Shot in the Dark (Blackbridge Security 2)

He presses his lips to mine in a chaste kiss right there in front of his grandmother and every one of his friends. The doubts threatening disappear altogether, and as I watch his grandmother stare up at that man as if he hung the moon, I finally convince myself that Wren Nelson is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

My bliss ends the second I get a notification ping on my phone. I wouldn’t normally have my cell in the pocket of my fabulous dress at such an event, but my online research was drawing close to a resolution before I left my apartment earlier. My need to keep the money Jones paid me for this job forced me to keep it close to me.

I frown, looking down at my phone and swiping through several programs to reveal what the notification entailed.

“Excuse me,” I tell Brooks, Wren’s friend that’s sitting beside me trying to schmooze his way into one of the bridesmaid’s bed for the night.

He nods in my direction as I make a beeline for the lobby of the swanky hotel that is hosting the party.

The information revealed on my phone makes my blood run cold.

I hail a cab and climb inside without so much as a consideration of telling Wren where I’ve gone. If the information is correct, and I’ll verify that once I get back to my apartment, I’m going to have to say more than goodbye for the night.

Cold sweat begins to run down my back as the taxi approaches my building. I pay and climb out, thanking my luck when the elevator pings the second I press the call button.

My fingers thrum against my thighs as I make the climb to the ninth floor. Simon greets me at the door, but I can’t focus on him right now.

I don’t even bother sitting in my desk chair as I wake my computer and pull up the information that was limited on my phone.

“Jesus,” I hiss as my eyes scan the details.

I was hired by Stephen Jones to get dirt on William Theold, under the auspices that the latter was engaging in illegal activities, hence the reason I was hired outside of the FBI. His story made sense. If there aren’t spies and evildoers infiltrating the FBI, then I’m a sixty-year-old man with mommy issues and a penchant for anime porn.

Stephen “Dirtbag” Jones wanted information alright, but he failed to mention that when Theold was spending time with his wife in San Diego, he was keeping Amanda’s bed warm in Boston. My mouth is hanging open, the threat of catching flies a real possibility as I continued to read.

What started out as the making of a Jerry Springer episode quickly turns into the first Godfather movie.

William Theold is a giant douchebag, but Stephen Jones is the criminal. The evidence continues to pile up. Who keeps such immaculate track of wrongdoings, especially while working for the FBI? Emails pop up with threats and warnings hinting at the pain and violence Jones is capable of.

I screech like I’m being attacked when my phone rings in my pocket. Thinking it’s Wren, I pull it free, catching the caller ID a split second before answering.

MR. JONES lights up the screen, and as the device clatters to the floor at my feet I know it isn’t a coincidence that he’s calling me right now. I haven’t spoken to the man in weeks. The tireless work my computer has been putting in to uncover this mess is substantial. I’ve never had to keep so many programs running and filtering for a job before in my life.

He’s calling because he knows, and as deep down as I had to dig, I have no doubt Mr. Jones may have been watching me just as hard as I’ve been watching William Theold looking for an ounce of criminality.

My fingers fly over my keyboard, the system whining as I order it to practically self-destruct. It won’t blow up or anything, but by the time I scurry around my apartment, collecting necessities, it’s practically useless for anything other than a paperweight.

I just wiped years of work, years of research, and years of my life as if it never existed. Even though I knew that one day this was a possibility, that at some point I’d have to take off and start over, I never thought it would truly happen.

Tears roll down my cheeks as I shoulder the strap of my gym bag and unceremoniously shove my agitated cat in another.

Simon is growling like he’ll scratch my face off the first chance he gets as I throw my apartment door open. Not willing to wait for the elevator, I hit the stairs.

A second before the heavy door to the stairwell closes, I hear the ping of the elevator. I run down the stairs as if the hounds of hell are nipping at my heels.