Chapter Twenty-Three Tom
Chapter Twenty-Three
Tom
For the next week, I was a mess.
The guilt was everywhere. On the walls. In my car. Hitting root deep inside me.
I’d hurt people before. I’d killed before.
And I’d done some shit most individuals could hardly stomach.
Though it broke something fundamental inside me, I was never this affected.
I didn’t want to be wrapped around some kid’s little finger.
Especially considering I was about to betray him in the most horrific way.
I wasn’t lying when I’d said we were toxic together. No matter what violent acts I’d committed in the past, they were premeditated, out of grave necessity, and a part of protocol. Nothing was spontaneous or driven by emotion.
Until him.
I was doing both of us a favor.
To myself, by returning to my flatlined existence, void of feelings, chaos, and moral quandaries.
To him, by not carrying on an affair when I knew I would send him to prison for life in a matter of weeks.
And yet I couldn’t, for the life of me, stop obsessing.
The morning after what happened, I emailed my psychiatrist and got an urgent prescription for my meds. Also booked out sessions for the next month. I threw out all the alcohol in my apartment, vowing to never touch another drop. Not even the odd beer while watching a game of football.
I did all the right things.
So why did I still feel like shit?
I sat in my office and stared down at my phone, re-reading our last text exchange.
Me: I wanted to apologize again for the other night.
Me: If you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here.
Me: At least tell me that you’re okay, and I’ll leave you alone.
Kid: I’m okay. Now do your part and GTFO of my life.
I wanted to tell him I hadn’t been smiling since we stopped texting. That I could use one of his masterpieces or silly childhood pictures to brighten my day.
But that went against the rules I’d reinstated.
We were done. For his sake as much as my own.
“Where are we with the Camorra informant?” Zeke burst into my office without as much as a hello.
I looked up from my screen, frowning. “Still need to process it with McMahon.”
“That was two weeks ago.” He plopped onto the seat in front of me. “What’s the holdup?”
I can’t get myself to screw the enforcer over.
“Admin backlog.” I clicked my laptop shut.
“Admin, huh? That’s a new one. You can walk and chew gum at the same time.
” Zeke raised an eyebrow, unimpressed with my excuse.
“Process the paperwork. I want to wrap this case and clear it off my desk. I already told you, management is disinterested in the Camorra case now. You’re not even supposed to be working on it. ”
And indeed, I wasn’t. I’d pushed it to the bottom of my slush pile, prioritizing everything else instead.
I jerked my chin. “I’ll get it done.”
“Didn’t you say you had an in with the enforcer? That Enzo kid?” Zeke frowned, snapping his fingers. “What happened with that lead?”
Well, Maddox, I’m glad you asked. I was too busy screwing him senseless to ask him even one question.
I shook my head. “Didn’t pan out.”
“In other news, Denise wants you to come over for dinner this Sunday,” Zeke continued. “You available?”
I made an unintelligible sound, my thoughts sailing to the task I was explicitly ordered to execute.
The assistant U.S. attorney for the Southern District of New York, Tara McMahon, was ruthlessly efficient and incredibly responsive.
Two things I normally admired, but not today.
She’d process my request in less than twenty-four hours, which meant that if I hypothetically wanted not to recruit the informant, I’d need to find a chink in his armor that’d make him useless to the bureau, to me.
However, I always took my time researching informants, and I wasn’t going to start slacking off now.
Zeke narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “By the way, I’m getting us tickets to the Cheese Rolling Festival next weekend. We’ll be rolling a ten-pound Double Gloucester cheese down hills all afternoon. Sound good?”
“Uh-huh.” I was still stuck in my head. “Sure.”
“Rothwell?”
“Hmm?”
“You’re not listening.”
I was about to protest, deny, deflect, before remembering who I was talking to.
“Sorry,” I said instead.
“Spill it.” His mouth stretched into a smile. “Denise thinks you have a new partner, and they’ve been distracting you.”
I shook my head. “Sorry to disappoint Denise, but I’m still single. I’m just considering all angles regarding this informant. There’s something fishy about him.”
“I don’t think there is,” he countered. “You’ve been off your game lately.”
“My performance remains above average.”
“You look like you need a break.” He ignored my words and fixed me with a stern scowl. “Your eyes are dark-rimmed, you have stubble, and you can’t keep a train of thought. When was the last time you took a vacation?”
“About three years ago.” More like four, but technically, three years, eleven months, and two weeks.
“How long for?”
I worked my jaw. “Three days, for a friend’s wedding.”
“What happened a week ago?”
Silence fell across my office before I strangled out, “PTSD episode.” My gaze dropped to my hands. “It was bad.”
“You’re taking the rest of the week off. Go see Jean, and send her my regards.”
“There’s no need.”
“There is. This past week, you’ve been looking like shit and performing just as badly.”
“I—”
“This is not a suggestion, it’s an order from your superior, Rothwell.”
As much as I hated the idea of parting ways with the mountains of work on my desk, I knew Zeke was right.
A PTSD episode was a red flag, and I needed to take care of that.
I could recharge at my grandmother’s house, buy some time to think about my next move with the informant, and forget about Enzo Ferrante.
Out of sight, out of mind.
“I’ll be here Monday at six in the morning,” I warned Zeke.
He waved me off. “I don’t doubt it.”