Part 47 (1/2)

”Take a seat,” Greer instructs me, and I move to sit down.

”This is Agent Emery,” he informs me and I nod at the man across the table, noting that he doesn't do the same to me. ”And I believe you already know Agent Birdwood. She's been catching Emery up on the case before we begin discussing the new developments.”

”And what new developments are those?” I ask, folding my arms on the matte black surface of the table and leaning forward.

Greer's eyes meet mine as he lifts the small remote from the table and points it over his shoulder, powering up the monitor that is affixed to the grey concrete wall behind him. On it, the feed to one of the holding cells is delivered. It shows a man cuffed to the table, sitting stoically with his hands clasped in front of him. The camera points down on the room, so all you can see is a ma.s.s of hair and the filth on his skin in the grainy image.

”A person of interest has been apprehended.” Greer turns and picks up a manila folder with the typical confidential markings on it before turning back to us. ”And despite Emery and Birdwood's persuasive techniques, he's been unwilling to speak to anyone, unless he speaks to you first.” His eyes land on me as he flicks the file onto the table. It lands with a slap and slides towards me as I clap my hand over it to stop its motion.

”To me?” I ask. ”Why?” I look around the room and get no answer from the impa.s.sive faces of my colleagues. So I drop my eyes and open the folder in front of me, the name of the man being held, jumping out at me before I see anything else. ”No.” I slap the folder closed and shake my head. ”No, that's not...” I glance at the monitor, still shaking my head. ”No.”

Greer leans on the table and levels me with his gaze. ”I don't need to tell you how important it is that we gain some sort of information from that man. Now what I want you to do is put aside any sort of personal s.h.i.+t you may have, and get in there and do your job.”

Glancing again at the monitor, I swallow hard then nod and follow when Greer indicates that I need to. He takes me down a set of stairs to where I know the holding rooms are. Suddenly, he stops, halting outside one of the cell doors. They aren't your typical cells for holding prisoners. These are the kind of cells that while they have cameras, they don't have any rules.

He narrows his eyes at me, and I can see thoughts warring across his face. From what I hear by way of reputation, Greer is a man of very few words, in his mid-fifties, he's worked tirelessly for our country by using his keen instinct and precise actions to get where he is today. When he talks. Everyone acts. Because if he talks, it's important, he doesn't do chitchat.

”I had to call you in here, Samuels. It's against my better judgement to have someone so close to this working here. But I don't think we have much of a choice. Now, I want you to get in there, and get as much information as you can. Find out what he wants and get him to talk. I'm giving you one hour with him, and then you're out.”

I open my mouth to question him, but he doesn't give me time to speak, he just opens the door and places his large hand on the centre of my back and pushes me through.

I stumble forward, frowning slightly as I look back at the closing door that leads into a small viewing room. The lighting is practically non-existent in here. There is a dim globe that hangs above a small alcove where normally there are other agents watching and listening in. However, this time, there's no one.

The strangeness of the situation makes my already unsettled stomach tighten. Something feels very wrong here.

I glance into the interrogation room and see him, still handcuffed to the table, his head bowed and his long, dark wavy hair, hangs in a mess around his bearded face. It continues down past his shoulders in a matted tangle of blood and grime. It appears he's already been worked over, and I remember the awful look on Emery's face while we were in the meeting room, and an involuntary shudder runs through me.

Moving closer to the one-way window, I study him more intently, if it wasn't for that tug of familiarity in his movement, I wouldn't believe it. But the way he clasps his fingers together, and the set of his shoulders as he hunches forward, tired. I know him.

I know him. As sure as my heart is beating in my chest, I know this man. I lift my shaking hand and place it on the gla.s.s, staring at him in disbelief. And as if sensing my presence, he looks up, and somehow, he meets my eyes.

It's in that moment that I know for sure. I know what my heart knew all those years ago but no one believed. My body can feel himit had reacted to him before I'd even entered the room. But it's his eyes that make me certain. Not their colour because there's nothing unusual about them at all. It's the way he looks at me, like he can see right through me. Even though he can't see me at all...

I rush to the door, throwing it open to make sure I'm not dreaming. And as I stand there, my breathing heavy like I just ran a mile, he looks over at me and smiles. And that's when there's no doubt in my mind.

Drake has returned.

”Did you feed the fish?” he asks, the first words I've heard from him in four long years. Four years in which I believed he was dead. Four years in which I mourned his loss.

A sob escapes my throat as I cover my mouth and nod, tears pooling at the corners of my eyes as I make my way over to him, placing my hands on either side of his face. ”Yes. I fed your b.l.o.o.d.y fish,” I whisper.

”I've missed you, Trix,” he says, using my old nickname, given to me not long after I joined the Federal Police, because I always had 'tricks' up my sleeve.

”I thought you were dead,” I whisper, my fingers stroking his beard, touching his hair, his face, making sure that he's real.

”I almost was.”

”Where have you been?”

”To h.e.l.l,” he murmurs.

”And back again,” I finish for him but he shakes his head.

”No. I'm still there.”

I release his face, nodding my head in understanding as I lean against the heavy metal table, taking a deep breath as I let my mind catch up with my emotions. Then, I turn to Drake and raise my hand, slapping his face hard, the loud clap of my hand against his cheek, echoing through the holding room.

”That's for leaving,” I say, forcing my words out through my thickened throat. I'm refusing to cry. I'm done with crying over Drake. For four years, I've thought he was dead. I've mourned his loss. I fought for his memory. I began to believe what they said, becoming angry at him for going rogue and for turning into the very thing we were fighting against. But in the end, I was hurt, hurt that I wasn't enough for him to want to come back to. I'd thought we were each other's everything, but I was wrong. He left me. And the pain is even worse now that I find out he's not dead.

I raise my hand and slap him again, his eyes closing as he takes my blow without protest. ”And that's for not coming back.”

Pus.h.i.+ng through my thighs, I stand up from the table and walk around to the other side, knowing I'm being watched but not giving a s.h.i.+t. This man was my husband. My love. If I can't come in here and react to his return with a little emotion, then they can go and f.u.c.k themselves. They need me, and this is going my way.

Pacing up and down the room I try to decide what I want to ask him first, or whether I even want to talk to him at all.

Finally, I stop and place my hands on my hips, as I face him. ”Why now, Drake? Why are you back? I was finally getting my life together. I was finally getting on without you. Why are you here?” I demand.

”I was captured,” he replies, and I begin pacing again, shaking my head at what I know is a lie.

”Don't give me that s.h.i.+t, Drake. There is no way in h.e.l.l that you were captured. Don't forget that I know you. I know what you're capable of. There are very few people who can best you in this world, and I know that no one in law enforcement is going to bring you in unless you want to be caught. So I'll ask againwhy now? Why are you here?”

He smiles, glancing down at his interlaced fingers before he answers. ”You haven't changed a bit.”

”I've changed more than you know. Grief changes people, Drake. Especially unnecessary grief.” I stop in front of him and fold my arms across my chest and just glare, focusing everything I have on the hurt inside me to keep control. But I'm hanging on by a thread.

”I almost forgot how beautiful you look when you're angry. How your cheeks get all heated and your eyes s.h.i.+ne,” he muses, giving me his most enigmatic smile, and much to my dismay, my heart does one of those acrobatic flips that they only seem to do around that one particular personyour soul mate.

For a moment, I lose a grip on my mind, and it's flooded of images of Drake and I together; of the love we shared. I had been so sure that Drake and I belonged together, everything between us had been perfect. I mean, we fought, but we made up, and oh could he make it up to me...

Closing my eyes, I force my mind to focus, holding on to that feeling that sits heavy in my stomach and tells me I wasn't enough for him. He obviously didn't want me. He didn't come back. He left me. Mentally, I grab hold of that emotion and open my eyes before speaking again.

”You still haven't answered my questions. Why are you here?”

”I'm here to work with you.”

It's my turn to laugh. ”To work with me? That's interesting. What makes you so sure I would 'work' with you again?”

”Work is probably the wrong word. Consider it 'help'. I have information. Information you couldn't possibly get access to yourself. And I'm willing to share it with you, and only you. This could make your career, Trix.”

”I really don't give a f.u.c.k about my career, Drake. It was ruined the moment my husband became a wanted man. There isn't a s.h.i.+tload of trust between agents when that happens. You should have seen how fast they approved my request to be moved to an internal job.”

”I'm sure my disappearance caused you a lot of strain. But things are changing, and it's time to make this right.”

”Make it right,” I repeat, my voice laced with disbelief as I place my hands on the edge of the stainless steel table that he's chained to and lean slightly forward. ”Fine. Talk. Tell me this wealth of information you have, so I can go home to my boyfriend and be done with the ghosts of my past.”