Page 92 of The Love You Fight For
When I glance at her, she’s staring at me intently.
“You want me to steal it?”
She nods. “And replace it with a fake. If you’re up to it, we’ll get the fake to you when you return to D.C.”
I’m agreeing before she even finishes her sentence.
“I’ll do it,” I say quickly.
She nods but doesn’t say anything. She watches me. My heart starts to beat faster with nervous energy. I can’t read her fucking face. I’m great with masks, but she’s a master.
“What else?” I say finally.
She reaches into her bag and pulls out a folder.
She slides the folder in front of me, and I stare at it. I don’t touch it.
“Is this about Rebecca Casper?” I ask, and she shakes her head.
“No, but it regards the Casper family.”
I can barely hear anything over the rush of blood in my ears. My heart is beating so fast that I fear I might pass out, and I can’t tear my eyes off the folder.
“You don’t have to open it,” she says. “It gave us good information, though. Alerted us to another offshore account we weren’t aware of. It’s another solid piece of evidence. It was good work, Ms. Harper.”
My vision starts to go double, and I blink to refocus my eyes.
I swallow, trying desperately to wet my parched throat.
Another offshore account we weren’t aware of.
I should just be glad we found it. It should make me feel better, but it doesn’t. I can’t see it as more evidence against him. Instead, it’s just another taunting thing that proves there is likely so much more I haven’t uncovered. So many more moves of which I’m unaware. So much I’m missing. Between the months I spent with Lennon in Paris and the four years I was in college, there is so much uncharted ground. There is so much I haven’t done—so much I could have done but failed.
I tell myself this is Agent Sexton’s job now. I tell myself that I don’t have to do it all. It’s not just my responsibility any longer.
But I’m lying to myself, and I know it.
I nod.
Then I reach for the folder.
TWENTY-THREE
“Eight ball, corner pocket.”
Macon lines up his shot, takes it, and sinks it. He drops the pool cue to the table and stands, folding his arms across his chest.
“It’s not even fun anymore.” He shakes his head. “You’re like playing with a zombie.”
I rack the balls while he stares at me.
“I haven’t beaten you at pool since we were sixteen, Casper. This is the third game you’ve lost in an hour.”
I shrug. It’s 4 p.m. on a Wednesday, so there’s barely anyone at The Outpost, and Macon and I have been shooting pool since before Paul pulled the chain on the open sign. I don’t usually work Wednesdays at the bar, but I don’t work tomorrow morning at the garage. It’s a weird mid-week period of time off that I wasn’t expecting, and now I’m resenting it.
I have too much time to think.
“Maybe you’re getting better,” I suggest, and he lets out a loud laugh.
