You’d need a tank to take down Macy, and even then, you’re not guaranteed a win. That’s why my admiration for her was so high when I gave Cameron the words she needed to walk away for good without guilt. I told her I loved Macy, and even though it was supposed to be a ploy to end our fight, it sounded so honest, even I’m not convinced it isn’t true.
For years, guilt ruled my emotions, but finding Cameron feels like the blinders have come off, and I can finally see clearly.
Macy has been there for me for years. She cares for me and knows me better than anyone does. She understands me. She’s smart and sweet, and describing her beauty with words is impossible.
She’s perfect.
Every single part of her is pure perfection.
Jesus fucking Christ, how could I have been so blind?
Cameron was right. I love her.
I love Macy.
But why does admitting that make me feel like I’m on the verge of losing her forever?
Anxiousness builds for barely a second before I remember that circumstances forced me into this role, but I excel in my field. I can find Macy. I just need to investigate her vanishing as a professional, not a romantic interest.
No blinders this time. Just straight-up honesty.
I call Brandon. His voice is groggy, as if I woke him, but I only get out two words before the urgency of the situation dawns on him. “Macy’s gone.”
“Check for a laptop.” He seems calm, yet I know he’s not. “She might have left open the surveillance portal she established earlier today.”
“Laptop?”
He curses like he hates that he’s about to toss Macy into the deep end without a life jacket. “She went into tonight’s dinner date wired. She’s untrusting of Cameron’s motives, and while I’m being honest, I’ll admit that I am too. Something is off with her.”
I nod in agreement before I search Macy’s bureau-assigned car like I’m seeking a brick of cocaine. Now is not the time to discuss the many secrets I too see in Cameron’s eyes. My priority is Macy. Her safety isallthat matters.
I locate a laptop under the passenger seat. Fumbling, I flip it open and enter the four-digit passcode we always use during joint stings.
Brandon hacks in two seconds later and pulls up the security feed logs.
“Skip to surveillance outside the building. Her phone was in the middle console, so I know she made it back to her vehicle.”
In silence, and with the footage in fast-forward mode, only seconds later, we shadow Macy’s slow hobble to her car. She slots into the passenger seat in a matter of seconds, seemingly safe.
“There. Look.” I highlight the screen as if Brandon can see me. “A lady is approaching in the background.” She weaves between cars mostly unnoticed, alerting us to the fact that she couldn’t be taller than five feet. Her hair is silver and her body is frail, but something about her makes my skin crawl.
Brandon slows the footage back to normal speed when the lady taps on Macy’s window, scaring her.
“What did she ask her?”
Brandon groans in frustration. “She was too quiet for the mics to pick up.”
“Zoom in on the back window. If I can see her lips, I’ll know what she said.”
When Brandon does as asked, I interpret the elderly lady’s request.
She asked Macy to jump-start her car.
“Stay with her,” I demand when Macy agrees to the lady’s request.
They walk five rows back before stopping at a dark hatchback. While Macy untangles jumper cables, the stranger sinks out of view.
I shift my eyes away from the laptop and count five rows back. My eyes land on the sedan Macy approached as a hisswhistles through my cell phone. I rocket my eyes back to the footage so fast that my head spins. I can’t see what made Brandon balk until he replays the footage. Macy got struck across the back of the head with a truck-sized tire wrench. She stands for three heart-thrashing seconds before the color drains from her face and she slowly slumps to the ground.
