The fear of losing everything you know is debilitating. I’m still struggling to pull myself out of the rubble.
After encouraging eye contact, I say, “My objectives are the same. I promise you, they are.”
Her smile is authentic but weak. I’ll take it, though. I’d pick her smile over her tears any day.
After dipping her chin, which threatens to free a handful more tears from her soaked eyes, she logs into the photos app on her phone, peruses an image, and then screws up her nose.
“It must have been one of those fading freckles I’ve never had the privilege of owning.” She shows me an image on her phone. “See, no mole.”
When I remove her phone from her hand, wanting to zoom in on the area I’m referencing, Macy excuses herself to the bathroom.
Everything about Cameron is precisely as I remember. Her eyes, her lips, and her high cheekbones are there, but her mole is gone, erased from her face like she wishes she could erase me from her life, and her hair is as molten as Macy’s.
Needing to ensure I’m not mistaking the features of the only two women who have truly fascinated me, I enter the living room to gather Cameron’s file. Printouts of her missing person flyers are in there. They show her profile in precise detail—including the mole under her left eye. It is proof I haven’t mistaken the tiny freckle high on Macy’s left cheek as one of Cameron’s features.
Why would the syndicate responsible for Cameron’s disappearance remove a detail like that? Moles aren’t like birthmarks. They’re not hereditary. Organizations like this prefer their merchandise to be perfect, but just like Macy’s freckles add to her appeal, Cameron’s mole also increased hers.
It makes me wonder if it was a deliberate act to hide her identity, which is usually reserved for people hiding in plain sight, not deep in the trenches of the trafficking conglomerate.
Confused, I dump Cameron’s file onto the coffee table before slouching low. I’m exhausted, but I don’t see rest coming anytime soon. More questions plague me now than the night Cameron was abducted.
My brows furrow when a quick scan of the room has my eyes locking in on a black dot on the wooden base of a side table lamp.I forgot about the micro-recording devices I installed to snag Thompson. That little camera has been recording and uploading footage to the bureau’s servers for days. I positioned it where I did because it has a bird’s-eye view of the apartment. It can see everything, and I mean everything—including Macy through the partially cracked-open bathroom door, haphazardly removing the tape I placed on her stomach earlier.
Fuck.
Not wanting to stomp on Macy’s privacy more than I already have, I peel off the micro camera, careful not to leave any marks on the lamp’s wooden frame. The sticky residue holding it in place stubbornly clings to my fingers. It feels gross against my calloused skin, so I can only imagine how frustrating it is for Macy to have layers of it coating the silky-smooth skin on her stomach.
After dumping the now-disconnected surveillance device in a pile of many, I grab a bottle of tea tree oil and some cotton swabs from above the refrigerator, then head to the bathroom.
“Need some help?” I push the door open a smidge more before jingling the tea tree oil.
Macy grimaces while picking at a stubborn strip of medical tape. Her frustration vanishes when she realizes what I am holding. “Yes, please. Anyone would swear you placed the tape on with superglue.”
When I join her in the bathroom, she attempts to remove the tea tree oil from my hand. Ipffther. I put her in this situation, so I’m responsible for getting her out of it. Right?
My morals are on board, but my heart doesn’t know what the fuck is going on. It is a swirling mess of confusion.
After kicking down the toilet lid, I sit before gently tugging Macy to my half of the bathroom. Her shirt is already bunched under her boobs, so I notch down the waistband of her pants until they sit as low as the tiny bow on her cotton panties.
She watches me under lowered lashes when I drench the cloth with the tea tree oil before I apply it to the residue left behind from the tape she already removed.
The scent of the oil is sharp and clean, almost medicinal. It reminds me of childhood scrapes and my mother’s gentle hands when she fixed my boo-boos.
This is nothing like that.
I shouldn’t be surprised. This is happening with Macy, and everything feels different with her.
Even my response to Cameron pretending she doesn’t know who I am.
I should be angrier, more hurt. But for some strange reason, I’m relieved. Not a lot, but definitely enough to take notice. I’ve carried the burden of Cameron’s disappearance for many years. I didn’t realize how freeing it would be to lose some of that weight.
After removing the leftover glue, I shift my focus to the tape still hugging Macy’s stomach. I press the cloth to the edge before slowly coercing it away from her skin, mindful not to tug.
Air whistles between Macy’s teeth when my thumb brushes under the adhesive. “Sorry. I’m not meaning to hurt you. It’s just a stubborn fuck.Like someone else I know.”
When she sucks in a sharp breath, I glance up. The gleam in her eyes tells me she knows who I was referencing. It wasn’t Cameron. It is the stubbornly beautiful woman who can make me as furious as easily as she can calm me.
“You okay?”
