Page 38 of Unraveling an Enigma
When I drop down to my knees to wrestle with my suitcase, my memories drift to the last time I’d done that same thing. Even though it took us a few weeks to sort our shit out, I still class that morning as the very beginning of my relationship with Isaac. I knew the instant he stepped into my apartment, I wouldn’t have the strength to fight a battle that was stronger than I could have ever imagined. My body craved Isaac even more than I required my next breath. If Harlow and Cormack weren’t in the room with us that day, I would have shamelessly crawled to Isaac on my knees and begged him to make me his.
My heart rate climbs when a loud tap sounds at my front door. I know it isn’t Brandon, as he texted me earlier saying he will be arriving at my apartment at ten tomorrow morning. My heart prays it is Isaac, but it is most likely Hugo, considering none of the security officers from the lobby called to advise I had a visitor.
Scampering from the floor, I pace toward the door. I cringe when I catch my reflection in the entranceway mirror. Since I spent most of my morning binge eating junk food, in an attempt to improve my gloomy mood after Hugo left, I decided an afternoon run was required. I had to do something to lessen those chocolate bars and chips making their way onto my already curvy backside.
I just returned from my run, so I’m wearing a pair of black running shorts, a hot pink crop-top bra, and a thin white shirt. The shirt is so light, my crop-top is visible underneath since it is drenched with sweat. My once-high ponytail sags halfway down my head, and my face is devoid of makeup, which I removed before I went for a run. If I didn’t, I would have ended up looking like a raccoon by the time I returned.
Deciding my outfit respectably covers more skin than any clothing I'd wear at the beach, I forgo changing into something more suitable and swing open my front door. The instant I spot the faces on the other side of the door, I wish I’d chosen more wisely.
Theresa’s unnamed male partner’s austere eyes roam over my face before they leisurely flow down my body. His skin-crawling, degrading assessment only stops once he reaches my sweat-soaked socks. Theresa’s thin-slitted eyes don’t make it past the straps of my hot pink crop-top.
Angling her head to the side, her manicured brows shoot up high into the air. From her reaction, you would swear she has never seen anyone in gym clothes before.
Darting my annoyed eyes between Theresa and the male agent, whose eyes have yet to leave the region of my chest for the past several uncomfortable seconds, I advise, “I'm not talking to you without a lawyer present.”
My abrupt closure of the door only wavers when, “Only people with something to hide need a lawyer,” sounds through the door.
I said that exact statement to Isaac only a few months ago.
Against my better judgment, I swing my door back open. “I don’t have anything to hide.NothingI have done since I left the FBI Academy has been of an illegal nature.”
“Then you will have no problems talking to us,” Theresa replies, her pitch snarky and firm.
Without seeking permission, Theresa walks into my apartment. Her strides are efficient and confident. The scent of her expensive-smelling perfume filters through my nostrils. Her brisk pace has her smell infusing the air surrounding me. The unnamed male agent closely follows behind Theresa. He would have to be several years older than Theresa. His hair has an abundance of gray strands throughout it, and his face is heavily wrinkled. If I had to guess his age, I'd say he would be mid-to-late fifties. They seem like an odd couple to be partnered together.
There is no doubt in my mind Theresa would always choose to play thebad copduring their interrogations. Other than the occasional snicker or lewd comment, I’ve barely heard a peep come out of the male agent’s mouth. Theresa is definitely the alpha in their partnership.
After Theresa’s eyes bounce between the moving boxes scattered around my apartment, she pivots around to face me. Theresa would be a lot prettier if she would change the grim expression she frequently wears on her face. She is thin, and she carries herself well, but her gaze is grim, and her lips are always set in a thin line, even when she is smirking condescendingly.
“Trouble in paradise?” Theresa queries, her voice thickly laced with sarcasm.
Crossing my arms in front of my chest, I glare at her. Her inappropriate and highly insensitive question doesn’t warrant a reply, so I remain quiet, silently brooding, instead of reacting poorly as she is hoping I will.
A stretch of silence crosses between us as we participate in an intense stare-down. A triumphant grin spreads across my face when Theresa’s gaze is the first to turn away.
Theresa paces further into my living room, carrying herself with an aura of importance and stature. It is a stance I’ve witnessed many times before, generally when friends of my Uncle Tobias would visit. Just from her composure, I highly doubt Theresa started her career in the Internal Affairs Department of the FBI. Her poise, and the way she moves, points more to her being a police officer or perhaps even a detective.
My heart squeezes in my chest when Theresa picks up a photo of my Uncle Tobias and me from my mantel. It is a photo Tobias’s Dedushka (grandpa) took when I first arrived in Tiburon. It was taken the same day my auction was held. In the picture, my eyes are open wide, and my expression is puzzled. At the time, I was only six years old, so I was incapable of fully comprehending what happened that day. The surprised expression on my face is purely because I'd just taken my very first flight. My fear of flying wasn’t something I developed as an adult; I was born with the distress embedded deep into my veins.
“Is this your Uncle who raised you?” For the first time ever, Theresa’s tone sounds neutral.
After swallowing a small bulge in my throat, I nod. “That is my Uncle Tobias,” I tell her, my voice relaying my fondness for Tobias.
If my Uncle Tobias hadn’t come into my life when he did, I would have most likely become the person Theresa thinks I am: a prostitute.
Tobias hid most of my father’s criminal activities from me when I was younger, but once I joined the FBI after his death, every sordid detail of Vladimir’s empire was unearthed in monumental detail.
Vladimir Popov and Col Petretti’s names were regularly exploited during my training at the FBI Academy. Col is no doubt an evil man, but Vladimir is a true monster. Drugs, guns, kidnapping, prostitution, hisfamily businessdabbles in it all. He is so ruthless, he doesn’t care if you are related to him by blood. Unless you're making him a profit, you are worthless to him.
“Isabelle?” Theresa asks, pacing to stand in front of me. She eyes me curiously. I must have zoned out thinking back on my memories.
I shake my head to clear my thoughts. “I’m sorry; I didn’t hear what you said.”
The harshness in her eyes amplifies as she smirks pompously. “I asked, what is your knowledge of Col Petretti?”
“Umm… other than what his FBI file informs me, I don’t have any further knowledge of Mr. Petretti.”
My reply isn’t a total lie. Although I ran into Col Petretti on the weekend Isaac and I went away, and he threatened me, I have no extensive knowledge of him.
