Chapter 16
sixteen
He made the curb before she’d gotten her door shut. Rain sheeted off the brim of his hat and crawled down the back of his collar, but he didn’t slow down or shake it off. Didn’t care. He had eyes on Foster’s office, and nothing else registered.
He couldn’t let anything else register, because if he did, he’d remember the feel of Naomi coming apart under his hands and—
No.
Fuck.
Last thing he needed was to walk in and face Foster with a hard-on.
The office was located in one of those new-old buildings that the town had built to look like it had always been there.
Brick veneer. Big glass windows. Dumbass sign with a gold-foil feather under Craig Foster’s name.
All the lights were on inside. Ghost adjusted his stride so he’d hit the door first, body blocking the entry just in case Foster decided to pull something cute.
Naomi closed in behind him, hoodie up, still flushed from what had just happened in the cab. She looked good in his clothes. Something about her wearing his scent made his chest feel too tight.
He slammed the door open.
A woman at the reception desk jumped and nearly dropped her phone. Foster was already up, standing by his office door, a coffee mug in hand. He looked annoyed, but when he saw Ghost, the expression slid off his face like oil off wet glass.
“Can I help you?” the receptionist squeaked.
Ghost didn’t bother with her. Just fixed Foster with the stare that had made hardened operators fold in black site interrogation rooms.
Craig Foster flinched. It was only a split-second reaction, and he covered it quickly with a plastered-on smile, but Ghost still felt a cold, vicious satisfaction settle in his chest as he stalked toward the man.
“We need to talk.”
Foster dropped his hand from the door, pasted on a smile, and pretended he wasn’t rattled. “Mr. Booker. And Ms. Lefthand. What a surprise.”
Naomi stepped up beside Ghost, hands tucked in the hoodie pocket, face set.
She looked smaller in his clothes, but the tension in her jaw said she was ready to chew Foster’s head off.
Good. Sometimes all of that bound-up fury could be useful, especially when the other side was a smug, slippery bastard who thought he ran the town.
She didn’t waste time. “We have questions about Leila Padilla.”
“And you’re going to answer them,” Ghost added.
Foster’s smile thinned. “I’m busy. If you want an appointment, you’ll need to schedule it with my assistant.”
“You’re name has come up in the investigations of two separate missing women,” Naomi said. “Seems like you’d be very interested in making sure your name doesn’t keep popping up.” She didn’t bother to sit, just squared off in front of Foster’s desk like she could stare him into submission.
Foster’s smile didn’t budge, but his fingers curled a little tighter around his mug. “I had nothing to do with Bailee Cooper’s death. They caught her killer all but red-handed. And I don’t know Leelee Padilla.”
Interesting that he’d called her by her nickname when they had only used her full name. Ghost glanced at Naomi to see if she’d caught the slip, too.
Judging by the way she stared Foster down, she had, and she was already calculating how to use it to her advantage.
She was kind of scary right now.
Was it wrong of him to find that sexy as hell?
“Yes, you do,” she pressed. “You’ve been seen speaking with her on multiple occasions at the casino.”
Foster shifted behind his desk, running a thumb over the rim of his mug. “I speak to many people. Doesn’t mean I know them.”
Naomi smiled. It was not a friendly one, and if Ghost had a heart, he thought it would’ve fallen half in love with her right at that moment.
“But you did know her, Mr. Foster. You just called her by her nickname.”
She had him. If Foster had been a rabbit, he’d be frozen with his ears flat to his skull. Instead, the guy just smoothed his tie and tried to look bored.
“Maybe I heard someone use it in passing,” he said. “The casino’s noisy. People talk.”
Ghost drifted a step closer to the desk, just enough to make Foster’s eyes flick in his direction. “You were seen giving her money.”
“She was a cocktail waitress. I tip well.” The man’s tone was clipped now. “It’s good manners, not a crime. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
Ghost cut him off with a look. “We’re not done.”
Foster’s smile froze. He set his mug down, careful, like he was afraid they’d lunge at him if he made a sudden move. Ghost noted the slight shake in his hand. Not much, but enough to make the coffee slosh.
Naomi stepped closer, flanking the desk. “It wasn’t a tip. You gave Leelee money, same as you did for Bailee Cooper. You told her you could help her get ahead. What was she supposed to do for you in return?”
“I invest in talented young people. That’s not illegal. She wanted to open a salon. I gave her advice. That’s all.”
“That’s all?” Ghost moved in, close enough to crowd the man. “You didn’t pressure her? Offer her a sponsorship in exchange for anything?”
Foster’s gaze flicked to the two of them, calculating. “That’s a hell of an accusation.”
“We’re just getting started,” Naomi said. “I have statements from other casino workers. This is not the first time you’ve sponsored a young woman.”
Ghost watched Foster’s face. Sweat beaded at the man’s hairline, but he still tried for bravado.
“If you had anything real, you’d be here with a badge and a warrant, not skulking around with a…
” He gestured at Ghost, some of the old arrogance seeping back in.
“Felon who by all accounts should still be in prison. I don’t have to talk to you.
In fact,” he reached for his desk phone, “I’m calling Sheriff Goodwin and having you both arrested for trespassing. ”
Ghost set a hand on the receiver, stopping him from picking it up. “FBI supersedes the sheriff, asshole.”
A cold, cruel smile curved Foster’s lips. “Oh, dear,” he said to Naomi, but held Ghost’s gaze. “He doesn’t know you’re not with the Bureau anymore, does he? That you were forced to take a leave nobody expects you to return from?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Ghost saw Naomi stiffen, and his stomach sank as the realization slammed into him.
Foster was telling the truth. This wasn’t an FBI-sanctioned investigation.
Fuck.
He removed his hand from the phone and straightened away from the desk.
“Owen,” Naomi said softly and reached for him, but he shook off her hand and marched out of the office without looking back.
All this time, he’d never questioned the investigation. Never looked into it.
He should fucking know better than to blindly trust anyone, but especially not a woman he was attracted to. That was exactly how he’d ended up in prison the first time, and he wasn’t looking to repeat the mistake.
He made it down the hall before she caught up, steps quick and light, a hand closing around his wrist. “Owen, stop.”
He didn’t. He wrenched his arm free, a little rougher than he meant to, and kept going. The receptionist looked up, startled, but he barely registered her as he pushed open the door and shoved his hat back onto his head.
She followed him outside, breath fogging in the cold. “Ghost,” she hissed, slamming the door behind them. “Will you just wait a second?”
He turned and faced her. Rain dripped off his hat brim, water seeping under his collar, but he didn’t care. The only thing he cared about right now was the angry pulse in his ears and the sinking realization that he’d been played.
Again.
She looked pissed, but under the glare, he caught the worry. She kept glancing at his hands, like she expected him to punch something. He wouldn’t. He never broke first.
“You fucking lied to me.” His voice sounded flat, dead, even to his own ears.
“I never lied.”
“You let me believe you were working this for the Bureau.”
Her jaw ticked. “I never said I was on the case for the FBI. I said I was looking into it. You assumed the rest.”
He stared at her for a long beat, searching for any crack, any apology. Nothing. She stood in the misting rain, arms wrapped tight, his hoodie dwarfing her.
“You needed me to believe you were still FBI.”
“I needed people to listen. You saw what it’s like around here—unless you walk in with a badge, nobody takes shit seriously.”
“You should have told me.”
She gave a huff of disbelieving laughter. “It was a tactical lie by omission, okay? But I’m not sorry. And I don’t think you, of all people, have any room to criticize me for the way I handle my business. You want to get righteous about my secrets? Fine. Let’s talk about yours.”
He went still. “Not the same.”
“Uh-huh. Sure, it’s not.” Her lips curled in disgust. “You just don’t like it when you’re not the only one skewing the facts to get what you want.”
The silence that dropped between them was thick enough to choke on.
After a long moment, she sucked in a ragged breath and turned away. “We’re done here.”
He watched her go, rain splattering his shoulders, each drop another cold reminder of his own stupidity. She was walking away, and a part of him wanted to call her back and spill all of his secrets.
But he clamped his jaw shut.
He needed her to keep walking right out of his life before she got any deeper under his skin.