Page 37 of Out of Control

I’d never forgive Lucas if I ruined my last lead by getting involved with him. I needed to get him as far away as possible.

“Now get the fuck out of my house.”

fifteen

Lucas

Any delusions I was entertaining disappeared in the space of a millisecond. I felt the ice of her cold demeanor spreading through my veins, reaching the center of my chest where her fingers still lingered.

She seemed to realize that at the same moment because those fingers gripped my shirt, pushing me farther away from her, closer to the door. She released me to swing the door back open. She was really kicking me out.

I dragged my feet, holding onto the doorframe.

“Athena. I’m sorry for what I said about your mother.”

“You should be. She’s done nothing to make you suspicious. And she had cancer, asshole. You accused a cancer patient of…I don’t even know what you were trying to accuse her of.”

Fraud? Forgery? I didn’t know either, I was just fishing for information. Obviously I was fishing in the wrong lake, and I ruined every possibility in the process.

When did we start to have something to ruin? Why did I care so much when she finally slammed the door—metaphorically and physically—on me?

Fidelity, bravery, integrity.

Whether I liked it or not, I gave her my word. I left. I had to keep my promises.

The car ride home wasn’t even a blur—it felt nonexistent. I couldn’t remember a second of it, my mind on autopilot until I was unlocking my apartment door. I placed my briefcase on the desk in my office, wondering if I could focus on any work or if I’d just keep seeing that hurt expression on her face…or the toned legs coming from under that towel, just barely long enough to cover her ass and—

I cut off that line of thought, thinking about a different promise I could keep. I pulled out the news article my mom gave me, figuring if I couldn’t work I could at least cross this “lead” off the list.

Local Lawyer Saves Dying Restaurant

I scoffed once I got into the article itself.

Angelo Morelli of all people, bought a failing Italian restaurant a year ago for his ten-year wedding anniversary with his wife. I rolled my eyes. Even now I couldn’t get away from the Morellis.

She was an okay cook, Angelo said, but he wanted her to learn the chef’s recipe book so she could be even better. Now the restaurant happened to be thriving, so theChronicle wrote a heart-warming human interest piece on it, as if any of the Morelli men had a heart.

I scanned the rest of the article, but nothing stood out—for my case or Dani’s. It was just as I knew it would be. Useless. But Mom put herself through this at least once a month, thinking she found something.

Now the Morellis were messing with my Mom, even if they hadn’t meant to, and I had a new focus. I could do the fucking work. I could focus on taking them down. I took out my laptop, slamming it down on my table a little harder than necessary, and turned it on.

I needed to cross all my T’s and dot all my I’s, so I started by emailingagainfor the surveillance footage. These men needed to know that I meant business and I was tired of waiting. Then I looked up Margaret Keenan’s death certificate.

Oh God.

She had an aggressive form of liver cancer, but her actual cause of death was related to an untreated blood clot in her lung that caused her to have a fall. The clot was listed as a symptom of the cancer—probably a side effect of the drugs she was taking—and I felt bad for Athena all over again. I couldn’t imagine losing my mom the way she lost hers.

But then I circled back from the empathy to pure anger because none of this would have been a problem—I never would have questioned any of it—if she had just been honest and answered my questions from the start. I wasn’t just being nosy, I was conducting a criminal investigation, trying to put very bad people behind bars before they hurt other, more innocent people.

I was a freaking knight in shining armor, trying to save the day, but Athena couldn’t see that. She just wanted to paint me as a bad guy.

I wanted throw everything off my desk, smash it all to the floor, but even in my swirling emotions I was aware of my surroundings. My oath of fidelity to the FBI wouldn’t allow me to damage their government issued hardware.

I carefully closed the laptop, putting it away in my briefcase. I paused, debating how to let out my aggression.

I could throw all the papers and pens and everything else to the floor now without guilt, but then I’d just have to reorganize everything later. Getting angry for a moment wasn’t worth all the effort to put everything right afterward.

And just like that my control was back. I was in charge of my body and my emotions again.

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