“I can see how much this is bothering you, Cassidy. So my advice—as both a friend and a therapist—would be to confront him. Calmly. Hear him out. Be patient and don’t judge. Secrets like this are only going to grow until they come between you.”
I swallow hard, knowing that she’s right. But there’s another possibility, one I’m even more afraid of. Because sometimes secrets are glue and it’s the truth that tears you apart.
CHAPTER 14
The sky outside my car is dark and ominous. The gathering clouds have a heavy look, like they’re full of damaging secrets they’re waiting to spill. Pressure builds as the developing downpour fails to unleash its fury.
But the storm I fear has nothing to do with the weather.
I have to do something. I can’t just sit around, hoping, waiting, driving myself crazy. The stakes are too high. I have to take action.
It’s just too bad that the only place I can think of to go for answers is one of the last I should visit, because I’m going anyway, ignoring the common sense that tells me I shouldn’t.
There’s no denying that the decision has made me tense, my hands tightening on the steering wheel until my muscles ache. My heart hammers erratically. My breath is quick and shallow. And when my cell phone trills as I receive an incoming call, I jump in my seat.
“Hello?”
“Hi, I got your message. Is everything all right?”
Though my boss’s voice usually has the ability to soothe my frayed nerves, this time it doesn’t. If anything, it makes them worse. I want to yell. To cry. To scream. Instead, my voice is eerily low and even.
“I don’t think so. No.”
“Tell me everything.”
How many times have I done exactly that? Offloaded on Marla? And though all the words I long to say are right there, on the tip of my tongue, I bite them back. Swallow them down.
I can’t confess the problems I feel brewing between me and Jake. Though I want her comfort and reassurance, that’s not the most pressing need I’m faced with right now. Because the first step toward fixing whatever’s wrong is to take back my life, and I’m not sure I can do that alone. At least, not without some information first.
“I need a favor.”
“Okay. I’ll see what I can do. What is it?”
“They identified the sniper who shot at me. His name was Don Farris.”
“That’s great news. Isn’t it?”
I make a noncommittal noise. “According to Agent Gellar, they can’t make any direct connection between him and Tony Bianchi.”
“Even if one exists, it might not be possible to confirm, Cassidy.”
“I understand. And I realize that the intel they do have establishing ties between him and Bianchi’s peers in the drug trade is almost the same thing.”
“But?”
“I need more. Exact names. Instances. Known accomplices. The type of beer he drinks. His mother’sshoe size.”
“So, all the things.”
“Allof them,” I emphasize. “Most of all, I want to know how this guy found his jobs. If there’s some kind of middleman, or handler, or a job board where lowlifes advertise that they’re looking for hitmen. If Bianchi didn’t hire him directly, I need to figure out who he has on the outside doing his dirty work for him.”
Director Jacobson clears her throat. “What do you plan on doing with this information once you have it?”
Silence stretches between us as I struggle for an answer. Finally, I admit, “I don’t know. I’m not sure yet. Maybe nothing.”
“Or maybe—?” she prods.
“Maybe I’ll discover something that will help me keep Bianchi from trying to come at me again.”
