Chapter 6 #2
Every instinct screamed that this was a bad idea. But he was my client. And he sounded terrified.
"Okay. Give me five minutes."
"Thank you, Miss Richards. Thank you."
I hung up and grabbed my phone, slipping it in my pocket. Texted Brandon: Going to meet a client. Back in 30.
I didn't wait for a response. Just grabbed my keys and headed for the elevator.
The parking garage was in the basement of the building. Badly lit, full of shadows. I'd never liked coming down here, especially at night.
Kyle was near the back, leaning against a concrete pillar. He looked worse than he had in my office. Pale, sweating, eyes too wide.
"Kyle." I walked toward him slowly. "What's going on?"
"I'm sorry." He wouldn't look at me. "I'm so sorry."
"Sorry for what?"
"They said they'd kill me if I didn't..." His voice broke. "I didn't want to do this."
The hair on the back of my neck stood up. "Do what? Kyle, talk to me."
Two men emerged from behind a parked car. Big, rough-looking. One had a tattoo crawling up his neck.
I backed up instinctively. "Who are you?"
"You been asking questions, counselor?" The one with the tattoo moved closer. "Sticking your nose where it doesn't belong?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"No? Your boy Kyle here says you've been real interested in his business lately."
I looked at Kyle. He was crying now, shaking. "I'm sorry," he said again.
The men advanced, and I backed up until I hit a car. My hand went to my pocket, fumbling for my phone.
"Don't." The second man grabbed my wrist. "You're coming with us. Nice and quiet."
"Let go of me." I tried to pull away, but his grip was iron.
Then, from somewhere behind us: "SAMANTHA, GET BEHIND ME. NOW."
I knew that voice. But I'd never heard it like this. Hard, commanding. Dangerous.
I turned my head. Brandon stood twenty feet away, gun drawn, badge clipped to his belt.
Everything stopped. My brain tried to process what I was seeing, but it didn't make sense.
Gun. Badge. The look on his face that was nothing like the man who'd been on my couch an hour ago.
"Let her go," he said. Each word sharp as a knife. "Now."
The man holding my wrist released me and ran. The other one tried to follow, but suddenly there were cops everywhere. Flooding in from the stairwell, from the elevator. Shouting, weapons drawn.
Kyle dropped to his knees, sobbing. Someone cuffed him.
I stood frozen against the car, watching it all happen like a movie I wasn't part of.
Brandon moved toward me, holstering his weapon. "Sam. Are you hurt?"
I flinched back when he reached for me. "Don't. Don't you dare touch me."
"Samantha..."
"You're a cop." The words came out flat. "You're a cop."
"Yes."
"This whole time. You've been a cop this whole time."
"I can explain."
A woman in a suit appeared, flashing a badge. "I'm Detective Shaw. I need to get a statement from you."
I nodded, still staring at Brandon. At this stranger wearing Brandon's face.
They took me to a patrol car to sit while Shaw asked questions. Where did I know Kyle from? Had he ever mentioned his associates? Did I have any knowledge of drug distribution in the building?
I answered mechanically, my voice not sounding like my own.
Brandon hovered nearby. Every time I looked at him, he was watching me. His supervisor pulled him aside at one point, and I saw them arguing about something.
When Shaw finished with me, she offered to have someone drive me home.
"I'm fine," I said. "I live here."
"We'd prefer to escort you upstairs. Just to be safe."
Brandon stepped forward. "I'll take her."
"No." The word came out harder than I meant it. "You won't. I don't want you anywhere near me."
His face went blank. That cop face. The one I'd seen when he was holding the gun.
"Miss Richards," Shaw said. "Officer Spencer was working undercover. The operation tonight was to protect you."
"Protect me." I laughed, and it sounded wrong. "From what? From the drug dealers living in my building that I didn't know about? Or from the cop who lied to me for weeks?"
"Sam..." Brandon tried again.
"Don't call me that. You don't get to call me that anymore."
Shaw exchanged a glance with Brandon. "Let me take you upstairs."
I followed her to the elevator, leaving Brandon standing in the parking garage. I didn't look back.
Upstairs, Shaw made sure I got into my apartment safely. Gave me her card in case I remembered anything else. Told me someone would be in touch about potential testimony. Then it hit me.
“You were here.”
“I’m sorry?” she said.
“I heard you and Brandon arguing that first night.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. We had a disagreement. It was unprofessional.”
“Yeah, unprofessional,” I murmured.
Then she left, and I was alone.
I locked the door and stood there, trying to come to terms with what had just happened.
Brandon was a cop.
He'd been lying to me since the moment we met.
Everything we'd shared, every conversation, every touch. All of it had been built on a lie.
My phone buzzed. Text from Brandon: Please let me explain.
I turned off my phone and threw it on the couch.
Pepper meowed, confused. I scooped her up and carried her to the bedroom, closing the door behind us. Then I sat on my bed, the bed where Brandon had slept last night, and tried not to fall apart.
Around midnight, I heard Brandon's door open and close next door. Heard him moving around his apartment.
Then footsteps in the hallway. A knock on my door.
"Samantha. Please. Let me explain. The full story." His voice came through the door, muffled but clear enough.
I got up and went to the door. Put my hand against it. "Did you move into this building to investigate the drug dealers?"
"Yes," he said from the other side.
"Did you know my client was involved?"
Silence. Then: "Not at first. But yes, I learned about it."
I closed my eyes. Of course he had. That's why he'd asked about my work. Why he'd been so interested in my clients.
I'd been part of his case.
"Leave, Brandon." My voice was steadier than I felt. "Or whoever you are."
His hand must have been on the door too. I felt the thud as his fist hit it once.
Then footsteps. Walking away.
The man I'd fallen for didn't exist. He'd been a cover story. A role.
And I'd been stupid enough to believe it was real.