Page 41 of Infinite

“What case?” I asked Mason. “It’s obvious they don’t have anything to stand on.”

Mason agreed. “Our problem is, it’s turned political. The head of the agency wants to keep his job. When we prove he wasted time, resources, and money on a bullshit case, he’s done, Hale. The judge knows it, but gave him the time anyway.”

“Why?” I pressed.

“Because when we either prove your innocence in trial or get everything dropped, which is where we’re headed, the judge can say he’s given the feds enough time.”

“What about the supposed informant who turned me in and led them to the so-called evidence?” I countered.

“They can’t produce him.”

“Can’t or won’t?” I asked. “Big difference there.”

“We thought they had some kind of ace up their sleeve with this informant,” Mason explained. “But even though he reached out to the feds several times, and sent them after you, they never pinned down who he was.”

“What?”

“Tell me about it.” Mason made a face. “These idiots never clarified who he was or how to find him. He provided plenty of tips and information about you, but then he disappeared. They couldn’t even determine if “he” was a he. It’s a good thing for us. No witness, no evidence, no case. Our dilemma remains that the Head Fed can’t go down like this, so the agency is trying to find the informant and anything that justifies your arrest and the media circus this whole thing became.”

“What about us? Can we find him?” We, meaning them.

“We’re trying,” Mason said. “But we have less to go on than the feds. This is their Hail Mary.”

“Damn,” I said.

“Yeah,” Mason agreed. “But if they can’t find him, they have to let this thing go sooner, rather than later.”

In the meantime, I’m the one who looks bad, not the feds. I’ve spent the last few weeks making calls back and forth with Neesa—trying to keep the staff and what’s left of my business going—paying their salaries in the hopes I can return. Except, as insane as it sounds, this whole experience is not what’s keeping me up at night.

I told Becca what really happened with my folks. I’m still not sure why I did it. Maybe being around our friends and talking about the good times over supper triggered it all. Maybe it was Miss Sylvie’s pot roast, warm and savory and full memories of better days. Maybe it was the ocean. The way the waves soaked the beach, bringing me back to a time where I was a Wilder, a real one, and everything made sense.

Or maybe it was just Becca.

Okay. I’m really starting to hate that word “maybe.”

I’m not sure how I went from practically setting her pretty clothes on fire with just one dark look to spilling my soul like I would a slippery glass of milk. But Becca’s always had a hold over me, long before I kissed her, and now, years later, when I want to do a hell of a lot more.

I lean against the doorframe, watching and waiting for her to explain why she’s here with a dog who already assumes his place is with me. After a three-hour conference call with Neesa about what to do with the clients who have stuck by me, I’m ready to go for a long run and not stop until my worries are nothing more than a blur.

Too bad I can’t. Too bad the woman who can suck my heart clean through a straw lingers mere yards away with some guy wearing enough pastels to shame a flower. Jesus, what a morning.

Becca and all her raving beauty surprisingly don’t hold my complete attention. The sixteen-year-old looking dude, the one with the camera, pastels, and more eyeliner than should be humanly possible, brought friends. And when I say friends, I mean more than one mutt.

A fluffy white dog with (Lord, help me) barrettes on her ears like pigtails. wags her tail enthusiastically as Becca coos at it. Can’t say I blame the dog. Becca could have that effect on the world if she cared enough about what the world thought of her.

“Momma will be right with you, baby,” Becca says. “Oh, yes, she will.” She turns to pastel guy, her voice all business as they fumble with some equipment in the rear of the van.

The black and white dog is still sitting beside me, watching, waiting, and apparently torn between looking for a good place to raise his leg, or going for my throat. I suppose that’s the effectIhave on the world.

I return the dog’s expression and look back up toward Becca. “Becks, I asked you what the fuck this is?”

“A dog,” Becca answers.

“I know it’s a dog. But what is he doing on my doorstep eyeing me like he wants to chew my leg off and bury it?”

“Oh, you’re just imagining things,” she says, batting her hand dismissively.

“I am not. Look at him!” I say, pointing.

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