When you suffer a loss, you don’t just grieve what you lost. You grieve the life you will never live. I’ve not been in a relationship since Kendall’s disappearance. I have never given a man the chance to steal my focus away from her case for even a second. That’s how three years slipped by between our last visit and our reunion. But I’ve also never considered how fast the clock above my head was ticking until I stared at the jellybean-shaped blob on the ultrasound monitor in Dr. Valdemar’s office.
I hate my selfishness that day months ago, though I doubt I’d change anything if I could go back. This pregnancy, although unexpected, is my only chance at happiness.
Though unprofessional, and I’ll wallow in its pity for hours later, a childish tear topples down my cheek when the honesty of my statement smacks into me. I brush it away, but I’m not fast enough for a skilled marksman like Grayson to miss. He snatches up my wrist before I can assure him I am fine and pulls me into his chest like he did three years ago when I took the murder charge for a man snowed under with the grief I caused.
Maddox would have never killed Agent Moses if I hadn’t made out that the vehicle he was driving caused his only love’s death. He had loved Demi for years, and I should have known better than anyone how painful it would be to set aside that typeof obsession as if it meant nothing. I’d done it for years before my ruse, and I am still doing it now.
I wanted to tell Grayson for months that I’m pregnant, but I chickened out every single time. Over two-dozen unsent emails sit in my drafts folder.
There’s one difference between Maddox and Demi and Grayson and me, though. Demi reciprocated Maddox’s feelings. Grayson never has mine. I shouldn’t be shocked. He’s the beloved golden boy of the FBI and drop-dead gorgeous. He could have anyone he wants. On a scale of one to ten, Grayson is an eleven, and I’m… me.
After giving me time to settle the wetness in my eyes I’m praying like hell Grayson will allow me to blame on hormones, he asks, “How long have we got?”
He says “we” with so much possessiveness that excitement burns away the last of my tears that his shirt didn’t catch. Don’t mistake what I’m saying. My response isn’t personal. I’m still wearing my agent hat. I worked my ass off on this case, and I was terrified the agent brought in to force me into maternity leave would steal it out from under me.
When I inch back and peer up at Grayson with glistening but leak-free eyes, he clarifies, “How long do we have until you can be selfish without feeling guilty?”
My cracked lips part as I fight to bite back a grin. I should have realized he’d understand my guilt better than anyone else. I’m certain he has experienced similar, though I don’t have the foggiest idea how comparable our stories are. I am not important enough to be that privileged.
Grayson raises an eyebrow, impatiently waiting for an answer.
I swallow the nerves bubbling in my stomach. “Six weeks, give or take a week.” My due date is approaching, yet giventhat I skipped all the appointments the receptionist scheduled following my scan, the date may have changed.
“Six weeks?” Grayson whistles as if he’s the father-to-be fretting over an upcoming delivery before he scans the mountains of paperwork in front of us. “Then I guess one of us better order pizza while the other accepts the offer of paid maternity leave that landed in their inbox ten minutes ago.” He hits me with a frisky wink while dumping a crinkled twenty into my palm. “I like my pizza without pineapple.”
I laugh, and for a minute, everything feels right again.
4
GRAYSON
Over the next several hours, Macy and I go over the details of the operation I’m praying like fuck will bring her sister home before she gives birth. I can see the guilt in her eyes and the way she’s wrestling with the desire to live her life even while her sister is missing. It’s a torment I know all too well because for the past seventeen years, I’ve struggled with a similar guilt.
It is a constant battle between wanting to move on and the anguish of not knowing what happened to Cameron. Or worse, what is happening to her.
While gritting my teeth, frustrated that these feelings only ever surface while working with a woman I’m only meant to see as a colleague and friend, or when a significant family event is on the horizon, I return my focus to the paperwork.
I attend every family gathering, offer my congratulations, and embody the role of devoted brother, uncle, and son with perfection. Yet as soon as I return home, guilt swamps me.
They’re the weeks when I live off minimal sleep and gallons of coffee, only resting when my eyes can’t remain open for a second longer.
It is harder to put those logics into play when you can’t escape the circumstances that usually swamp you with guilt. This assignment is close-knit. Our two-person unit lacks an office space at HQ, but instead of dreading the upcoming days like I usually do, hope trickles between the cracks of despair.
Mercifully, the amount of paperwork in front of me saves me from looking more deeply into my odd responses today. It is almost overwhelming. Macy made detailed notes and crafted a well-thought-out plan to move forward with her covert operative, but the urgency of her efforts is too great to ignore.
We’re running out of time—both for Macy and for me. Cameron is nearing the age when they dispose of most victims, and Macy will give birth in just a few weeks.
We can’t give up, though.
Failure is not an option.
As the clock ticks away the hours as if they are seconds, I work through the paperwork spread out around me. The case files have millions of notes, photos, and undocumented evidence, and I am determined to find the needle in the haystack.
“Did the satellite imagery ever document anyone under the age of thirteen? One of the baby-making rings we took down years ago used to let the mothers keep the children they classed as defects.”
I glance up from my notes when Macy remains quiet. She usually responds before all my question leaves my mouth. That is how appreciative she is to have help.
Macy sits behind the kitchen counter, her eyes struggling to stay open. She’s spent the last six hours clarifying queries I made in the first hour of our joint operation, and as much paperwork surrounds her as it does the couch I’m seated on.
