Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
I feel a little stab of nervousness at the thought. I haven’t heard from him since turning in my report on Friday, and . . . it’s weird. The guy’s always been borderline anal about prompt communication, but with Ian’s case, Steve’s been either dodgy or annoyed any time I try to get him to even talk about it.
“Will do,” I say, setting my purse down and punching the power button on my computer.
“Nice work on the case, by the way,” she calls over her shoulder.
“Hey, Evie?” I say before she can leave. “Is something going on?”
She blinks in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“Everyone seems under the impression that I’ve done something . . . exceptional,” I say.
“Well sure, babe. You wrapped the case.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Evie!”
We both turn to see one of the VPs throwing his hands up in the air in impatience.
“Oh crap,” she mutters. “I gotta run, hon.”
I blow out a breath. “Okay.”
But she doesn’t even hear me; she’s already gone.
I start to unpack my box from Wolfe but decide to wait. If Steve’s got another case for me, I’ll just have to pack up again anyway.
I stop in the break room for a cup of coffee on my way to his office. When I take a sip, I wince. Let’s just say it’s not quite the caliber of what was in the Wolfe offices. There you could choose from three different machines, each one with a hundred different milk options.
And sometimes people would bring you fancy drinks from Starbucks.
You did not join a government agency to get pampered, I remind myself. It’s not like the FBI is known for its great coffee, either.
Shaking my head, I start toward Steve’s office, giving a faint smile at the few thumbs-ups and way to gos, trying to ignore the premonition that something is seriously wrong. His door is closed and Evie’s on the phone, but she motions for me to go in.
I knock and hear Steve’s sharp “Yallow,” which I’ve learned over the years means, “Hi, come on in.”
I open the door but draw up short when I see he’s not alone. “Oh! I’m so sorry.”
“No worries, Ms. McKenzie, I was just leaving,” the man says, standing and buttoning his suit jacket.
He looks familiar, and my brain scrambles to place him. Medium height, medium build, medium brown hair . . .
Nope, no chance.
He takes pity on me and extends a hand. “Jacob Houghton. I’m Steve’s—”
“Brother-in-law,” I say, shaking his hand as the pieces snap into place. “Of course. We met at Steve’s wedding. I apologize. I seem to have a bit of Monday morning brain fog, and this is my first cup.” I lift the mug of black tar.
He gives a good-natured laugh. “Understandable. You’ve had a busy few weeks.”
I look at Steve for guidance, a little unsure why his brother-in-law knows anything about my workload. The guy’s not SEC, he’s . . . I can’t remember, exactly. Something in finance, but not particularly high up any food chain, if memory serves.
My boss isn’t paying our conversation any attention, though, his focus on a document in his hand.
“Good seeing you again, Ms. McKenzie. Steve, I’ll call you later. Or Whitney will. One way or another we’ll get you and Katherine over for dinner this week.”
Steve gives a noncommittal grunt as Jacob closes the door.
Familiar with my boss’s inability or disinclination to multitask, I take a seat and sip my wretched coffee as I wait for him to finish reading.
A couple of minutes later, he sets the paper inside a file folder on his desk, then blinks a little in surprise, as though forgetting I was there.
“Right. Lara. How are you? Good weekend?”
The best.
“Yeah, it was all right. Yours?”
“Busy,” he murmurs. “Very busy.”
Guess that explains why you couldn’t reply to my e-mail on Friday.
Steve taps his fingers on the desk, then leans back in his chair, folding his hands over his belly and studying me.
I wait. I’ve learned that pushing people to speak before they’re ready rarely leads to good things.
He leans forward and exhales. “I want you to hear this from me first.”
My mug is halfway to my mouth, but I lower it again, dread uncurling in the pit of my stomach. “Okay . . .”
He riffles around the piles on his desk until he comes up with an envelope. He hands it to me. “I’m delivering this later.”
I reach out and take the envelope, pulling out the paper within. I recognize it immediately. A run-of-the-mill subpoena, just like the ones we issue for formal investigations . . .
I go very still when I see the name.
I look up. “What is this?”
His expression is regretful but also resigned. “I told you from the very beginning how this was going to play out, Lara. Ian Bradley’s guilty.”
“You didn’t see my report, then,” I say, putting the paper back in the envelope and handing it to him with a calm that belies my clammy palms.