“You used me.” His glare cut right to my bones. He held it for a single breath, then turned and stormed to the door.
It was barely a croak. “Where are you going?”
“You’re FBI, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
I launched to my feet. “Wait, Silas.” And then I said the phrase I’d never uttered to another person in my life. “Please don’t go. I need you.”
My words had no impact. His sneer remained unchanged. “You’ve been lying to me since we met, Andrea. I’m done.”
I watched him shove the door open and storm off, unable to chase after him. My legs wouldn’t cooperate, and my voice was too far gone to be heard, even as I yelled hoarsely after him.
I was crying when Shane came into the room. Everything was blurry. He shoved me into the bathroom with my clothes and ordered me to get dressed. I was still crying quietly when it was done, no matter how many times I’d cursed myself for the tears. It was awkward as fuck crying in front of a male coworker, even if he was my friend.
I finally pulled myself together on the car ride back to my apartment. “What do I do?” I asked Shane.
“About Silas?” He kept his eyes on the road, not looking at me. “Give him a few days. I’m sure he’ll come around.”
Shane’s body language suggested he was lying.
When we reached my apartment, I told Shane I was fine and he didn’t need to come up. I just wanted to be alone. The only person I could tolerate suffering in front of was the man I’d wounded.
I’d barely made it inside when my neighbor knocked on my door. “I got this package in my mailbox the other day. I think the mailman read the number wrong.”
It was a mailing envelope, and sure enough, my name and address were on the front. “Oh, thanks.”
She’d peered at me with an anxious look. My eyes were red, but she’d probably assume I’d just been crying. Which was true.
The packing slip had a note from Silas. “I couldn’t find underwear. Socks will have to do. Your feet are always cold anyway.”
They were yellow and magenta with alternating blocks, and within those blocks were snow cones. His playful way of getting me to wear a snow cone after I’d asked him not to tattoo one on me several months ago.
My head was throbbing, and the shooting pain had grown too powerful to ignore any longer. I was surprised the migraine had held off this long. The brief oxygen deprivation plus the stress were sure to have been a trigger.
I grabbed my purse and the package, went into my bedroom, and sat down. I tugged off my white socks, ripped open the plastic on the new ones, and slipped them on my feet. The comical, bright design mocked me as I loaded the cartridge on the injector pen. Whenever my hands shook, I looked at the socks. I could do this.
When I was sure I had the dose properly loaded, I held the pen up to my bicep with my thumb positioned over the blue plunger. I didn’t even think about it. I slammed my thumb down, sinking the needle into my muscle, all while I stared at the pink fluffy cones with black straws and counted to five.
I retracted the needle. The pen was set on the nightstand and I collapsed backward on the mattress, letting the medicine shut off the pain receptors in my brain during the onslaught of the migraine, wishing it worked on emotions just as easily.
It’d been four days since the congressman had tried to strangle the life out of me. My throat still hurt, but it was a dull ache that I was learning to live with.
The media knew nothing of the story. We’d suppressed the information, so the only thing reported was Bennett had tried to kill a prostitute. There’d been no mention of the club.
Caroline held true to her word. Marquis had been caught yesterday hiding out in his aunt’s house in St. Louis. I took pleasure in knowing he was going to prison for a long time, and the District Attorney promised he’d push for the harshest sentence possible for both men.
I sat in the FBI conference room chair, fidgeting with my phone. I always kept it in hand, waiting for it to ring or a text message to pop up. Anything from Silas. But there’d been nothing. I was determined to give him time, but the silence was agony.
“You’ll need to make this quick,” Agent in Charge Biller said, breezing into the conference room. My boss sat down in the chair across from me and adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses. His signature look. All the agents had worn fake plastic pairs on his sixtieth birthday as a joke.
Today I felt deadly serious. “What’s the plan with the club?”
Biller gave me a plain look, one that said nothing good was going to happen to the people who’d become my friends.
“Let me back up,” I said. “If my cover was still intact, what was the real timetable for the op? Did it run until I wanted out?”
He looked uncomfortable, his guilty gaze darting away. The operation hadn’t sat well with him from day one, but it was impossible to argue with results.
“Or,” I continued, “was the plan to bring someone else in when I requested a new assignment?” Because I was betting the operation was too valuable for the Bureau to walk away from.