“Then I have my work cut out for me this week.” Longo stands, and I take it as a cue that our discussion is over. “I have a late flight back to D.C. tonight and meetings scheduled first thing in the morning. I’ll get your answer as soon as possible.”
I glance at Dawson, who stands as well and comes around her desk. I follow their lead, a step behind as they exit the office and pause just outside.
“What happens next?” I ask, directing the question to Dawson. “Do I need to give a statement, or fill out forms or something?”
She waves a hand. “The agents on your detail can handle that. They saw everything and will reach out for statements from you and the others. I’ll oversee the interrogation myself. We don’t want to leave any stone unturned when it comes to Amador.”
She shakes Longo’s hand, then mine, and walks off.
I turn to the senator, meeting a pale blue gaze that strips me bare in a very different way than Callie’s does. It’s as if she reads my mind before I even voice my question.
“What can I do to speed things up?” I manage to get out before she holds up a hand.
“I know this is hard, but please understand I’m doing all I can. Negotiating with politicians is a convoluted process, and we don’t want to leave any wiggle room for Zavala if we make this deal. Which I’m confident we will, when it’s all said and done. There is a lot riding on this operation being a success.” She leans in and rests a hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently. “Trust me. I’m a mother, so I know what kind of turmoil you must be in.” Her jaw flexes as if she’s about to say more, but in the end she just sighs and shakes her head.
At that moment, I look up and catch a glimpse of Callie standing across the open space at the bank of elevators. She sees me and smiles, but her smile falters when she catches sight of her mother.
“Shit,” I mutter. I hadn’t counted on how it might look to her to discover my association with her mom. But I redirect my attention to the senator to tell her I understand and when I look for Callie again, she’s gone.
“Do you have proof she’s being taken care of?” Longo asks. I rein in my distraction enough to nod and fish out my phone.
“Zavala’s hired a nurse who is texting me a photo every day.” I swipe and tap to get to today’s text, which arrived at some point while I was pounding my fist into one of those asshole’s skulls. Zoe’s bright-eyed face looks back at the camera, more serene than before, but with tiny lines creasing her forehead. There isn’t a hell of a lot to see, but the daily photos are helping to keep me from going out of my mind with worry. Those and Callie’s presence.
“Oh, she’s a little doll,” Longo says, her serious facade dropping instantly. She stares at the photo for a few seconds, then sighs and squeezes my shoulder again. “I have one more thing I have to do in town today, then I’m on my way to help get your precious little girl back to you. You have my word.”
26 Callie
Why is Mom talking to Mason? Holy shit.
I could understand why she might stop by to visit. She and Dawson are old friends. But ever since Chris died and she shifted into politics, I thought she’d cut ties with the Agency. Not once in the years since has she mentioned the DEA or her work having anything to do with it. As far as I know, her focus as a senator has mainly been on human rights and universal healthcare.
I admit I’m out of touch with the inner workings of her life, though. I’ve been in my own little bubble for so long, and we haven’t exactly remained forthcoming beyond the bare necessities about our respective careers.
But there must be a reason why she’d be in a meeting with him. Could it have just been a coincidence? Or is there something he isn’t telling me? Maybe he doesn’t even realize who she is.
It’s a struggle to talk myself down off this ledge. Surely he has a good reason, but I still manage to pace the lobby for the next five minutes worrying about it until the elevators ding and I whip around, only slightly calmed by his appearance.
I have questions, but I’m afraid if I ask them, they’ll raise even more on his end. Like why I didn’t tell him who my mom is.
He gives me an inscrutable look for two seconds before asking, “Ready to go?”
“Yep!” I chirp perhaps a bit more enthusiastically than I should as I pull out my phone to summon a ride share. “Nina texted that they’re at St. Joseph’s. We can head straight there if you want.” I dart a questioning look his way.
Mason frowns. “Did she say how Booth is doing?”
“Oh, he’s fine, but they’re keeping him for a couple days. The bullet shattered his scapula, so he’ll need surgery and then physical therapy once it heals.”
I’m hoping my dismissive response conceals the true level of anxiety I have over Booth’s shooting. It’s irrational of me to be so worried, but the whole ordeal has started to feel a touch too real for me to stay calm. Summoning my usual icy constitution that I rely on to be a good surgeon isn’t helping.
He lets out a breath, some of his
