
“They cut her funds off first and assumed she would come running home with her tail between her legs within hours. If I hadn’t gone to Kendall’s school, they may not have ever let me report her as missing.”
“You went to NYU because Kendall hadn’t replied to any of your texts,” I say, recalling the notes I took when we arrived at Kendall’s sorority house.
“Yeah. I called campus police against my parents’ wishes, and the rest snowballed from there.”
“You did the right thing.” I need her to know that her bending of the rules didn’t start back then. “If it were a kidnap for ransom, the ransom would have been received by then.”
Though my words offer her little comfort, it feels good to give them.
I still recall the slap that stung Macy’s cheeks when any scent of Kendall’s location went stale fast. Mrs. Petersburg still believed Kendall would have come home eventually if Macy hadn’t scared her into thinking she would be falsely prosecuted for wasting police resources.
No one had the heart at the time to tell her that her daughter’s last known whereabouts were at a cargo shipping container dock seventeen hundred miles away from her university.
I still regret not having stood up for Macy that day.
Being a rookie shouldn’t have made a difference.
The error I made that day is the reason I was insistent on Macy’s participation in this fundraiser.
Supporting her with this will shed light on her sister’s disappearance while also ensuring she doesn’t face the brunt of her parents’ wrath alone.
This is the first gala they’re holding at their family estate.
She has no means of escaping them here like she would if it were at a five-star hotel.
“We should probably get ready,” I say, needing to move forward with both our investigation and my guilt. I’ve not put a single hour into Cameron’s case in almost two full days. That was incomprehensible only days ago.
With a determined nod, Macy exposes one of the benefits of having a fuck ton of money. This suite doesn’t have one bathroom. It has two.
We use the his-and-her bathrooms to shower and get dressed.
Macy slips into a stunning evening gown that caresses her baby bump while also hiding it, whereas I put on a tuxedo.
I feel a little like James Bond when I adjust my holster to conceal my gun under the tailored crease of my designer jacket.
As I fiddle with my bow tie in the vanity mirror, anticipation builds. This gala is important. We need to be at our best. But it also feels different, like there’s more at play tonight than I’m anticipating.
When Macy props her shoulder against the doorjamb separating the bathrooms, I lose the chance to figure out why I feel the way I do.
Lines have marked her forehead, and she has crinkled her nose.
I learn the cause of her fretful look when she returns to the conversation we held last night.
“What you said about the oils, was that true?”
I’m lost as to what she is referencing until a red hue creeps up her neck. Macy only blushes when sexually aroused or embarrassed to admit she doesn’t know something.
This time, it is the latter. Regrettably.
“Yeah… ah…” Who the fuck is this dweeb struggling to talk? I’ve never lacked confidence.
After a stern talking to myself, I say, “Yes. They have oils that can assist your”—I cough—“in preparation to give birth.” I twist back to face the mirror, pretending my bow tie still isn’t sitting right.
It is perfectly straight. I just need a few seconds to remove the image of a colleague doing a move I’ll never not construe as deviant from my head.
“There’s a detailed write-up in the book I purchased for you.
If you can’t find the chapter, I can ask Alex which one it’s in. ”
Macy joins me in the bathroom, doubling the heat on my cheeks. Her hair, washed and brushed out, swings effortlessly against her bare shoulders when she stands so close that I can smell the scent of her toothpaste. “Alex has read What to Expect When You’re Expecting?”
“Every page.” My laugh bellows through a bathroom bigger than my first apartment.
“And he likes to share any knowledge he unearths. How do you think I know so much about pregnancy and birth in this day and age?” She knows how much my brother and I doted on our mother when she was pregnant with Darcy, but she is clueless about Alex’s gradual transition into fatherhood.