Page 84 of Knotted Laces

Still, it has him pausing in the hall for a long moment before he nods at me. “Then I won’t keep you, but I’ll talk to you later, yeah?”

“Of course,” I lie before I’m hustling down the corridor, pushing out into the sunshine that’s dappling the pavement of the parking lot, hurrying to my car, and getting the fuck out of there.

Which means I never do get my shower.

But I neverdoget everything, do I?

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Athena

I frownas I stare at my phone screen, wondering if I’m overreacting but not confident enough in my navigation dating norms to know for certain.

The text from Cam is normal…

And yet, it’s somehow completely off at the same time.

Sighing, I rub my forehead, snag my stuff from my desk and decide…fuck it.

If he’s fine, I’ll apologize.

If he’s not, I’ll have acted instead of spinning in circles, staring at my computer screen, worrying and unable to focus on the new leads that have come through. Leads that I haven’t been able to make sense.

The pieces are here, I know it.

But I can’t put them together.

Ugh.

It’ll come. I know that, know I can’t rush this. But sometimes I wish my job leaned more toward the TV version of being an FBI agent—clicking away on my keyboard for a couple of minutes, shaking down some baddies on the street to find the other badguys, or better yet, the bad guys revealing themselves, tying up the case in a neat little bow, thus allowing us to move onto the next case, all in less than an hour.

Unfortunately, real life isn’t that easy.

But I’ll figure it out. I’ll crack this.

For Tommy.

For me.

It may take more time than I want, but Ialwaysget there.

Tonight, though, Cam’s more important.

As I’m coming out of my office, bag slung over my shoulders, I see Sandra coming toward me.

My boss’s expression is determined, but the moment she sees me packed up, her expression clears. “You’re leaving before six?”

A blip of guilt slides through me. “I can stay if you need me to,” I say quickly.

Her mouth hitches up. “Ats, seriously?”

“What?” I ask.

“I’ve been in here, kicking your ass out, telling you to go home practically every day since you joined the team andtoday’sthe day you think I’m going to ask you to stay?”

“Well”—I shift my backpack—“the criminals don’t care if I’ve worked eight hours.”

“Ten,” she corrects.

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