“Fuck!”
I throw a wad of documents onto my desk before slouching into my chair. I had hoped what I saw earlier today was wrong, but I can no longer deny the facts. Isabelle is an FBI agent.
“How long has she been with the Bureau?”
Maximus, head of security at Attwood Electric, shrugs. “Her stuff is buried so deep, it took our guy over eight hours to find what he did. If you didn’t see her ID in her purse today, we’d still be seeking a needle in a haystack.”
I wiggle my tongue around my mouth, eradicating the cotton wool feeling inside, before asking, “Is she one of the agents on Isaac’s case?”
Maximus remains quiet, preferring to deliver bad news without words. Isaac has been aware of the FBI’s interest in him the past few months, but I doubt he realizes how deep their interests go.
I swallow down the lump in my throat. “How many people know about Izzy’s placement?”
Maximus throws open the document on my desk until it stops on page four. "Only one as far as we can tell. She's a long-serving member of Ravenshoe PD." He points his index finger to a lady with skin as dark as his. "Her name is Regina. She picked Isabelle up from the airport four months ago."
His reply lightens the weight on my chest, but it doesn’t entirely erase it. With how close Harlow and Izzy are, I automatically assumed Harlow was aware of Izzy’s double life. As the hours move on, my assumptions are weakening. The worry in Harlow’s eyes when she glanced up at me in the limo hours ago awarded me my first doubt; Maximus’ reply just hit me with a second dose.
“That was the day Isaac met Isabelle. Do you think their meeting was staged?”
"Perhaps." Maximus flicks over another two pages. "Isabelle's tickets were upgraded by a man named Alex Rogers. Although the funds came from his private account, he's not just a field agent. He’s the man behind the helm of Isaac's investigation."
“Fuck!”
I scrub my hand over my tired eyes, hoping I’ll be excused for my profanities at this late hour. With my private investigation into Isabelle occupying my last eleven hours, I'm beyond exhausted.
“What are you going to do?” Maximus asks.
I throw my hands into the air, utterly clueless. “I guess I should tell Isaac?” The unease in my voice makes what should be a declaration sound like a question.
“Now?” Maximus asks when I stand from my chair and make a beeline for the door.
“Why delay the inevitable?”
“Oh, I don’t know. The fact it's 4 AM is a good start.” The glibness in Maximus’ reply is new. Usually, he's as hard as a rock and straight as a board. Nothing fazes him.
I stop charging down the hall and pivot around to face him. The disapproval on his face shocks me. “Don’t you think Isaac has a right to know he's being played?”
I don't need Maximus’ support, but since he isn’t just a long-term associate of mine, he's also my friend, it would be nice to have it.
Maximus nods in agreement. “Yes, he does.”
His agreement doesn’t match his facial expression. His lips are hard-lined, and a deep wrinkle is carved between his black brows. The reason for his grim expression comes to light when he adds on, “Just like Harlow has the right to know about the nasty side dish you tried to serve her.”
His accusatory tone tightens my jaw. “Serving someone a dirty dish and forcing them to eat it are two entirely different things. What occurred between Harlow and me isn’t close to the shitstorm Izzy could bring down on Isaac.”
“That would depend on whose ears are absorbing the facts. I’m sure if you asked Harlow, she wouldn’t agree.”
“Izzy is an FBI agent weaseling her way into Isaac’s life with ratty, underhanded tricks. I tried to buy a bakery, for fuck’s sake. I didn’t set out to ruin Harlow’s life.” I lower the severity of my tone when I hear the untruth in my reply. “I stopped trying to ruin Harlow’s life when I realized who she was.”
“Exactly,” Maximus agrees, stepping closer to me. “Who’s to say Isabelle won’t do the same thing for Isaac?”
I look at him like he's insane. “Izzy is pursuing Isaac solely to take him down. She has no interest in him whatsoever.”
The daft expression on my face changes to Maximus’. “I don’t know what program you’ve been watching, Cormack, but it's clearly a different channel than the show I’ve been binge watching. I haven’t even seen Isabelle awake, and I still know you’re lying.”
Spotting my confusion, he slaps his hand on my shoulder and squeezes tight. "Who asked his security personnel to tail her since the day she stepped foot in Ravenshoe? Who put up flyers for an apartment in every store within a twenty-mile radius of her work, then denied every applicant that wasn't her just so she'd be forced to live in one of his buildings? And last, but not at all least, who instigated this getaway?"
My silence is more because I'm eating my words than an inability to speak. Everything Maximus said is true. If I sat down and assessed the number of times Isaac has pursued Izzy, I'm reasonably sure his campaign would outnumber hers two to one, but if push comes to shove, will Izzy choose Isaac over her career as I have Harlow? Or will she walk away, leaving him more broken than he was when Ophelia died?
Before I work through my first set of questions, Maximus says, "Isabelle isn't here because she's on duty. She's here because every man under the age of thirty lacks common sense."
His reply makes me smile. Not because it's true, but because it's a saying my grandfather often quoted.
“What if—”
"What if tomorrow is your final day? Would you be pleased with how you lived today?" Maximus interrupts, quoting another passage from my grandfather's vault of infinite wisdom. "We don't live for the ‘what if's,' Cormack; we live for the ‘oops.'"
With that, he spins on his heels and exits the hallway. I stand in silence for several minutes, considering what he said. I agree with it—for the most part, but shouldn’t my moral obligation as Isaac’s friend outweigh quotes more dated than me?
I don’t want to add another plate to the many Isaac is juggling, but if I don’t tell him the truth, he may not have any plates left to stack.
Positive I'm doing the right thing, I continue the journey I was taking before Maximus called time. Maximus worked with my grandfather for decades and has been my friend for the past six, but Isaac is like family to me. If anyone deserves to know he's being played, it's Isaac.
When I reach the room Isaac regularly uses in Mummo Koti, it takes my brain demanding three times that I knock before my body complies with its request.
“Come in.”
Isaac's low tone makes sense when I enter his room. He’s sitting on the left-hand side of a king-size bed, cradling a sleeping Izzy in his arms. The sheer concern on his face distresses me more than discovering Izzy is an FBI agent. We had a doctor examine Izzy in the jet before Isaac carried her to our waiting limousine. He was adamant her slumbering state was compliments of the Xanax/champagne combination, but that didn’t lessen Isaac's worry in the slightest.
I step deeper into the room. “Hey. How’s she going?”
“She’s good. Still sleeping.”
I’m about to issue the infamous “Captain-fucking-obvious” line he used on me months ago, but the panic in his steel-gray eyes steals my words. His eyes are carrying the same amount of concern mine did when Harlow had an allergic reaction to salmon roe two months ago. He’s truly panicked.
Reading the anxiety in my eyes as well as I did his, Isaac asks, “What’s up? Are you just getting up or going to bed?”
His eyes flick to an alarm clock on the bedside table that announces it's a little after 4 AM. Before his eyes return to mine, Izzy lets out a painful groan. I take a step back, stunned when Isaac's soothes her whimpers by running his hand down her locks and talking softly to her. I've known Isaac for years. I've never seen this side of him. I didn't think he had a nurturing side.
Once he has Izzy settled, Isaac returns his eyes to mine. They’re a set I’ve only seen once before. It was when I caught sight of myself in the vanity mirror when Harlow told me she loved me. I was so blown away by her admission, I nearly said it back.
Thank god reality dawned before I made a fool of myself. She wasn’t telling me she loved me; she was voicing her appreciation of the jets’ impeccable facilities.
Although I mistook what Harlow said, I can’t mistake the way it made me feel. I have fallen in love with Harlow—just as Isaac has with Izzy.
When Isaac glares at me, waiting for me to announce the reason for my late-night visit, I mumble, “Ah. . .I was. . .umm. . .thinking about taking Harlow for a ride tomorrow. I can arrange an extra set of bikes if you and Isabelle want to join us.”
He smiles as if pleased to hear his name associated with Izzy’s. “Thanks, but you’re never getting me on those death traps.” Isaac isn’t a fan of motorcycles. He likes control, and since he believes you can’t maintain control when there is nothing but an engine between you and the asphalt, he’s never experienced the freedom you get from only having two wheels on the road.
“Alright. Well, let me know if you change your mind?”
He dips his chin. “I will.”
With his focus already returned to Isabelle, he fails to notice my quick exit.
One battle forfeited—I wonder how many more I’ll skirt today?