Chapter 10
LUKE
The oven beeps, breaking the trance we were in. My body physically jolts, and I blink as I take a step back from her.
She flips around to open the door, and immediately, dark smoke pours out. She starts to cough as she pulls out the pan of lumpy, blackened food.
A second later, the smoke alarm starts to pierce our eardrums with its beeping. I have to stand on a barstool to switch it off, thanks to the ten-foot ceiling. When I get down and turn around to face her, she’s frowning at the lumps.
“I don’t understand. I followed the directions.”
She’s unbelievable.
All the details are perfect, even down to the worn, fitted jeans hugging her hips. Her blonde hair is up to reveal the arch of her neck, and even though I know she has been designed to make me trust her, I still find myself wanting to give in.
Could I be wrong?
I take a step closer and look down at the pan. Even without the charred parts, it doesn’t look at all like the pesto salmon and shrimp that Eloise makes. The chunks of pine nuts on the top are mixed in with slimy-looking green mush.
“I guess I’m a little out of practice.”
I look up to see her biting down on her lip like she’s . . . trying not to laugh?
“Are you sure you’ve made this before?”
She giggles, and I feel it immediately between my legs.
“I haven’t made this exact dish before, no, but the recipe seemed pretty straightforward.”
She purses her pink lips, and I feel an intense desire to taste them. I never got the chance the other night, my animalistic need taking me straight to the basic act of sex. Now, every time I see her, I mentally kick myself for not spending more time savoring her.
One small kiss wouldn’t hurt anything . . .
I find myself subconsciously leaning toward her, and I notice goose bumps prickling her skin.
My phone buzzing brings me back to reality. She lets out a sigh, backing away from me.
I pull it out of my front pocket, seeing Jackson’s name on the screen with a text.
“Do you like grilled cheese?” she asks.
I look up at her. “Who doesn’t like grilled cheese?”
She doesn’t smile; she simply turns to walk into the pantry. I watch her backside as she goes, my mind in the gutter. Surely, this can’t be an act, or she’d be trying to sleep with me again. If she were an agent, she definitely would be.
This had better be good, Jackson.
Jackson
Finally decoded the bugs I found in your penthouse. They’re definitely from Tycos. Software was Russian.
The heat I was feeling turns to ice. Kate isn’t just an agent. She’s with the Russians.
I attempt to regain control of my emotions as she comes out of the pantry with a loaf of bread.
“Found it! Eloise has an intense organization system going on in there.”
She places it on the counter, opening the fridge to pull out cheese and butter. My pulse quickens, and I force myself to calm down as I tuck the phone away.
I can do this. I was trained for this.
You’re gonna have to play this game with her.
You get to play this game with her . . .
I count to ten in my head as she begins to spread the butter on the bread and stick it in the pan.
After my blood pressure seems to drop back down to a safe range, I slowly walk up behind her.
I place one hand on the countertop next to her, the other reaching around her waist to turn down the knob controlling the heat.
“You have it too high,” I whisper into her ear, making sure I’m just close enough for her to feel my breath warmth on her skin.
She’s motionless, melting under my nearness like the butter in the pan. I’m about to kiss her neck—as a part of the game—when she slides out of the cage of my arms. Her wide eyes are the color of the sea. She visibly swallows, wrapping her arms around herself.
“I should go.” Her voice is barely above a whisper.
I clench my jaw. She takes another slow, deep breath before walking all the way around my kitchen island to exit instead of going the short way beside me. I don’t move until I hear the elevator doors close.
Right when I think I know how this is going, she completely surprises me.
Is it because I’m her boss? That’s the least of my concerns, but that might be because I’m the one in power. I could fire her, which would cut off her access.
I run a hand through my hair before I pull out my phone to call Jackson.
He picks up after one ring.
“Are you sure?” I don’t waste words on a greeting.
“Absolutely. They’re good, but I’m better.”
“Shit.” I press a hand to my eyes, the stress of constantly being watched becoming more unbearable, the longer it goes on.
My phone beeps with another incoming call. I look at the screen to see Prick on the caller ID.
“They’re calling. Keep me updated.”
I hit the button to end the call with Jackson and answer the incoming one.
“Bradshaw?”
“Here.”
“I’ve got some bad news.”
FBI Agent Rick Grange has been leading the investigation on the case. His name is Prick in my phone because it rhymes with Rick and he’s a prick.
“You’re at a dance recital instead of doing your job?” My voice is dripping with sarcasm.
He ignores me.
“We’re on high alert. A known website for suspicious foreign activity pinged for two keywords this morning—Steelhart and Lynx.”
My chest tightens. Steelhart was the name of our mission . . . but Lynx was my code name in the field. Now would be a good time to tell him about Kate Dawson, but then he’ll step in with his pointless, snail-paced investigation. I’m sick of waiting on the US government.
“Well, I guess you’d better get off your ass and do something about it.”
I hang up the phone.
Jackson can’t seem to find anything in Kate Dawson’s past indicating that she’s an agent. Which could mean I’m totally off my game, or she’s just that damn good. The Russian bugs are undeniable evidence, no matter how clean her record appears to be.
There’s no way to have any idea if her life depicted online is real or not. The hackers who work for Tycos can hack into the government’s database to find nuclear launch codes. Creating a fake car payment and employment history is no problem.
The only way to know if she is who she claims to be is to dig up her history the old-fashioned way.
Stalking her, going through garbage, and finding the people in her life who should be real and seeing if they are.
Her entire life being a setup isn’t impossible, but if I dig far enough, I’ll find the chink in her story.
I’m starting with her best friend and roommate, Melanie Ford. She’s a hairdresser with a massive amount of credit card debt. It’s too easy to pick the lock to her apartment on Sunday morning. I watched her and my PA pull away in her car a few minutes ago.
The door opens to reveal a messy studio that’s smaller than the en suite bathroom in my penthouse.
Two people live in this tiny place?
There are high heels and clothing littering the floor and a rumpled-up blanket and pillow on the sofa. The end table has a pair of glasses and a stack of mail on it. I pick them up to see the name Kate Dawson on the top.
Inside the envelope is a bill for a doctor’s appointment and a brain scan.
Is Kate sick? My stomach tightens at the possibility, but I shove it aside to keep digging.
The next one is a bill for Memory Care, a facility on the other side of town.
I go back to the first and am relieved to see the name Mark Dawson at the top as the patient for both places. It must be a relative—maybe her fake grandfather. Upon further investigation, I realize that she is behind on the charges for the care facility.
Why would the Russians go to such unnecessary lengths to establish her identity?
The apartment seems typical, except for the fact that it’s so small.
There’s also a little glass aquarium with a turtle in it to the side, and I remember Kate telling me about the pet that night at the bar.
I pick up a worn leather notebook, flipping through it to see colored drawings of cartoons, mostly little animals with big eyes.
Turtles seem to be her preferred muse. I try not to smile at the fact that she has such a cute hobby, but it’s difficult.
It’s not real. She’s playing a role. She’s the only reasonable explanation for the bugs planted in my penthouse.
I put the book back after I’m sure it’s not holding any secret codes or messages between the pages of blue racoons and baby ducks eating at a diner.
I can’t find any weapons at all. I assume they’re in a secret compartment somewhere, but it must be well hidden. She’s a real pro, and I’m pissed that I’ve lost my typical ability to determine when someone’s an enemy or a civilian.
That first night, she certainly screwed me . . . in the head and elsewhere. I won’t be so naive again. Even if her apartment seems like a realistic setup, she was no doubt prepared for me to be here.
My next stop is the pretend boyfriend’s place. He doesn’t have a legal residence, but his mail is sent to Kate’s previous address. They went above and beyond, corroborating her history, even having her crash on the best friend’s couch.
I don’t knock on the door, instead picking the lock and entering easily. I almost want him to be here because it would give me an excuse to question him or kick his ass.
It’s filthy. A pile of dog shit greets me upon entrance.
I hold my breath through the rest of the residence.
It blows my mind that people live in these conditions.
Cleaning is a basic human ability everyone possesses.
Nothing special is revealed, except for used condoms in the trash, indicating that Stephen Rail is having sex with someone, most likely the girl on the apartment’s leasing agreement, Madison Street.
There’s a good chance they’re both civilians and Kate went undercover months ago to establish connections that look real.
I find several framed photos of her and a long-haired man in one of the closets, coming to the conclusion that Kate did live here recently.
After seeing the apartment she shares with Mel, this one is clearly in a worse condition.
I’m hoping when she was living here, it wasn’t so trashed.
It doesn’t make sense that her belongings are still here.
I’m irritated that my day has only proven to bring up more questions and very few answers.
My last stop is Memory Care on the other side of town. I ask the woman at the front desk to see Mark Dawson, and she directs me to his room.
Upon entering, I’m shocked to see that he’s young, maybe in his fifties, possibly early sixties.
“Hello, sir. I might have the wrong room. Are you Mark Dawson?”
He looks up at me with a wide smile, and I immediately recognize Kate’s blue eyes.
“Well, son, that’s what they call me. What can I do for you?” He grins, setting down the book he was reading.
I step forward to shake his hand. “I came to ask you about your daughter. Have you spoken to her recently?”
I don’t want to use her name, considering he’s checked into a memory care facility and I don’t know his mental state. On the very small chance that Kate Dawson actually is a real person and this is her father, concerning him is the last thing I want to do.
His eyes light up. “Yes, I have a sweet little girl. She’ll be turning five next month. I think we’ll have a little get-together out on the lawn if the weather is nice. Will you be able to make it?”
I stare at him, attempting a smile as my throat feels tight. “What’s your little girl’s name?”
“Sugar bear, honey bun, whatever name comes to mind really. So, do you want to bring a side dish? Martha always asks the guests to do so, but we can provide the meat.” He sits back down at the desk, flipping through the pages of his book to find the place he was just at.
“I, uh … sure, I’ll try to make it. Nice chatting with you, Mr. Dawson.” I’m not getting anywhere with this guy.
He waves as I slowly exit the room, turning to walk down the hall.
This entire day was a complete waste of time.