1
Sage
Peoplesaidstupidthingsall the time. Unhelpful cliches likeEverything happens for a reasonorTime heals all wounds. And my personal favorite,It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
I assumed the preachers of this horseshit hadn’tlostin the tragic, messed-up way I had because with the unfortunate clarity of experience, I could confirm they were dead wrong.
There was another saying I preferred.
The only real mistake is the one from which we learn nothing.
I’d learned from my mistakes, and I’d learnedhard. So I would never be fool enough to fall in love ever again.
University of Pennsylvania, Department of Criminology
My heavy backpack pounded against my spine as I ran through campus. The dull ache radiating through my thigh bothered me more, and not because of the pain. At least, not the physical sort.
“Special Agent Williams,” I called out while dodging a group of students ambling along the wide, tree-lined path.
Dressed in a gray pantsuit, Agent Williams slowed her brisk walk to glance over her shoulder. Her penetrating gaze zeroed in on me. Already assessing and profiling perhaps, as she was trained to do.
Her tight, dark curls shifted with the brisk autumn breeze. “Can I help you?” she asked, coming to a stop.
Despite her small stature, FBI Special Agent Maya Williams was a force to be reckoned with. Her cool confidence was justified, and her intelligence intimidated the heck out of me. If I were a bad guy with her on my case, I’d be shitting bricks and hauling ass to Mexico.
“Yes.” I struggled to draw breath, not because the short run had tired me—cardio was my friend these days—but because I was talking totheMaya Williams. “I just wanted to tell you I’m a huge fan of your work. Especially how you used the DNA of Joey Caruso’s third cousin to nail him for murder. That was incredible.”
“Thank you, Ms.…”
“Allen. Sage Allen.” I held out my palm. Agent Williams’s subtle vanilla scent reached me as we shook hands. “I’ve read all your declassified cases. Your profiling skills and lateral thinking are legendary.”
Yeah, I was totally fangirling over an FBI agent.
“That’s nice of you to say, but I’m just doing my job.” She folded her arms. “You weren’t in my lecture today.” A statement, not a question, which was impressive since there must’ve been more than a hundred students attending the Criminology in Practice class she’d guest lectured earlier.
“No,” I said, tucking away wisps of dark hair that had escaped my ponytail. “I saw you present last year. I’m working on my thesis while interning with the Justice Department. I’ll start there full-time after graduation.”
“Congratulations,” she said with a genuine smile. “Well, it was nice to meet you.”
Agent Williams nodded before continuing on her way. I followed her like a lost puppy. Without stopping, she gave me a sidelong glance. “Was there something else you wanted to share, Ms. Allen?”
Shit. Okay. It was now or never. “Actually, there is.”
Agent Williams arched one brow when I hesitated. I must’ve been staring at her like I’d forgotten how to use my tongue.
Just say it!
“My boyfriend was murdered,” I blurted out.
That wasn’t exactly how I’d planned this conversation going, but it got Agent Williams’s attention, because she stopped so fast, I almost slammed into her.
“Wait. Your boyfriend wasmurdered?”
Talking about the shooting was never easy. It didn’t matter how much mental preparation I did, my body still went into a mini panic attack. The familiar sensations took hold. Clammy hands, erratic heartbeat, rapid breaths. My management strategy was simple. Avoid discussing it at all costs. But I needed Agent Williams’s help, and if I had to relive that pain for a few minutes to help find Kieran’s killer, it would be worth it.
“Three years ago. We were both standing outside Romano’s store on 7thStreet when a black Cadillac drove past and shot the place up. We were collateral damage. I got hit in the thigh and nearly bled out. My boyfriend took three bullets. The fatal one tore through his heart.” I swallowed against the unbearable knot in my throat. “His name was Kieran. Kieran O’Malley.”
I still missed him so much. Maybe even more than I missed my mom, who’d passed away from cancer two years before Kieran was taken from me. In a way, losing her had been easier. It was awful to think, but she’d been in such pain at the end that it’d been a relief when she’d let go. Mom had been ready. Kieran hadn’t. At only twenty, he’d had his best years yet to live. They’d been stolen from him. They’d been stolen fromus.