Page 5 of ILY
“Hasn’t been reported,” I have to admit. “It’s a pretty small town about two hours from Portland.”
I know the town a little too well. I had a stalker case there a couple of years back when I was first diagnosed with my disorder. The victim had been a Deaf ASL professor, which, at the time, had seemed a little too coincidental. But Denver had become my ASL teacher and eventually my friend. It wasn’t a hardship to go back there.
“The last few reports that came into their local PD have been for teenagers,” I went on, “but I’m keeping my eye on it.”
He sighs, and his lips purse slightly. “So you have nothing.”
Frustration blooms inside of me. “I have a person heading to a hotel room in a couple days with a duffel bag full of cash who is going to pay me in exchange for explosives.” To kill what he calls a groundhog. But I don’t buy it. Not with the way Leif talks about Michael.
The last conversation we had was Leif saying that Michael had a vendetta against him and had been trying to ruin his life for the last six months. No one talks about ground rodents that way. Never.
I don’t say this to my boss. If I say that Leif is claiming Michael is a groundhog, he’ll tell me to accept it for what it is and move on to something else. But my gut is telling me I’m onto something.
Russo sighs and rocks back in his chair. “I don’t have anyone I can free up right now.”
I do my best not to groan. “I’mfree.”
“You know exactly why that’s not going to happen, Logasson.” He meets my gaze like he’s trying to challenge me. Like he wants me to defy him. It’s not the first time I’ve felt like he gets off on telling me no. “Your benefits aren’t going to cover you crashing your car because you had a little fit or whatever behind the wheel.”
That’s fucking absurd. I’ve been cleared to drive by more than one physician, which is why I haven’t lost my company car. Yet. And by “little fit,” he means a vertigo spell from the Ménière’s disease, which has been my diagnosis for the last eighteen months, though my ENT says I’ve had it for a lot longer than that.
But the spells don’t last long, and avoiding salt and as much caffeine as I can manage, I’ve reduced the incidents to two, maybe three a month. He’s using the so-called liability excuse against me.
“So you want me to just leave him there?”
He taps the tip of his nose, then points at me. “If he makes any threats, come back and let me know, and I’ll free someone to go check him out.”
And just like that, I’m dismissed.
Disappointment and regret sit heavy in my gut.
The walk back to my office feels like an eternity. There aren’t a lot of agents around at the moment, but the ones who are stare at me like they know I’ve been kicked in the metaphorical balls. I straighten my shoulders and continue walking, refusing to meet any of their stares.
When I get back to my office, I do my best not to slam the door before stalking over and dropping down in my chair. I take a moment to cool off before turning my monitor back on and see a message from Leif.
LeifyMolotov: I can be there Thursday night at nine. Come alone. I have the cash.
That’s four days from today. I could put an end to it now, see if I can befriend him in the chat and get him to open up a little more. Or I can say fuck it and just…go. It’s not like Russo will come looking for me. I work from home most days anyway.
And the little town I’m going to meet him in isn’t too far from me. I know the layout well enough, and it feels a bit like it’s a coincidence that this whole thing is there.
Like it was meant to be.
Like if I’m really going to create a legacy for myself in the handful of weeks I have left with the Bureau, this is my chance to do it.
Screw it. What’s the worst Russo can do? The punishment for disobeying this order would be desk duty, so why not take the risk. After all, what’s the worst that can happen if I go?
I catch a killer?
And hell, if Leif takes me out before we solve the crime, at least I’ll know I gave up my life trying to do something good.
In my car, I scroll through my contacts and pull up one person who has been able to save my ass more than once. Augusto Matias is the agent who gets things. He manages bureau rentals all over the country for agents who need a safe house, and if we need any sort of obscure item, Matias is the one who knows how and where to get it.
It rings so many times I think maybe he’s not going to pick up. Then I hear the silence in my ears—the call connecting to the Bluetooth in my hearing aids.
“Logasson,” Matias says.
“I need a favor. An apartment or a little cottage or some shit.” I give him the town location. “Something furnished and out of the way with enough space for me to set up an office.”
