Page 22 of Bad Situation

I open my eyes when she pauses before I hear her sigh a heavy breath. No doubt from the weight of the world she’s carrying. But when I signed on with the Bureau, I didn’t have people to worry about—no responsibilities. Now I’m at the FBI’s mercy. Before I went undercover, life was normal. I came out and it was turned upside-down and twisted in a million directions.

Sarah’s tone turns pained and it cuts through me. “He asked for you the other day.”

I run my hand down my face. “Fuck.”

“Yeah, fuck,” she mocks.

I ignore that. “You get my check?”

“Yes.” She’s not impressed, but it’s all I could do after I moved into my new-old crappily-furnished apartment in midtown so I’d be close to the office. “Just do me a favor and book a damned flight. I don’t give a shit about what you want anymore. He needs to see you.”

I shake my head but concede. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Yeah. Do that,” she spits before hanging up on me.

I grip the phone before throwing the damn thing onto the passenger seat. All morning I’ve been poring over files for the new caseload they threw at me when Sarah blew up my phone. She wasn’t going to take no for an answer, so I finally got my ass up and left for an early lunch to call her back. I was not spilling my shit at the office for everyone to hear.

It went just like I knew it would. Same conversation, different day. More of her shit—guilt laid on so thick I could chisel at it for a week without making a dent.

I start the government car I was issued the day I reported to Dallas and am about to head for the nearest drive-thru when the prepaid cell beeps with a text.

Jen: Thank you.

The text is only two words, but those two words are substantial. One, she finally initiated communication, and two, this might mean she found her alibi.

Happy to put all thoughts of Sarah and the rest of my shit life out of my mind, I text her back.

Me: Things are good?

I throw my car into park and wait until her next message appears.

Jen: Yes, I think so. On my way to the office now to find out more. In the meantime, I’m trying to figure you out, Eli.

Me: There’s nothing to figure out.

Jen: I don’t know about that. Did your parents name you after the boldest of God’s prophets?

I groan. The damn media—they had a field day with that quote from the old man. This is why I’ll be stuck staring at financial files for the rest of my career. I decide to ignore her comment.

Me: I warned you your devices are being tapped.

Jen: I’m not stupid, oh mighty one. I stopped by the library. You’re famous.

Me: You’re one to talk. I’ve never been featured in People magazine.

Jen: Shit. You have done your research.

Me: I’m an investigator. What did you expect?

Jen: The only good thing about that People article is that I was wearing my favorite shoes.

Me: I appreciated the whole package, but now I’m going to take another look at the shoes.

I get nothing back, so I wait.

Just when I was about to hit her back, I get another message.

Jen: I’ve got to get into the office. Thanks again, Elijah, the boldest of the prophets.

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