Chapter 36 Grayson
GRAYSON
As I leave Cameron’s apartment, my breaths rattle in my hollow chest. Our fight was ugly.
Words flew like knives, and accusations and truths tangled together so ruefully that it was hard to tell them apart.
But as I step out of the elevator and into the lobby, I feel lighter on my feet.
Freer. Even with Cameron’s mental stability weighing heavily on my shoulders, I know the direction I need to take to right my wrongs and still have a chance at happiness.
Cameron isn’t well. I know that now. Years on the job clarified issues I couldn’t pinpoint when I was barely a man, and they’ve given me the skills to fulfill my obligations to both Cameron and myself.
I will get Cameron the help she needs, and together, we will work through this.
It just won’t be as a couple.
That stage of my life is over, and it is time to work out who I truly am. Am I an agent? A profiler? Or am I still a teen unsure of which career path I wanted to take, only to have circumstances beyond my control lead me to a career I was only considering?
I really don’t know, but the woman I’m racing for is best suited to help me figure this out.
As I reach the parking lot, I scan the interior of Macy’s bureau-issued sedan, expecting to see her in the passenger seat. She’s nowhere to be found. The passenger seat is empty, and the driver’s side is just as barren.
A chill runs down my spine as I quicken my pace. I practically sprint to the car while scanning the area. The lot is full of cars, but everything seems normal.
If only my intuition were reaching the same conclusion.
I call Macy’s name. My shout bounces off the steel-and-concrete structures surrounding me, but that is the only reply I get.
After pulling out my phone, I dial her number.
It rings once before a faint buzz coming from inside the car steals my focus.
I yank open the passenger-side door with so much force that the hinges creak, finding Macy’s phone in the middle console.
My missed call illuminates the screen, but there’s no indication of where she has gone.
Panic claws at my chest. Macy would never leave her phone behind. It is every agent’s lifeline, not to mention one who is both searching for a loved one and only weeks away from giving birth.
“Mace?” I call out again, aware that something is wrong but trusting her skills as an agent not to let panic fully engulf me.
You’d need a tank to take down Macy, and even then, you’re not guaranteed a win.
That’s why my admiration for her was so high when I gave Cameron the words she needed to walk away for good without guilt.
I told her I loved Macy, and even though it was supposed to be a ploy to end our fight, it sounded so honest, even I’m not convinced it isn’t true.
For years, guilt ruled my emotions, but finding Cameron feels like the blinders have come off, and I can finally see clearly.
Macy has been there for me for years. She cares for me and knows me better than anyone does. She understands me. She’s smart and sweet, and describing her beauty with words is impossible.
She’s perfect.
Every single part of her is pure perfection.
Jesus fucking Christ, how could I have been so blind?
Cameron was right. I love her.
I love Macy.
But why does admitting that make me feel like I’m on the verge of losing her forever?
Anxiousness builds for barely a second before I remember that circumstances forced me into this role, but I excel in my field. I can find Macy. I just need to investigate her vanishing as a professional, not a romantic interest.
No blinders this time. Just straight-up honesty.
I call Brandon. His voice is groggy, as if I woke him, but I only get out two words before the urgency of the situation dawns on him. “Macy’s gone.”
“Check for a laptop.” He seems calm, yet I know he’s not. “She might have left open the surveillance portal she established earlier today.”
“Laptop?”
He curses like he hates that he’s about to toss Macy into the deep end without a life jacket. “She went into tonight’s dinner date wired. She’s untrusting of Cameron’s motives, and while I’m being honest, I’ll admit that I am too. Something is off with her.”
I nod in agreement before I search Macy’s bureau-assigned car like I’m seeking a brick of cocaine. Now is not the time to discuss the many secrets I too see in Cameron’s eyes. My priority is Macy. Her safety is all that matters.
I locate a laptop under the passenger seat. Fumbling, I flip it open and enter the four-digit passcode we always use during joint stings.
Brandon hacks in two seconds later and pulls up the security feed logs.
“Skip to surveillance outside the building. Her phone was in the middle console, so I know she made it back to her vehicle.”
In silence, and with the footage in fast-forward mode, only seconds later, we shadow Macy’s slow hobble to her car. She slots into the passenger seat in a matter of seconds, seemingly safe.
“There. Look.” I highlight the screen as if Brandon can see me.
“A lady is approaching in the background.” She weaves between cars mostly unnoticed, alerting us to the fact that she couldn’t be taller than five feet.
Her hair is silver and her body is frail, but something about her makes my skin crawl.
Brandon slows the footage back to normal speed when the lady taps on Macy’s window, scaring her.
“What did she ask her?”
Brandon groans in frustration. “She was too quiet for the mics to pick up.”
“Zoom in on the back window. If I can see her lips, I’ll know what she said.”
When Brandon does as asked, I interpret the elderly lady’s request.
She asked Macy to jump-start her car.
“Stay with her,” I demand when Macy agrees to the lady’s request.
They walk five rows back before stopping at a dark hatchback. While Macy untangles jumper cables, the stranger sinks out of view.
I shift my eyes away from the laptop and count five rows back.
My eyes land on the sedan Macy approached as a hiss whistles through my cell phone.
I rocket my eyes back to the footage so fast that my head spins.
I can’t see what made Brandon balk until he replays the footage.
Macy got struck across the back of the head with a truck-sized tire wrench.
She stands for three heart-thrashing seconds before the color drains from her face and she slowly slumps to the ground.
I’m already sprinting toward the sedan when Brandon shouts that he’s calling in backup. Halfway there, I remove my gun and then scan the rows of cars on each side of the sedan, searching for any signs of Macy between the parked vehicles.
My teeth grit when I spot a body-sized shadow under a car next to the crime scene.
I slowly approach it while silently praying that my eyes are playing tricks on me. The lump isn’t moving. Not even its extended midsection shows any signs of life.
The fear clutching my throat cracks my voice when I murmur, “Mace.”
I’m not solely seeking signs of life. I am ensuring she knows who is approaching. Friendly fire is a constant danger for agents, and I won’t do anything that will add to the guilt Macy is unfairly carrying.
A flash of relief darts through me when I round the corner. The body isn’t Macy. It’s Samuel. He’s dead. Blood pools out from beneath him, and his lifeless eyes stare up at the starless sky.
While instructing Brandon to bring the coroner in, I follow a trail of blood that’s bright and fresh against the asphalt. The blood trail heads away from Samuel, and it doesn’t have brain matter in it like the blood from Samuel’s head.
My senses are on high alert when I enter the alleyway that borders Cameron’s building. The lady from the surveillance footage is braced against a dumpster, holding her bloody stomach with her uncuffed hand.
“Which direction did she go?”
Blood collects at the corner of her sniveling mouth as she tries to maintain a brave front.
It puddles around the collar of her cardigan when I split her lip with a backhanded slap.
“Which direction did she go?” I ask again, louder this time.
When I hold my hand in the air, ready and willing to strike again, she nudges her head to my left.
After tightening her cuffs, ensuring there’s no chance of escape, I head in the direction she suggested. She could be leading me astray, but even before I spotted her, my intuition was pulling me in that direction, so I need to trust it.
The dark, stinky alley holds threats in every shadow, yet I search them all. I scope the premise as trained to do, and my dedication pays dividends when gunfire cracks in the distance as I near the end.
With my gun held high, I move toward the sound, careful not to trample on any evidence. Even though Samuel was a known criminal, they will investigate his death. I won’t mention the possible charges I could face for hitting a cuffed witness. My focus is on one thing and one thing only—finding Macy.
When I reach a loading bay in the alleyway, I locate another body. A man is sprawled face-first near a blacked-out SUV. His eyes are devoid of life.
My eyes jerk up when a honk booms out of the SUV. Macy is zip-tying an unconscious man’s bloody hands to the SVU’s steering wheel.
Once she has him secured, she stumbles down from the hanging-open driver’s side door before she kicks away a gun lying haphazardly on the ground. When she senses my approach, she grasps her gun in two hands, as if it is too heavy to hold with one, before she swings to face me.
Relief blisters through her eyes when our eyes collide. She lowers her gun as she struggles to catch her breath. It looks like someone dragged her, leaving her clothes scuffed and her hair matted with blood. She’s battered and bruised and looks on the brink of collapse, but she’s alive.
Thank fuck.
Relief hits me so hard and fast that I nearly collapse, but I keep a cool head—just.