Chapter Three
Sara
My desk at the Hartford field office was a war zone of case files, sticky notes curling at the edges, and a half-dead succulent I’d named Monday because I was always surprised when it lived long enough to see another one.
The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting a sterile glow over the open-plan bullpen.
Phones rang in a disjointed rhythm, and Agent Cleft was arguing with someone about a delayed warrant, his voice sharp enough to cut through the hum of keyboards.
It was well after dinnertime, but few of us worked normal hours.
We came and went as the job demanded and stayed until the paperwork was done.
I hit save, leaned back in my cheap swivel chair, and rubbed my eyes.
Cleft appeared at my desk. His mustache twitching like it had its own opinions. My supervisor wasn’t unkind, but he had no patience for anything he might have to explain to the higher-ups.
“Miller’s case?”
“Just filed it,” I said, gesturing to my screen. “Case closed. Suspect’s plea deal is with the DA.”
Cleft nodded, his eyes scanning my desk. “Good work. Now pack up and get out. Your vacation starts tomorrow. Tell me you’re not sitting on anything I’ll have to find in that mess.”
“No, sir. This is just decorative.”
He didn’t blink. Didn’t smile.
But I knew he liked me. His wife admitted as much a few weeks back when she dropped by to bring him lunch. He was a tough nut to crack. She was not.
He made a gruff sound. “I only okayed it because you never take time off. Come back rested and ready to go.”
“Will do.”
A week off meant freedom. No eyes on me, no reports to file. A chance to get closer to Enimton Gravestone.
Ashen.
Cleft would yank me back to the office . . . or give me a formal reprimand so harsh it would risk my career if he knew my plans for the week. I’ve been warned to focus on the cases I’m given and nothing else.
But I have too much of my mother in me to follow orders blindly.
Cleft walked off, and I glanced at the framed photo on my desk: me and Max at a car show, mid-laugh, his arm slung around my shoulders.
His voice echoed in my head, unbidden: Decide who you are, Sara, then don’t waste a moment on anyone who doesn’t see you for the miracle you are. That’s the only truth that matters.
But it wasn’t.
Max had uncovered something, and it got him killed. That wasn’t the official story. No, the coroner said he died of a heart attack, but I didn’t believe it. He’d been unusually distracted for weeks before he died, obsessed enough that my mother had asked him if they were having issues.
His response had been a loving hug and, “No, babe, I’ve been working a lead on a cold case and I don’t like what I’m finding.”
She’d warned him to be careful.
Not that she could have known what he was referring to. Max kept his work private from us, but my mother had a sixth sense when it came to people. That’s how she conned so many people effortlessly. She could read someone quickly and use that against them.
I don’t believe a skill like that can be passed down via genes, but my entire childhood was a front row seat to my mother’s ability to get almost anyone to do anything for her.
Until Max.
He could read her as skillfully as she could read him. Uno reverse, but in the most loving way.
He wouldn’t have liked how I was working Enimton, but he would have respected my success. The day might come when a person’s thoughts and secrets can be extracted by technology, but until then, gaining someone’s trust via asking them for help was still an effective tool.
I opened my purse, fishing past a protein bar and a crumpled note pack to find the burner phone I’d bought after leaving the bookstore.
Even on vacation I could expect to be under a certain amount of scrutiny.
Could I trust Cleft? Max had probably trusted whoever took him out.
Loyalty could be bought or forced. In my experience, integrity was as rare as a winning lottery ticket.
Sure it existed, but finding it in those around me wasn’t something I was willing to bet my life on.
Enimton’s expression when I asked him if we were now best friends haunted me. Emotions are the worst thing an agent can bring to any investigation. He had information I needed. Allowing myself to feel one way or another about him would only hinder my progress.
Still, who the fuck names their child an anagram for NOT MINE? Sick, sick fuckers, that’s who. Nothing I’d uncovered so far hinted toward Enimton knowing he wasn’t a Gravestone.
I do my homework. An interview with a former employee of the Gravestones had given me insight into how Enimton had been considered a problem that had been foisted upon them.
At an early age he’d been sent to a small, private school for behaviorally challenged children. Essentially institutionalized.
Despite being tossed away by a family he likely had no biological relation to, Enimton had been well-educated via tutors and online courses. Even earned a college degree.
Not that he was doing anything with that education. He lived in a small cottage on one of his parents’ properties. Willingly? That part was uncertain.
I’d had significantly more sympathy for him before he’d tried to kill Dylan DeVoss. Okay, I didn’t have enough proof of his involvement to get a warrant, but he was in the area and I don’t believe in coincidences.
Sweet as he might have appeared in the bookstore, I’d remain cautious around Enimton until I confirmed his role in any of what I was uncovering about Simmons and his link to twins. The shady dealings of the Gravestones. Somehow Enimton was at the center of all of it.
The burner phone in my palm buzzed faintly as I powered it on, then tucked it back out of sight. I wasn’t expecting any messages—it was clean, untraceable, and so far, unused. It was how I’d maintain contact with Enimton.
I shut down my computer and started clearing the most incriminating clutter from my desk, leaving only the succulent and a few boring files as cover.
From across the bullpen, Agent O’Dooley watched me.
She was older, sharp-eyed, and someone I’d once seen dismantle a suspect’s alibi with nothing but a fake lunch receipt and a well-timed pause.
She crossed to my desk casually, holding a steaming mug with a chipped FBI logo. “Vacation, huh?” she said, nodding at my cluttered desk. “Finally trading government-issued headaches for beach chairs and fruity drinks?”
I gave her my best half-shrug. “Something like that.”
She sipped her coffee. “You don’t strike me as the lounging type.”
“You’re right. My plans are my couch and binge-watching movies. Just a nice relaxing vacation.”
“People like you don’t relax. What are you really up to?”
I didn’t answer, but I also didn’t look away. What I was up to was none of her damn business.
She tilted her head slightly, voice low, and surprised me by saying, “If you need me, I have vacation days stacking up as well.”
My eyebrows rose. “Noted.”
With that, she tapped her mug against my desk like she was cheering me on, then walked away.
I sat for a moment, watching another agent close up their area and leave. One last breath in, I stood, grabbed my coat, and slung my bag over my shoulder.
The truth mattered more than feelings. Max understood that. Whatever he’d uncovered had been important enough to risk everything for.
And I was the closest I’d ever been to figuring out what he’d uncovered.
Tomorrow, I’d put on a pretty little flowered dress and head back to the bookstore.
To Enimton, I’d be Helen. The quirky, flustered woman with pink glasses and big dreams. Someone he was already smitten with.
If I did this right, I imagined I’d have the answers I sought from him in a few days. After that, our time together would be done, and all he’d have is the memory of who he thought I was.
God, I sound like my mother . . .