Chapter 33
MACY
Despite tossing and turning half the night, I wake before sunrise. The apartment is wrapped in a soft gray hush that makes everything feel simultaneously possible but impossible. It eases the guilt I’m carrying, though it doesn’t eliminate it.
I deserve its sluggish reprieve. I hate myself for how I pretended to be asleep last night when Grayson came home.
I was grateful he didn’t immediately fall back on the crutch of sleepless sleepovers and groggy morning kisses, and that I didn’t have to remind him that there’s comfort in boundaries, even when they’re fragile.
But the questions swirling in my head are too invasive to speak out loud, and Grayson can read me like a book, so I figured it was best to pretend I was asleep than risk him unearthing the turmoil that kept me awake half the night.
My unborn child didn’t make my deception easy. He wiggled in excitement when Grayson’s voice trickled into my room. You’d swear he already recognizes Grayson’s voice.
Smiling at the thought, I press a hand to my stomach. My smile splits from ear to ear when a faint roll squashes a part of my son’s body against my palm. I think it might be his booty.
Though his kicks are weaker this morning, I’m enjoying them more than I have previously. They don’t seem foreign anymore, and they make me happy instead of sad.
After waiting for his movements to taper to the occasional wiggle, I take a long shower. The scorching water pounds away the tension in my shoulders, and the hot barbs feel so blissful on my skin that even when the water runs cold, it’s an effort for me to switch off the faucet.
I dress in comfortable “work” attire. My work will be done on the couch, but it’s still important to remind myself that I am part of something big. What I do matters, and more people than just my sister are relying on me.
When I reach the kitchen, the first thing my eyes land on is Grayson. He’s sitting at the island, chugging coffee and reading a file. He’s so deep into the paperwork Crew shared yesterday that I’m skeptical he slept at all.
He looks up when he comprehends that he’s being watched, and when he spots me, the lines scoured across his forehead soften.
“Morning.” His voice is gravelly and delicious, and it sends goose bumps skating across my skin.
“Hey.” I move to the fridge to grab some juice. “You’re up early.”
“Couldn’t sleep.” He shrugs as his pen taps the receipt of Kendall’s last known sale.
I won’t lie. I was upset when I realized I’d missed an imperative part of her investigation, but I gave myself a brief reprieve when I learned what weekend it happened.
I’d taken the blame for the murder of the man who had sexually assaulted me, and almost lost my job in the process.
My head wasn’t in “work mode” that weekend.
I was barely surviving. If it weren’t for the months I spent in Montana with Demi, I doubt I’d still be with the bureau, searching for victims in a sea of millions.
That’s how hard those few days wrecked me.
I snap back to the present when Grayson announces the reason for his lagging sleep schedule. “Crew’s work is impressive.” He waits a beat before adding, “Almost obsessive.”
“Sounds like someone else I know.” I made my remark in jest, but it heightens the turmoil in Grayson’s eyes. “Are you okay? You seem…” Tense. Angry. Terrified. “Quiet.”
When he looks up at me, I pour myself a glass of juice, praying that the heaviness of the jug will excuse the shake of my hands. “I’m good. You?”
“I’m great.” Liar! I switch to honesty when I drink in the name on the file he’s reading. “I feel like we’re getting closer. And it’s nice to know someone who won’t give up is looking for Kendall.”
“Someone who isn’t you?”
I murmur in agreement before joining him at the island, finally remembering that this isn’t a man I need to tiptoe around. I can be honest with him. “Do you have questions? Crew could probably answer them better than I can, but I’m happy to help.”
Grayson acknowledges my offer before he slots his backside onto the chair next to the one his ass was occupying, so I can sit.
We chat about the case for nearly an hour, trading theories and ideas. Grayson’s energy is different today. He’s focused, but there’s a relentlessness beneath it, like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.
It makes me panic that he knows I wasn’t asleep last night. I tried to limit the number of times I swallowed, but that was difficult when the only scent pluming from him was our combined smell.
Grayson’s attention is elsewhere; there’s no denying this, but he still cooks us breakfast while discussing the particulars of Kendall’s case.
It is a simple breakfast this morning—scrambled eggs on toast—but it is full of hearty goodness since he adds onions, bell peppers, and bacon to the eggy mix.
I polish my plate without coming up for air, and Grayson does the same. I’m glad his turmoil isn’t so deep that he can’t eat.
After unpacking the dishwasher and replacing the clean dishes with dirty ones, Grayson announces that he’s going to have a shower. I almost warn that there’s no hot water until I realize two hours have passed in a nanosecond, so I keep my mouth shut.
Before he exits, Grayson twists back around. He holds the framework of the kitchen entrance in a way all romance book lovers are obsessed with, and it does crazy things to my insides. “Do you have any plans tonight?”
I freeze in surprise, though I try to mask it. “No, nothing.” Real cool, Macy. Not.
He hesitates, then says, “Cameron texted earlier. She invited us over for dinner.”
“Oh.” That was not what I expected him to say. “I take it things went well yesterday?” I try to keep jealousy out of my tone. I miserably fail.
I’m such a cow.
Grayson’s expression is hard to read. He looks a little lost, and his gaze is fleeting, like he’s suddenly not a fan of eye contact.
“It was fine.” Finally, his eyes find mine.
“I said I’d check with you first before giving her an answer.
We don’t have to go. If you’ve got more important things to do, I’ll say no.
We’ve got a ton of fresh evidence to comb over. ”
I swallow to soothe my burning throat before mustering up a fake smile. “No. We should go. Even when snowed under, we still have to eat. Thanks for inviting me.” Since my reply is honest, it sounds that way.
I don’t want to see them together. I’m not that sick and demented. But perhaps seeing Cameron greet Grayson with open arms will reset the imagery I have of her in my head. Despite her being a victim, I keep seeing Cameron as a criminal. Perhaps tonight will alter my perspective.
“I’ll make dessert. Do you know her favorite one?”
Grayson smiles, and for half a second, I feel better.
This is the right thing to do. Supporting him is the correct course of action.
“She’s always been a vanilla ice cream kind of girl, but I have a feeling things might have changed, so maybe we could pick up a pie on the way?
” I beam, happy with the compromise. I don’t have time to make dessert.
I was merely being polite. “I’ll call Chinos and get them to put aside a chocolate ganache pie. ”
He leaves before he sees the bewilderment on my face.
Chocolate ganache pie is my favorite dessert, not Cameron’s.
Trying not to look too deeply into such an innocent gesture, I open my laptop and pull up all my case files. Everything is where it should be except for one file. Cameron’s file is no longer part of my task flow program. The program says they removed her file because it is no longer active.
Does that mean her case is officially closed?
My hands are shaky, so I have to type Cameron’s case file number into the search bar three times before her file pops up. Her case isn’t just closed. It looks like I closed it. My name is on the final report, and my signature, although digitized, is at the bottom.
What the?
I read the summary as an agent would, taking emotions out of the equation. Though clinical and detached, the language paints the entire picture. “No further action required. Victim located. Case solved.”
I stare at the screen, conflicted. Did someone access my account? And did they do it to protect Cameron’s new identity or to bury her case? The chill that rolls up my spine announces it’s most likely a bit of both, which can only mean one thing. Grayson closed her case.
Even though her case is officially suspended, I comb through the reports I didn’t have access to during the active investigation. I find nothing out of the ordinary until I reach a record attached to her file. It is filed under Blake Guilford, Cameron’s ex-boyfriend.
My hand shoots up to muffle my shocked gasp when I click his file. His record was hidden because he wasn’t solely a prospective witness to Cameron’s “kidnapping.” He took the blame for it.
They weren’t driving to a game as friends the night Cameron was abducted. Blake was doing a drug run, and that run ended with a threat from the distributor when the gym bags in the trunk of the car Grayson totaled hours later weighed several pounds lighter than the dealer was invoiced.
I’ve hardly recovered from my first sting of shock when a line slaps the air from my lungs. “Subject’s girlfriend was threatened…”
Girlfriend. Not friend. Not ex. Girlfriend.
Fingers fumbling, I dial the number associated with the document. A detective from New York answers after two rings. “Detective Rice.”
“My name is Macy Machini. I am with the bureau.” I rattle off my identification and badge number. “I’m currently going over the paperwork of a recently closed case—”
“Cameron June?” Though I can’t see him, I bet his expression matches his high tone. He couldn’t sound more shocked.
“Yes.”
A noisy parcel of air rustles down the line. “We’re still shocked by that one. We never thought she’d be found. Is she alive?”
I refrain from offering the same short answer as before. Grayson didn’t keep the details of Cameron’s return a secret for no reason, and it isn’t my place to force the narrative on her return.
Ignoring my heart’s shouting chants of “finally,” I get down to business. “I’m not calling in regard to Ms. June’s case. I am inquiring about a file associated with hers.” I rattle off the case number on Blake’s sealed record. “You took Mr. Guilford’s statement. Correct?”
“Yes, that is correct. He was so distraught that we almost charged him with her disappearance. It was only after we settled him down enough to break through his gibberish that we realized he had taken the blame for her disappearance. He didn’t take her.”
“Because she was with him during the cocaine shipment?”
He hums in agreement. “When the distributor noticed the discrepancy, he did what all gangbangers do. He threatened Mr. Guilford’s girlfriend.”
Everything he says makes sense, but I’m looking at it from another viewpoint. “Are you sure Ms. June was his girlfriend? Perhaps she was fronting as his girlfriend because she knew they’d use her as leverage. A threat would allow them to reconvene outside of compound walls.”
“We considered that theory, but after running Mr. Guilford’s details through the system, it was obvious they were more than friends.” He laughs in a way that gives me the creeps. “A lewd act caught on a traffic cam is hard to misconstrue, Macy.”
“Agent Machini,” I correct, loathing the pigheadedness of his tone. “Could he have been assaulting her in that footage?”
His croaky chuckle must cover his phone in spit. It is gargling and wet. “No chance. I’ve perused the footage a dozen times. Ms. June was very much a voluntary participant in the exchange.” Again, he laughs. “Unless she thought the snake in his trousers needed resuscitation.”
I roll my eyes when catcalls and backslapping echo down the line, then grumble a thanks to Detective Rice for his time before disconnecting our call.
I’m about to dig deeper into Blake’s file when Grayson enters the kitchen. His hair is wet from being recently washed, and he’s wearing a light button-up shirt and dark jeans that hug his ass.
My gawk shouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary for him. When we worked undercover gigs together, I got busted more times than I can count admiring his assets, but he acts as if I tossed him a life vest after he swam the English Channel.
“You okay, freckles?”
I nod, then yawn. “Just waking up without a hefty dose of caffeine.”
I curse my stupidity to hell when he arches a brow. “Eight hours not enough for you?”
I could call in defeat, but no one goes to a fight to watch the underdog get knocked out by the reigning champ one second into the match. “Have you ever tried to sleep with a watermelon strapped to your stomach?”
He props his ass against my chair and leans over the counter. He’s almost touching me, but he’s not quite there. “It wasn’t strapped to my stomach, but one time, I held it in my hands long enough to get the gist of what you’re saying.”
Why did he have to bring that up? I’m trying to keep my heart in check, and he ruins it by reminding me how even in my dreams, he rocked my world better than any real-life partner ever has.
It wasn’t even real, for crying out loud!
Grayson’s now-lively eyes dance between mine for several extended seconds before he murmurs, “Come on.” He gestures with his head to the living room. “We’ll be more comfortable in there.”
I should tell him that I’m fine working where I am, and that he doesn’t need to babysit me, but the relief that sparks through his eyes when I don’t immediately shoot down his suggestion and the zap of his hands on me when he helps me off the stool see me entering the living room faster than a bolt of lightning brightens a blackened sky.