Page 129 of Enigma: The Complete Collection
When I drop down to my knees to wrestle with my suitcase, my memories drift to the last time I’d done the same thing. Even though it took us weeks to sort our shit out, I still class that morning as the beginning of my relationship with Isaac. The instant he stepped into my apartment, I no longer had the strength to fight a battle stronger than I could have ever imagined. My body craved him more than its next breath—it still does. If Harlow and Cormack weren’t in the room with us that day, I would have shamelessly crawled to him on my knees and begged for him to claim me as his.
My heart leaps into my throat when a loud tap sounds at my front door. I know it isn’t Brandon—he texted earlier saying he’ll collect me at ten tomorrow morning. My heart is praying it's Isaac, but it will most likely be Hugo since security didn’t call to say I have a visitor.
After zipping up from the floor, I pace to the door, cringing when I catch my reflection in the entryway mirror. In an attempt to improve my gloomy mood, I spent my morning binge eating. When it made me feel worse, I went on an afternoon run, doing anything I could to lessen the chocolate bars making their way onto my already curvy backside. I only just returned, so I’m still wearing black running shorts, a hot pink crop-top bra, and a thin mesh shirt. My shirt is so drenched with sweat, my crop-top is visible underneath, my once-high ponytail hangs loosely halfway down my back, and my face is devoid of makeup. I would get changed if my caller wasn’t knocking like they’re the police.
I realize how accurate my statement is when I swing open my door. Theresa and her still-unnamed male partner are standing on the other side. I thought the disdain crossing Theresa’s face would be the only skin-crawling moment I’d handle today. It isn’t. Her partner’s vomit-provoking assessment of my body lasts for several uncomfortable heart-thrashing seconds, only stopping once he reaches my sweat-soaked socks. From the way his tongue is hanging out of his mouth, anyone would swear I was standing before him naked.
When the male agent takes his eyes off my chest to follow Theresa into my apartment, I block their entrance. “I'm not talking to you without a lawyer present.”
My abrupt closure of the door wavers when, “Only people with something to hide need a lawyer,” sounds through the wood.
I said that exact statement to Isaac only a few months ago, and it would be hypercritical for me to pretend I didn’t. I’ve been called many names the past week. I don’t want another added to the list.
Against my better judgment, I swing my door back open. “I don’t have anything to hide.NothingI have done since I left the academy has been illegal.”
“Then you'll have no problems talking to us.”
Without seeking permission, Theresa enters my apartment. Her strides are efficient and confident as stuck-up as the expensive-smelling perfume she’s wearing. The unnamed male agent shadows her the best he can without taking his eyes off my boobs. He must be several years older than Theresa as 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 mid-to-late fifties. They’re an odd partnership, but I’m confident Theresa always plays the bad cop during their interrogations. Excluding the occasional snicker, I’ve barely heard a peep come out of the male agent’s mouth, proving that Theresa is the alpha in their duo.
After bouncing her eyes between the moving boxes scattered around my apartment, Theresa spins around to face me. She’d be a lot prettier if she mixed up the grim expression she frequently wears. She carries herself well, but her lips are always set in a thin line, and she’s forever frowning—even when she's smirking.
“Trouble in paradise?”
I cross my arms in front of my chest before glaring at her. Her insensitive question doesn’t warrant a reply, so I remain quiet, silently brooding instead of nibbling at the bait she’s leaving out.
A triumphant grin tugs my lips high when Theresa’s gaze turns away first. As she paces deeper into my living room, I study her more adeptly. She carries herself with stature. It’s a stance I’ve witnessed many times before, generally when friends of my Uncle Tobias would visit. Just from her composure, I highly doubt she started her career in IA. It might not have even been at the Bureau. Her poise and the way she moves points more to her being a police officer or perhaps even a detective.
My heart squeezes when she picks up a photo of my Uncle Tobias and me from my mantel. It’s a photo Tobias’sDedushkatook the day I arrived in Tiburon. It was the same day my auction was held. My eyes are open in fright, and my expression is puzzled. I was only six years old, so I was incapable of comprehending what had happened that day, but most of my fright was because I had just undertaken my first flight. My fear of flying wasn’t something I developed as an adult. I was born with it embedded deep into my veins.
“Is this the man who raised you?” For the first time ever, Theresa’s tone sounds neutral.
After swallowing the rock lodged in my throat, I nod. “That’s my Uncle Tobias.”
My high pitch relays my fondness for my uncle. If he 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 Vladimir’s criminal activities from me when I was younger, but once I joined the Bureau, every sordid aspect of his empire was unearthed in pain-staking detail.
Vladimir Popov and Col Petretti’s names were regularly exploited during my training at the academy. Col is no doubt an evil man, but Vladimir is a true monster. Drugs, guns, kidnapping, prostitution, his family business dabbles in it all. He's so ruthless, he doesn’t care if you're related to him. Unless you're making him a profit, you're worthless to him.
“Isabelle?” Theresa paces to stand in front of me, eyeing me curiously. I must have zoned out thinking back on my memories.
I shake my head to clear my thoughts. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
She pompously smirks. “I asked, what’s your knowledge of Col Petretti?”
“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 on the weekend Isaac and I went away, and he threatened me, I have no further knowledge of him.
“Why are you asking?”
The back of my neck beads with sweat when Theresa hands me a photo from her leather handbag. It shows Col Petretti’s righthand man lying in a hospital bed. His body is severely injured. One of his legs is hoisted in a sling, and his face is covered in bruises of different colors and shapes.
Not trusting Theresa to give me an honest answer, I stray my eyes to the male agent, who is wandering aimlessly through the boxes stacked at the side of my living room. “When was this photo taken?”
Theresa steps in front of me, blocking him from my view. “The weekend you and Isaac stayed at the McGregor residence.”
Bile rises from my stomach to my throat. Isaac did threaten Col’s right-hand man. He was pissed he displayed that he was carrying a weapon during Isaac’s confrontation with Col. Isaac’s file reveals he was a skilled fighter years ago, but I didn’t realize he could still inflict so much damage to another person.
“How were his injuries obtained?”
