Chapter 24 Macy
MACY
As I gallop down the entryway stairs of Cameron’s apartment, my shoes barely touch the marble stairs.
I race toward the surveillance van as adrenaline thickens my veins.
I am a live wire, buzzing and sizzling as out of control as my erratic heart rate.
Cameron said yes. She agreed to let me sketch her.
It is a trust I didn’t anticipate so early in my latest undercover assignment—or at least the illusion of an undercover sting.
Cool evening air slaps my cheeks when I burst into the alleyway where Grayson parked. The van is where I left it, tucked behind a dumpster, inconspicuous but strumming with quiet purpose.
I yank open the side door and climb in, breathless.
I’m tempted to step back into the salty gusts pummeling the coastline when Grayson cranks his neck my way.
His brows are furrowed, and he looks more angry than pleased.
I’m clueless as to why. The information I’ve gathered so far today is more valuable than an unmined gold mine.
We’re close to unearthing a massive nugget.
Grayson’s fury surfaces more when his eyes lower to my midsection. A piece of tape is peeking out from the bottom of my shirt. “You’re meant to be on bed rest, not sprinting out of a building like you’re outrunning a fire.”
“I feel great.” I’m not lying. I am buzzing with anticipation and more than eager for a second dose. “She said yes, Grayson. She’s letting me in.” I peer past him to where I dumped my belongings a second after slotting into the passenger seat. “I need my sketchbook. It’s in my purse, right?”
He doesn’t answer me, nor does he move. He studies me with that quiet intensity I’ve always thought meant more than just two agents on opposite sides of a mission. “Sit.”
“I need to get back there before she changes her mind.”
“Macy.” His voice is low, firm, yet not unkind. “Sit. Now.”
I plonk onto the seat a techie agent’s backside would usually heat if this assignment weren’t personal, before peering up at Grayson.
I believe his demand is solely about the tape, but he proves me wrong when he thrusts the meal I left Cameron’s residence with into my chest before his eyes silently plead.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You haven’t eaten since lunch.”
“Because I’m feeding off something better than food.”
With a glare, he peels the lid off the container, removes a plastic fork from a recently opened packet, then stabs it into a piece of chicken that’s so tender it splits in half. “Eat.”
I hesitate. Duty beckons, but Grayson’s gaze is unnerving, and his familiar eyes halt my protest. Even with Cameron alive, he’s still the Grayson he was yesterday.
He is still the man who cares more about my welfare than a standard colleague would.
Even with the ghost of his past swirling around him like smoke, he’s taking care of me.
I can’t fault him for that.
After spooning an overloaded fork of chicken and rice into my mouth, I chew mechanically. This is probably jealousy talking, but it tastes like cardboard. The chicken is dry, and although the garlic adds a nice aromatic flavor to the rice, the sauce is too salty to enjoy.
Grayson folds his arms as his backside rests on the console he used to spy on my exchange with his girlfriend. His focus only shifts when I’m forced to remember the pledge I gave him only days ago. “She’s hiding something.”
With an absentminded head bob, he acknowledges that I spoke, before he begins a patch job on the medical tape keeping me in this operation.
I should end our conversation, but I’m swimming in waters so out of my depth that I need the knowledge of a skilled profiler. “It isn’t the usual guardedness most women in this industry have. It’s deeper, like she is protecting something important.” Or someone.
I thank Grayson for his honesty with a smile when he replies, “I think so too. That’s why I let Cartwright order charcoal sticks and a sketchbook for you.
” He flattens his hand along a section of tape, his touch warm, before he raises his eyes to my face.
“That is the sole reason I’m letting you back undercover.
She’s comfortable with you. Willing to talk. I doubt I’d get the same reception.”
Hating the pained whisper of his last sentence, I curl my hand around the one squashed against my stomach and gently squeeze it. “Maybe that something she’s protecting is you?”
“Maybe.” He doesn’t sound confident, but he masks his despair by focusing his attention on the stretched skin of my midsection. He tapes my baby bump like it’s seconds from bursting if I overeat, before he adjusts my holster so my gun digs into my ribs more than my stomach. “How’s that?”
“It’s perfect. Thanks.”
A moment passes between us, but before I can gauge its depth, a knock reverberates throughout the van. I almost giggle when I spot the confused expression on an Uber driver’s face. I’m sure he’s delivered food to a parked van before, but drawing supplies would be a little weird.
With the dish half eaten and my stomach defying the rules of gravity, Grayson doesn’t stop me when I slide the van door open and step back into the alleyway, but his warning follows me through the dark confines. “Be careful, freckles.”
I don’t look back, but I know he feels my smile. It is as heated as his, and it makes the cool winds whipping off the coast inconsequential.
Cameron’s apartment is cleaner than it was only minutes ago. Noticeably so. The entryway table is bare now, devoid of the addressed envelopes it housed earlier, and the mantel doesn’t hold a single frame.
In the ten minutes it took me to fetch my sketchbook and scarf down her food, she scrubbed her home clean of identifying marks. That isn’t normal. It is calculated, and it surges my assumption that she’s hiding more than years of terror beneath the surface of her seemingly innocent package.
After gesturing for me to come in, Cameron closes the door and then enters the living room, where she perches herself on the edge of the couch.
She wears her hair in a sleek, pulled-back style that showcases her impressive bone structure, and she has switched her food-stained clothes for a non-maternity-approved dress.
It squashes her stomach more than it caresses it.
She is a beautiful lady, so naturally, I feel envious. Even wearing scraps, she’d still outrank me in both beauty and charisma.
“Are you ready?” she asks, put off by my frozen stance.
Nodding, I remove my coat and sling it over an armchair before sitting across from her. Then I balance my sketchbook on my knee. It is bigger than the travel-size one I usually carry in my purse, so my movements are a little clumsy when I commence laying charcoal to paper.
In minutes, my love of art overtakes my nerves, and my sketch starts to resemble something more than shadowy outlines and ash drops.
I focus on the sharp lines of Cameron’s cheekbones and the way her mouth curves slightly upward even when she’s aiming to display neutrality.
I drink her in as I couldn’t hours ago because the thought of her being alive scared me as much as it flooded me with hope.
Thirteen years is nothing compared to seventeen, and it has me optimistic that the outcome of Kendall’s abduction won’t be as bad as I’ve been cautioned.
Desperate to have more to cling to than faith, I remove my artist’s hat and place on my agent’s hat. “Have we met before?”
Cameron is silent for so long that I don’t think she’ll ever answer me. “No. I don’t think so.”
“I could have sworn we’d met previously.
” While adding depth to her jawline, I pay more attention to my sketch than her reply, acting unbothered.
“Have you always lived on the West Coast?” Her lips twitch, yet she remains quiet.
“I attended school on the East Coast, and there was a girl who dated one of my friends. She looked a lot like you. If she wasn’t you, she must be your twin. ”
Her silence agitates me more than it should. Victims of trafficking have the rules beaten into them, but this feels different. Nothing I’m asking could get her in trouble… unless there are people other than Grayson watching our exchange.
Not wanting her snatched out from under Grayson’s nose for another seventeen years, I make light of my inquiries.
“Though they do say we all have a doppelg?nger.” I lift a stick of charcoal as if measuring the length of her petite nose instead of studying her response while murmuring, “And Grayson had a new girlfriend every other week. I shouldn’t be surprised their features have rolled into one. ”
Though she stiffens, its ripple is only half the size of the balk that cracks out of my earpiece. Grayson is pissed that I broke his cover, but I need more from this sting than a handful of impersonal letters.
“You’re just his type. Pretty, smart, and petite enough to still rock a cheerleading outfit even a decade after your last tumble.
” Ego strokes work well for Cameron, but since she doesn’t flinch, I give jealousy a whirl.
“Though your hair is darker than he likes, and he prefers his girlfriends a little more bubbly. I could barely get a word in when we went on double dates throughout college.”
Cameron’s eyes narrow with jealousy, her usual defenses unable to conceal it. “Grayson, did you say?”
I can tell when I’m about to be played like a marionette, but I am too far gone to pull on the reins now. “Yep.”
A flicker of recognition forms in her eyes, a telltale sign that she knows exactly who I am talking about, yet she ignores the bait.
“Never heard of him.” She adjusts her position as her expression stonewalls.
“I’d remember someone like him. My father taught me how to steer clear of players like that.
” She snickers as if she can smell my disappointment before she stands.
“Are you done? It is getting late, and I’ve had a long day. ”
You and me both.
“Almost. Just one last thing.”
Before she can react, I return her serve. A flash lights up her living room when I take my phone from my pocket and snap a photo of her.
“What the hell?” Her fury can’t be hidden with a friendly smile. She’s enraged.
Not looking up, I keep my tone casual. “I need it to finish my sketch.” She doesn’t argue. She just stares at me with narrowed eyes and lips pressed into a thin line.
I pack my pad and charcoal into the bag they were delivered in before twisting to face her. “I should have your sketch done in the next day or two.” I head for the door, my heart hammering my ribs the more Grayson’s big breaths barrel down my earpiece. “Oh, and thanks for the meal. It was amazing.”
Again, she doesn’t reply, but I know I’ve shaken something loose.
I’m just praying like hell it isn’t my close working relationship with Grayson.