I stared in disbelief.
“But—”
“She was the intended target, Miss Charles. But Miss Britt’s relationship with her boyfriend Preston proved problematic for West. So you were the next best option to retrieve the contract data. Second choice I guess, but it worked.”
I was done being sick. I couldn’t throw up again if I wanted. All I had in my stomach was water.
“Second choice?” I seethed.
I looked at all of the pictures. Beautiful women. Successful women. Some powerful on their own. Some within an arm’s reach of power and wealth.
I glanced at my reflection. And then there was me. The latest woman in the file.
What would the agents say about me? How would I be classified?
“Do we have a deal?” he nudged. “Can the bureau count on you?”
“I need a second to think.” My hands went to my head.
“He’s not your boyfriend, Miss Charles. He never was. He was paid millions of dollars for those contracts. You were a pawn. A target. It was not a relationship.” He closed the folder. “I’ve sat here like this before. With the other women: Sarah, Hannah, Kathryn. And they had the same look on their faces. They did.”
“And what did they decide?” I asked.
“They decided to make the bastard pay, Miss Charles. They wanted him to pay.”
I took a few breaths before standing on my feet. I walked over to the glass window and tapped on it.
“What are you doing?” Agent Kenneth asked.
“I need a pad of paper and a pen.” I knocked again and repeated myself.
I didn’t know what chance I had of getting it. Someone was watching me. Listening to the pain. They owed me.
A few seconds later the agent who had escorted me to the bathroom walked in with a yellow notepad and a ball-point pen. She placed them on the desk and left.
I pulled out the chair and sat.
There had to be a timeline. There had to be a plan. A methodical way he targeted me. I started with a chain of bullet points on the left side.
Agent Kenneth sipped his coffee. He didn’t interrupt while I made my columns. He seemed to accept I had to do this.
I wrote down our first series of dates. Under each one I jotted down the things we discussed: my career, his family, how often my roommate was home. The column continued with how dates turned into routine nights and weekends together. Our vacation at the winery. And then I saw it.
I saw Vaughn in the apartment. Always looking over the threshold of Greer’s bedroom door. I heard his voice in my ear: no roommate tonight? We have the place to ourselves?
And each morning he would ask if she had returned. Should we make more coffee in case she came home.
I scribbled every mention of Greer on the sheet of paper until I had to flip to the second page.
It had been there. Laced in all our conversations. His nonchalant way of drawing her into a conversation. His quick way of immediately pivoting to another topic. Until one day it all collided into a crossroads of perfect timing.
Greer returned to the apartment with everything from her office. Vaughn was on the deck. And we left him. Alone.
I gripped the pen, bearing down onto the paper. I almost scratched through it, I wrote with such force.
Agent Kenneth leaned forward. He must have detected I had discovered something.
It had seemed abrupt that afternoon, but I brushed it off as Vaughn’s usual unexpected work hazard