Page 140 of Crossfire

“He called when you were in the cabin’s office and said he thinks my mom’s ex might have lied about his name.”

“Your mom’sex?” His brows narrowed together. “Why does he think that?”

“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “We got cut off before I could get more answers, so I need to call him back sooner rather than later, but Detective Mitchell wants to rule out his involvement in the whole parking garage incident.”

I could see the confused question swirling through Grayson’s face.What in the world would your mother’s ex have to do with any of this?

“What’s the ex’s name?” Grayson asked. “The one he gave you, at least.”

“Steven Hackett.”

I could see Grayson sifting through his mental Rolodex of names. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“The point is, Detective Mitchell is looking into it.” It might lead to nothing, but maybe, just maybe, it was the break behind who this “Bob” character was. Could I fathom a motive to kill me? No. But then again, I never understood why people kill each other, so there was that.

Grayson stared at the wall for a second, lost in thought as this new potential puzzle piece floated into the picture—a mismatched color and shape.

Before we could talk about it anymore, though, a booming knock and voice shattered our intimate bubble.

“Grayson?” Hunter’s voice called from the other side of the door. “Barry’s here. Meet me in my office.”

My heart sank, a sense of impending change looming over us. In all honesty, my hope that Detective Mitchell would find anything was slim. I don’t know why; call it plain old skepticism,or maybe a sixth sense that my only hope of staying alive was if someone could convince the dangerous CIA organization that I wasn’t a threat.

“Hey.” Grayson gently stroked my cheek, his touch reassuring. “It’s going to be okay.”

But I could see it in his eyes—the uncertainty, the doubt. And that’s when I knew that everything was about to change.

60

GRAYSON

“Can you prove any of it’s fake?” No point in sugarcoating it or beating around the bush. I didn’t have time for that.

Barry glanced at Ivy. “You sure you want her here for this?”

Was he about to drop a bombshell, or had he come up empty-handed? His tone was unreadable, as was his expression.

Barry’s salt-and-pepper hair and matching beard seemed to hold a wisdom that I prayed would work in our favor today. This stocky man—wearing black trousers, a dark blue button-down shirt, and a leather jacket—held Ivy’s fate in his hands with whatever he said next.

The information he was about to reveal could either be her saving grace or the final nail in her coffin.

“She stays,” I clarified, looking at my kitten.

She was trying to be brave with her chin up, but I could see her nervousness in the slight narrowing of her eyebrows. She deserved to hear all of this, and I wasn’t going to leave her alone.

“So does Hunter.”

Because the implications of whatever Barry found could be far-reaching, and in the event everything went to hell, I wanted a witness.

Barry thinned his lips, his years as a CIA operative undoubtedly infiltrating his conscience, but he wasn’t in the CIA anymore, and I wasn’t asking about confidential information on his work.

Hunter closed the door with a soft click, sealing him, me, and Ivy in his office with Barry Mansfield, who placed an unopened manila folder on the desk. It lay there, innocuous yet menacing, potentially holding secrets that could change everything.

If he couldn’t help me get to the bottom of this, I wasn’t sure how I’d keep Ivy safe.

“I have to ask you something before I start,” Barry said. “Uncovering crucial evidence that could prove or disprove Ivy’s innocence means you’re going against the CIA’s code. You do this, you risk your reputation and your career.”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want the answers,” I replied.

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