Turner and Cade are running early, and I need to be on call.
“What don’t you like about her?” Molly is blatantly ignoring me, and I realize she’s doing theexactsame thing I do to her. I can’t even be mad at her for that. “Is it because she failed my essay? Is it because she’s young and pretty and you’re attracted to her?”
“No.” I swallow hard, the latter reminding me of the way Dr. Williams squirmed under my gaze. “I have work to do, Molly.” I force a sigh. “This isn’t for any other reason. Stop harassing me over your professor.”
“Ha, okay.” She lets out a sharp exhale, her eyes drifting to the window as she shakes her head. “I just don’t understand why your work is so…weird.”
“I run a farm. There’s always shit to do at weird times,” I say quietly, internally abhorring myself for lying to my daughter. Iwantto tell her the truth.
But I can’t. I can’t drag her into this world. I don’t want to scare her, either.
“Yeah, okay.” Her arms drop to her sides, and then she retreats from my office. “I’m going to Mom’s. Have a good freaking night.” Her voice is distant.
“Love you, Molly.”
“Love ya!” Her tone is sharp and distant, and I wince as she slams the front door behind herself. I let out a heavy breath and close my eyes, grounding myself for a moment.
Back to work.
I lift my phone from my side and see Turner’s number. I tap to redial and then place it to my ear, walking to the office door and closing it. No one else is here, but still, it’s a habit that I stick to. I listen to it ring a few times, and then hit voicemail.
Damnit. I missed the entry.
I wince with that annoyance, and then toss my phone to my desk. I’m going to have to just fucking trust two of the most unstable men around to handle this. I plop down into my desk chair, and flip the client file open again.
Pedophile.I see the picture of the dark-eyed man staring back at me—the one that Cade and Turner are supposed to be handling right now. I don’t know exactly what the guy did, but my client ensured I knew that’s what he was.
And that this needed to be done clean.
The guy has connections everywhere.
“And I missed the phone call to remind them of that,” I mutter to myself, and then flip the manilla folder right back shut. To distract myself, I flip my laptop open and punch in my passcode.
Dr. Williams comes screaming back to mind.
“Fuck,” I shift in the seat, and then pull up the internet browser. I quickly type inDr. Jenna Williamsand wait for it to load.
I stare at the screen, as the results come in—sparser than I expect. My eyes scan the links, and land on an Instagram page.
I click it and squint at the tiny circular profile picture. It’s the same face, but with long, blonde hair, side-parted and falling loose over her shoulders. She’s smiling wide, brighter than I’ve seen her in person, and for a split second, my whole brain shorts out.
I scroll. The account is private.
A ripple of irritation runs through me.Why the fuck am I even looking her up?It’s not like the internet will tell me what her deal is. The compulsion to figure it out—to get ahead of whatever she’s hiding—burns under my skin anyway.
I try another tab, and Google her name with “Texas.” After all, that’s what kind of plates are on her car.
But nothing comes up. No mention of a doctorate anywhere. No social ties, no conference mentions,nothing.
I close the computer, pissed at myself for being distracted by something so fucking trivial. The woman is a mystery with those gray eyes and the unnerved way she looks at me…
But she’s not my problem. She’s clearlyjustan interim professor.
My problem is two ex-military headcases running point on a job that shouldn’t get messy.
I check the wall clock—barely half past seven.
If they were early, they should be wrapped by now. But the quiet is stretching too long. I just need a status update, a photo of the clean-up, anything. Not radio silence.
