Chapter Seven
Sara
Enimton’s gift stared up at me from my coffee table in quiet accusation.
I sat on my couch, legs tucked under me, takeout containers littering the cushions, evidence of a life too busy for dishes.
The burner phone, a cheap black flip model, sat beside the typewriter, its blank screen a reminder of the lines I was crossing.
My personal phone buzzed, shattering the silence.
“Mom” flashed on the screen. I hesitated, thumb hovering, then answered.
“Still at work?”
“No, home.”
“Home? At seven p.m.?” My mother’s voice was warm but sharp, like she’d already sniffed out something off. “Did the Bureau shut down?”
I forced a laugh, leaning back against the couch. “Vacation, Mom. Even agents get a break.”
She’s already suspicious. Mom could always smell a lie from a mile away.
Her con-artist days were long behind her—thanks to Max—but her instincts hadn’t dulled.
Guilt twisted in my gut. I hadn’t told her about the vacation because it wasn’t one.
Not really. This week was for Enimton Gravestone, for digging into the shadows Max had chased before his “heart attack.”
I hate lying to my mother, but look at me, keeping secrets, just like he did.
“A vacation?” Her tone lifted, teasing but probing. “Without telling me? Are you okay, honey?”
“I’m fine,” I said, too quickly. “Just needed a breather. You know how it is.”
“Do I?” She paused, and I could picture her narrowing her eyes, lips pursed, reading me through the phone. “You don’t take breathers, Sara. What’s going on?”
I stood and began pacing the small living room, the hardwood creaking under my bare feet. I reminded myself that what I was doing was important, too important to share.
Today was . . . productive. My FBI brain kicked in, sharp and analytical.
What I know: Enimton knows more about Simmons than he would easily admit.
Simmons blackmailed the Gravestones into somehow becoming involved with the twins and experiments.
Enimton doesn’t seem to know he’s not a Gravestone. He’s still protective of his family.
And the journals from an evil man? If they existed, there was evidence in Simmons’ own words. Yes!
Enimton may have hurt Dylan while trying to protect his family. From what? The evidence? Had Dylan’s accident truly been just that? Enimton’s remorse felt real. I stopped pacing, gripping the phone tighter. Believing a mark is a rookie mistake. I’m trained to follow facts, not feelings.
But then my mind softened, traitorously. His cedar-and-soap scent, the way he held the diner door, that dimple when he laughed and shared his damn Guberburger enthusiasm. “I can’t wait to read your first book.” His kindness confused me.
He was falling for me.
And I was using that to further my investigation.
Max would hate this. He’d say I’m crossing lines . . . first by letting a mark get too close. Emotions skewed perspective.
Next Max would tell me to be careful not to let my search for the truth compromise my integrity. He’d tell me to pull back if I thought an innocent person would be hurt by my investigation.
Never become worse than what you’re tracking.
“Earth to Sara,” Mom said, snapping me back. “You’re awfully quiet. What has you so distracted?”
I sank onto the couch and pushed the travel word processor away. “Just . . . thinking about work,” I lied. “And thinking myself in circles.”
“Overthinking on vacation?” Her skepticism was a blade, cutting through my flimsy cover. “Did something happen?”
I sighed. “You know I can’t talk about work.”
“You can tell me if you’re okay or not. Are you sitting alone wishing I’d show up with a bottle of wine and a pizza?”
I smiled at that. Some mothers would say that as a joke, but my mother didn’t cook.
It wasn’t that she couldn’t. She could do anything she set her mind to, but she didn’t put time into things she didn’t enjoy and part of me respected her for that.
“I’m fine, Mom. I’m not sitting here moping.
I’ve just been busy and it’s hard for my brain to downshift. ”
She took a moment to weigh that. “Are you . . . seeing someone?”
My breath caught. The question landed like a dart, too close to the truth.
I pictured Enimton’s shaggy hair falling into his eyes, the way he’d sung off-key to Have You Ever Seen the Rain, his fingers brushing mine over a fry dipped in chocolate.
My stomach flipped, a teenage-crush flutter I had no business feeling.
“Yes. No.” I swallowed, glancing down at his gift. “It’s complicated. More no than yes.”
Mom laughed, soft but knowing. “Complicated sounds like a story. Spill.”
“Just a friend,” I said, my voice too breathy. “Helping me with a project.” A project called unraveling Max’s death, exposing the Gravestones, and figuring out if Enimton’s a victim or a villain. I winced, hating that I couldn’t tell her the truth. But I’m too close to the truth to stop now.
“A friend, huh?” Mom’s tone sharpened, her con-artist radar pinging. “A project you didn’t tell me about either? Sara, you’re hiding something.”
I flipped the screen of the word processor up and ran my fingers over the typewriter’s keys, the plastic cool and steady. She’s right—she sees through me, just like she saw through everyone when she was conning. My investigation scrolled through my mind like a case file.
My professional side snapped at me: FBI 101: Trust evidence, not emotions.
I’m letting his kindness cloud my judgment.
He’s a suspect, not a boyfriend. Dylan’s coma, the journals, Simmons’s experiments—it all points to the Gravestones.
I want to believe Enimton didn’t hurt anyone on purpose.
I want to believe he doesn’t know what Simmons or the Gravestones were up to.
That’s the problem. I want him to be innocent.
And it’s clouding my ability to determine if he is.
But then my heart betrayed me again. He’s thoughtful and kind. Opens doors for people. Laughs like a man who hasn’t laughed enough.
Either he’s someone I should protect.
Or he’s playing me.
“Sara,” Mom said, softer now, pulling me back. “Don’t shut me out. Talk to me.”
Running my hands through my hair impatiently, I bent forward over my knees. I can’t believe I let him kiss me. Kissed him back. My throat tightened. “I’m working on something, Mom,” I admitted, voice low. “But I’m not ready to talk about it.”
A pause, heavy and thick. I could hear her breathing, steady but strained. “I’ve heard that before,” she said finally, her voice cracking. “Before . . . You know. Keeping secrets got him killed.”
My chest seized, her words a cold slap. She doesn’t believe Max had a heart attack either. It wasn’t something we’d talked about.
Probably because she knew the idea that Max might have been murdered would lead me to this . . . a four-year obsession I thought I was doing a good job of hiding. I gripped the phone, my knuckles white. “I’m being careful, Mom. I promise.”
But am I? My FBI training screamed at me: You kissed a mark.
You’re believing his story without evidence.
You’re walking a tightrope, and one slip could cost you your career, your family, maybe your life.
But Enimton’s face flashed again—his dimple, his soft “Helen,” the way he’d said my story would be incredible. He’s broken and trapped.
And I could be the one to set him free.
My chest tightened.
If I don’t get him killed.
“Careful?” Mom asked, her voice low, like she was reading my soul. “If I know you’re up to something you shouldn’t be, don’t you think others might as well? You’re chasing something. Like he was.”
I would have lied and said I wasn’t, but she would only have seen through the lie.
I swallowed, my eyes stinging. She’s too good at this.
Mom had conned people for years—charmed them, read their tells, used their weaknesses.
But I also can’t tell her the truth. I forced my voice to steady.
“I just need a little time, Mom. I’ll tell you when I’m ready. ”
Another pause, longer this time. The lamp flickered, casting shadows across the typewriter.
Finally, she sighed, heavy and resigned.
“The last person who told me they weren’t ready to talk, when I pushed for more, never came home.
” Her voice trembled, but she steadied it. “Don’t you dare do that to me, Sara.”
My breath hitched. Max. He believed in the good in me.
Even when there wasn’t any.
That’s the problem, Max, there’s a part of me you didn’t save.
I can’t stop myself.
I need to know the truth.
Hero, victim or villain . . . I need what Enimton knows.
But I don’t know what that makes me.
“I’ll call you soon,” I said, my voice thick. “Promise.”
“You better.” Her tone softened, but the worry lingered. “I love you, Sara.”
“Love you too, Mom.” I hung up, the silence crashing in. Enimton’s gift sat there, mocking me with its sincerity.
He believes in Helen.
And his family.
How will he handle learning that none of us have been honest with him?