the judge from granting bail tomorrow, but until then he’s mine.”
“You’re nothing. You’re just some glorified rent-a-cop trying to swing his dick around. My father could buy and sell you a dozen times out of fucking petty cash. You can’t do anything to me.”
“It’d be a shame if you thought of your own worth by your father’s bank account—if I gave a rat’s ass about your twisted inner child. What I can do to you is this. I can arrest you and charge you, which is already done. I can incarcerate you until such time a judge tells me different. I can—and believe me, I will—testify at your trial, should you choose to take this to trial, and detail every bit of your vicious, useless, destructive behavior.”
“I’d like another moment alone with my client.”
“You’ve had over a half-hour with him already.”
“Brooks, I need a moment with my client.”
“All right, then. When you’re done, he’s going in a cell.”
Brooks stepped out. It took less than ten seconds for the screaming to start. He knew it was small of him, and likely unprofessional on top of that, but damn if it didn’t do his heart good to hear Justin throw a tantrum worthy of a two-year-old brat.
17
In the quiet house with the dog snoring at her feet, Abigail scanned the hacked FBI files. It pleased her that Special Agent Elyse Garrison had pursued the lead she’d leaked to her, built on it. The five-point-six million the FBI’s operation had confiscated equaled a nice, solid chunk, enough to sting, in Abigail’s opinion. As would the six arrests.
It was hardly enough to put the Volkovs out of business, but it would annoy them and drive them to dig deeper into their organization, trying to find the source of the leaks.
Satisfied, she closed the files, told herself she should go to bed. It was nearly midnight, and she’d contracted two new jobs that week. She needed to be fresh to begin work in the morning.
But she wasn’t tired. What she was, Abigail admitted, was restless. And what she was doing, under the cover of work and research, was waiting for her phone to ring.
How many times, she wondered, had she read a book or watched a movie where she’d been baffled by a woman waiting for a man to call? It seemed to her women who did so not only lacked a sense of self-esteem but were simply foolish.
Now she could only be baffled at herself.
She didn’t like the sensation she experienced, this combination of nerves and anxiety. Faint, yes, but
She didn’t even want this relationship, she reminded herself, and she certainly didn’t want this uncomfortable and unattractive position she found herself in now.
She didn’t require phone calls or dinner companionship or conversations … or any of it. All of those things interfered with her routine, upset her schedule, and, more important, could only lead to complications she couldn’t risk.
Still, she had to admit it was nice to have those things, and to forget—even for minutes at a time—and simply
The Abigail he was attracted to, enjoyed being with.
But wasn’t that falling into the same trap she’d sprung on herself years before? Convincing herself she could be what she wasn’t, have what she couldn’t?
It was good, better—no, best—he hadn’t called. She could begin immediately readjusting herself, her life back to what it had been before he’d changed it.
She’d make herself some herbal tea. She’d take it upstairs and read herself to sleep. That was sensible. That was who she was.
When she rose, the dog came awake instantly. He followed her into the kitchen and, when he saw her fill the kettle with water, sat to wait.
A good dog, she thought, as she set the kettle on the stove, a comfortable, well-secured house and satisfying work. Those were the only things she required to be content, and contentment was all she required.
And yet when her alarm signaled, she didn’t feel her usual click of tension and readiness. Instead, she felt a quick surge of hope. Annoyed by it, she turned to her monitor to watch Brooks drive toward the house.
He presumed too much, she decided, coming to her door after midnight. She wished now she’d turned off the lights, gone to bed. If she had, at least he wouldn’t have any reason to think she’d waited for him.
She’d tell him she was on her way to bed and too tired for company. Simple, and again sensible, she thought, as she went to the door.
She opened it as he got out of the car, and in the glare of her security lights saw in his face, in his movements, layers of exhaustion, anger, sadness.
“Sorry.” He stood for a moment at the base of the porch steps, bathed in that bright light. “I should’ve called earlier. I should’ve gone on home.”
“You didn’t.”
“No. Things got complicated.” He shoved a hand through his hair. “And I was here before I thought about how late it is. You’re still up.”
“Yes.” Her resolve thinned and tore as she studied his face. “I was making tea. Do you want tea?”
“Sounds good.” He came up the stairs. “I’m sorry I didn’t let you know I’d be this long.”
“You have work. I’ve been working, too.”
Saying nothing, he put his arms around her, pressed his face to her hair. Not for pleasure, she realized. It took her a moment to decipher the tenor of the embrace. He sought comfort. He’d come to her for comfort, and no one ever had.
She started to pat his back—there, there—but stopped. And closing her eyes, she tried to imagine what she’d want. She rubbed his back instead, small, light circles, until she heard him sigh.
“The kettle’s boiling,” she told him, when she heard it whistle.
“Yeah.” But he held on for another moment before he stepped back.
“You should come in. I need to lock the door.”
“I’ll get it.”
“No, I …” Wouldn’t feel fully safe if she didn’t lock up herself.
“Okay. I’ll get the kettle.”
When she’d finished, she found him pouring hot water into the squat teapot where she’d already measured out leaves.
“Lemon balm, right? My mother does the same thing some nights.”
“It’s relaxing.”
“I could use some relaxing.”
She got out a second cup, saucer. “Is your friend all right?”
“Not really.”
“Oh.” Instantly shamed of her earlier annoyance, she turned. “He was hurt?”
“Not physically other than a fist to the face, but he’s had that before. He’s likely to again.”
In silence, she arranged the cups, the pot, the sugar bowl and spoons on the table. “You should sit down. You look very tired. We’ll have to share the tea strainer when it’s steeped. I only have one.”
“That’s fine.”
Unsure, she remained standing when he sat down. “Do you want food? I have the lasagna. It can be heated.”
“No. No, but thanks.”
“You’re so sad,” she blurted out.
“I guess that’s some of it. Got a lot of pissed off in there, too. I’ve got to shake both off before I deal with tomorrow.”
“Do you want to tell me, or should I change the subject?”
