Page 115 of Enigma: The Complete Collection
That halts my swift movements. The pulse beeping through my body is nearly deafening when it clusters in my ears. I had to hear her wrong—surely. Isaac isn’t a violent man. He’s just misunderstood. Isn’t he?
Sensing that my reluctance is slipping, Theresa pushes open my door, then steps inside my domain. Her lips twitch, preparing to talk, but I beat her. “CJ was in a traffic accident with his sister, Ophelia.”
As her lips crimp, she shakes her head. “CJ’s injuries were not sustained in a traffic accident. Isaac inflicted them.”
“I don’t believe you.” I’m not lying. Our exchange earlier today reveals she’s out for blood, meaning she’ll do or say anything to get her target. I’m not falling into her trap.
She smirks again. It’s a mocking, condescending smile like the one she gave me earlier today in the conference room. “I thought you might say that.” She digs a yellow envelope out of her handbag, then hands it to me. “As I said earlier, I'm here warning you, woman to woman. What I'm about to show you must stay between us. This isn’t an official visit.”
After swallowing to soothe my dry throat, I nod. She’s not the only one willing to lie if it gives her the upper hand. My hand trembles when I pull out the paper inside the envelope. I’m not concerned Theresa has anything incriminating on either Isaac or me, but it’s from spotting the date and time on the bottom right-hand corner of the photo inside. It's dated an hour before Ophelia’s traffic accident.
I suck in a deep breath to get over my shock before studying the photo with the eyes of an agent. Isaac’s sweat-drenched body is in the middle of a boxing ring. He's fighting a gentleman of similar age, or perhaps a few years older than him. It looks like a brutal battle, although most of the damage has been endured by Isaac’s competitor, who happens to look oddly familiar to CJ Petretti.
Although things look damning, I’m not willing to pass judgment until I know all the facts. “The Bureau is aware Isaac was a participant in an underground fighting ring years ago. This doesn't make him a terrible man. Fighting is a professional sport.”
“No, it doesn’t make him terrible, but what about this?”
She hands me a second photo. It's similar to the first one, but it's zoomed out, showing the spectators surrounding the ring—the most imperative, Ophelia. She’s standing at the side with tear-stained cheeks and wide eyes. The devastation on her face twists my insides. She's much braver than me as there's no way I could watch my boyfriend fight my brother.
Before I can work through half my confusion, Theresa snatches the photo from my grasp, returns it to the envelope, then snags her cell phone from her handbag. Her fingers fly over the screen of her phone for three heart-thrashing seconds before she pivots it around to face me. There’s a video displayed. It shows Ophelia being held back by a large brute of a man. She’s crying.
“Please, Isaac, stop.” She somehow manages to get away from the man holding her hostage, her escape conceding with her climbing through the ropes. “Please, Isaac, don’t do it. I’m begging you.”
My hand shoots up to cover my mouth when the screen flicks to Isaac in just enough time to witness him complete a gruesome roundhouse kick to CJ’s left temple. CJ crashes to the ground with an almighty thud, his eyes closed, his body lifeless. Tears well in my eyes when Ophelia screams a bloodcurdling cry before she rushes to her brother sprawled lifeless on the dirty mat where she tries in vain to wake him up.
When the video freezes at her staring down at her lifeless-looking brother, I push Theresa’s phone away from me. “That doesn’t show the full version of events that happened that day.”
The evidence looks horrid, and my heart is pained for what Ophelia went through, but you need both sides of a story before forming an opinion. Theresa’s video doesn’t give me that. It’s as one-sided as she was during my interrogation earlier today.
Theresa glares at me like I'm an imbecile. “I may not know the full story, Isabelle, but neither do you. Youthinkyou know the real Isaac Holt, but you don't know him at all…”
Her words fall short when I slam my door into her face while murmuring, “That's why he's an enigma. He's supposed to be misunderstood.”
CHAPTER9
ISAAC
My breaths are jagged, my body is slick with sweat, and my heart is pounding against my chest. The perspiration and panted breaths are from the intense workout I’m currently undertaking at an old, derelict warehouse I own on the outskirts of town. The last statement, my pounding heart, is from seeing Isabelle again.
Today is the first time I’ve laid eyes on her since my less-than-stellar reaction to her arrival at my home Friday night, but she's the reason I’m working out in freezing temperatures in only a pair of running shorts. I’m aimlessly trying to replace the sexual energy coursing through my body with adrenaline because even knowing her secret didn’t dampen the fire that raged inside me when I saw her. It will never be doused. It’s irrepressible. My hands itched to fondle, probe, and explore her seductive body when I saw her in the foyer of Destiny Records. Her beautiful chocolate eyes were burning through to my soul, begging for forgiveness.
It took all my strength to walk away from her. Every step I took was taken with trepidation. With all the women I’ve bedded the last six years, the chase grew weary, my interests waned within days, if not hours. That never happened with Isabelle. It never grew old. The more I had her, the more I craved her. Her beautiful cupid’s bow lip on mine, her hands touching and exploring me with as much interest as I studied her. I couldn’t get enough.I never yearned for anything or anyone when Isabelle was in my arms.Now, I have to find a way to move on—to live without her.
Just knowing I’ll never taste her again has me swinging my fists harder at the bag hanging precariously from a steel beam by a large chain. Blisters started forming on my knuckles over an hour ago, but my swings haven’t dampened. When I entered the warehouse, I threw on a new pair of gloves. I could have forgone the hassle and worn my run-down pair hanging over the fraying ropes of the boxing ring, but I needed a distraction, and I wanted to feel the pain that comes from breaking in brand new gloves. If I feel pain on the outside, it may lessen the ache I’m feeling on the inside.
Another thirty minutes pass before my focus shifts from punishing the bag. My distraction is caused by a cell phone shrilling through the abandoned warehouse. It isn’t my sleek, modern phone stopping the swing of my fists. It is the one that only rings during an emergency.
After grabbing a white towel dangling from the chain above the sagging bag, I swipe it over my head to absorb the sweat running down my face while heading for my gym bag lying unzipped on the dirty concrete floor. My burner cell hasn’t rung since the morning I got arrested. The last call I took on that phone was in Isabelle’s apartment. She was sitting straddled on my lap, nibbling on my earlobe. I was so immersed in her, I didn’t consider the repercussions of continuing my conversation in front of her. Call me a fool, but even only knowing her for six months and being in a relationship for a month, I trusted her. I trusted her from the moment I saw her.
I was a fucking idiot.
“Yes,” I bark into the phone, my gloomy mood heard in my voice.
“The price has gone up to one point five million dollars.”
My grip on my phone tightens. “I told you I didn’t care about the price. I want it done, so get it fucking done.”
My caller breathes heavily down the phone. “All right. I should have an answer by the end of the week.”
