Page 122 of Enigma: The Complete Collection
“What do you want, Isabelle?” he repeats, even harsher this time.
When his gaze darts down to the paper I'm clutching, it dawns on me why I came to his office. I'm not being facetious when I say my inhibitions are thrown out the window when I’m in his presence. My level-headedness, my composure, and apparently my brain, disappear the instant my eyes land on him.
“I came to give you this.” I step closer to him, my thighs shaking. “It isn’t as much as you receive from your other tenants, but it’s all I can afford.”
When his eyes shoot down to the bank check I'm clutching, his jaw spasms. I’m only arriving at his club now as I had to wait for the bank to open so they could draw the check. Although Theresa disclosed the tenants in Isaac’s building pay more than double what I pay, I cannot afford the full amount. Instead, I had the check drawn up for the initially agreed twelve hundred dollars a month that was negotiated when I signed the lease. Considering I’ve been living in his apartment rent-free the past twelve weeks, the check is a little under four thousand dollars.
When Isaac makes no attempt to accept the check, I place it on his bulky wooden desk. “I also called your real estate agent to advise that I’ll be vacating your property by the end of the month.”
It isn’t that I don’t appreciate what he did for me—I truly do—I just can’t continue living there at the reduced rate. If I did, it would make the Internal Affairs Department’s investigation into me appear more legitimate. It will appear as if I gave Isaac private information in exchange for free housing. If I could afford the full monthly rent for an apartment that size, I would, but since I can’t, I have no choice but to move out.
My throat works hard to swallow when a thick stench of awkwardness plagues the air surrounding us. Although it's dense, it isn’t abundant enough to mask the savage surge of electricity bolting between us. It’s so strong, I can hear it crackling and hissing in the air, almost drowning out what Isaac says next, “Is that all?”
Unable to speak for fear my voice will crack, I nod.
“Okay. Good. Goodbye, Isabelle.”
I smile to hide the sting of his blunt dismissal. “Goodbye.”
Spinning on my heels, I make a beeline for the door. I need to escape before my threatening tears spill over. Just before I exit, paper being ripped overtakes my pulse shrilling in my ears. Sharply, I crank my neck back in just enough time to witness Isaac tearing up the check I just had drawn.
“What are you doing?” I storm back to him to snatch a portion of the now-ruined check out of his hand. “That’s a bank check, they’ve already taken the money out of my account, so whether you cash it or not, the money is already gone; I can’t draw you another one.”
“I don’t want your fucking money, Isabelle!”
I take a step back, shocked at his words, but it won’t stop me saying, “I didn’t ask to be placed on your payroll either, but I wasn’t given a choice, was I?”
He arches his brow. “My payroll?”
“Yeah, your payroll. What did the agent from the IA call me… oh, that's right, a paid mistress aka your prostitute.”
My teeth clench when an arrogant smirk stretches across his face. “That's what you are, isn't it? Whether the money was coming from the Bureau or me, you were paid to sleep with me.”
I slap him so hard across the face, my hand sets on fire, and his head rockets to the side. Slowly, almost robotically, he returns it front and center. His jaw is twitching profusely, and a dark cloud has formed in his already furious eyes. I nearly stumble out an apology before realizing I have nothing to be sorry for. He insulted me, not the other way around.
“I’m sorry I lied to you. I’m sorry for not telling you about my job at the very beginning, but don’t you dare degrade what we had by saying I was paid to do it. You know as well as I do that Ineverslept with you for my job.” My tear-filled eyes stare into his, pleading for him to believe my statement. “I love you, Isaac. Whether you choose to believe me or not is up to you, but if you ever find it in your heart to forgive me, be assured I’ll be waiting for you. You just need to realize you're fighting a battle bigger than us both.”
No longer having the ability to hold up the flood gates in my eyes, I dart out of his office as quickly as my trembling legs will take me. I slam the door shut before leaning my back against it. As I gulp in quick breaths, I beg my tears time and time again not to spill. Unlike Friday, the sun is shining brightly, so I’ll have no way of concealing my devastation from those around me.
I stop reaching for the invisible knife Isaac just stabbed into my heart when a snarky voice whines, “I tried to warn you.”
Tina braces her back on the bar before unleashing her most brutal assault—her victorious smirk. Enjoying the spectacle of me on the verge of tears, she folds her arms over her chest before getting her legs in on the show. The indecent length of her shorts when she crosses them assures they’d never be classified as clothing. The panties I wear during the red week of my cycle have more material than her shorts.
I want to snap back at her wordless taunt, but I'm honestly too tired. Instead, I hurry for the back entrance of the club, ignoring Tina’s snarky chuckle at my mad dash. “Make sure the door doesn’t hit you on the ass on the way out.”
With a grunt, I push open the heavy door. My eyes squint as they struggle to adjust from the darkness of Isaac’s club to the blinding mid-morning sun. It’s so bright, I have to shelter my eyes to see where I'm walking. Eager to return to my apartment to wallow in self-pity in private, my strides are urgent and fast.
When I reach the corner of Welsh and Trover Street, my quick pace slackens. Megan Shroud is a mere foot in front of me. With everything going on, I completely forgot about her and her freakish obsession with Isaac’s brother, Nick.
At first glance, she appears as if she’s any other woman going about her day-to-day routine. The only reason she’s attracting my attention, and that of those surrounding her, is the yellow sundress she's wearing. Although the mid-morning sun has a nice amount of warmth to it, the breeze blowing up the hem of her dress is as cold as ice. I’m chilly wearing jeans and a thin cashmere sweater, so she must be freezing.
Ignoring the nerves fluttering in my stomach, I drift my eyes over the people milling around the bus stop, seeking the agents Alex assigned to Megan’s case Thursday morning. My first guess would be the lady sitting at the café across the street with a newspaper in her hand. She appears to be reading the paper, but her eyes aren’t shifting in a left to right pattern. Uncle Tobias said that error is usually the first thing a target spots when they’re under surveillance.
“Even if your gaze never leaves your target, you must shift your eyes accordingly,” he used to preach.
God, I miss him.
Once I’m standing shoulder to shoulder with Megan, I glance down at the paper she's grasping in her delicate, yet strong hand. Because her clutch is so firm, I can’t see what’s printed on the document, but a logo of an interstate bus company is visible in the top right-hand corner.
