My degrees were still on the wall. My ancient computer was right where it always was. The photos I kept on the shelf behind my desk were exactly how they had been. Upon first glance, it was like the horrors of the summer had never happened.
The only thing out of place was the poker chip on my desk.
One that sported the logo of the Four Horsemen.
39
JUDAH
Monday, August 25 | 1:02 p.m.
My eyes burned from staring at endless UC reports. The blue light from the screen I had been looking at for the better part of four hours didn’t help. I glanced at the clock and wondered if Amelia had made it home from her first day of class yet.
Thankfully, Amelia’s Monday morning in-person class started before I had to report for another day of mind-numbing punishment disguised as work. I had waited with bated breath for the text from Cole, confirming that she made it into the building without a problem.
That chip on her desk still ate at me.
I logged it the way I would have logged evidence when I was undercover—timestamped photos of it undisturbed with a written report that I hadn’t turned in.
I’d be bitched out for not reporting something like that, but I wasn’t supposed to be near the Valentine case.
Since John Valentine was in federal custody, awaiting trial,Ameliawas the Valentine case.
I had checked the chip for prints the best I could without a fingerprinting kit on hand, but I came up empty. Not that I was surprised.
This was no ordinary game. We weren’t playing games of luck anymore. This was high-stakes strategy.
That poker chip was a message. A very clear message.
I’m one step ahead. I can get to her before you can.
Game on.
To my surprise, Amelia agreed to me following her back to her apartment and doing a sweep to make sure it was clear before she locked herself back inside.
I knew it was self-preservation, but I wanted it to be more. I wanted her to trust me again. I wanted her to open up to me, even if it was in anger.
. . . I wanted her to fucking text me.
I glanced at my phone as I tried to force a message from her to appear with nothing but pure desperation.
Before I’d left Amelia’s apartment yesterday, I scribbled down my number—myrealnumber—and left it on her fridge.
She didn’t immediately throw it away, but she also hadn’t given me her number. Not that I couldn’t get it if I wanted to, but I didn’t want to pull it from a database. I wanted her towantto give it to me.
I dragged my attention back to the screen and pulled up the next batch of reports I was supposed to archive.
I logged the case number, then froze.
I had memorized that number long ago.
These weremyUC reports from when I was undercover with Valentine. Why the hell were they on the docket to be archived? They should have been active. I checked the access log to seewho they had been shared with. My handlers, my chain of command, and?—
They hadn’t even been shared with the prosecuting attorney’s office.
How the hell were they taking John Valentine to trial without the reports? That’s what should have been used to get the warrant for his arrest and the warrants to search his properties and businesses. The prosecutionhadto have the reports. If they didn’t, any casual watcher of courtroom TV could make the case that the search and seizure was unlawful and get the case thrown out.
I dug further into the arrest reports that had been tacked onto the end of years and years of documentation that I had submitted.
