Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 128307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
“We need groceries…” The brilliance of the mangled organ in my chest is unearthed without prejudice when my sluggish head finally clicks on to the reason behind my spontaneous proposal. “And while we’re there, we could get some stuff for… that.”
I need to stop calling her unborn child “that.” It weakens what should be an unbreakable bond forming between her and her unborn child. Macy is already in denial about being weeks from giving birth, and I’m not helping the situation.
Macy doesn’t seem to mind. Thank fuck. The investigation I’m undertaking is meant to restore her faith in humanity, not squash it. “What kind of stuff?”
I grab the never-used shopping list pad off the refrigerator and commence writing a long-overdue list of necessities. It doesn’t start how you’d expect for a thirty-four-year-old bachelor.
“Tums, prenatal vitamins…” With the fog of depravity that forever surrounds me slowly lifting, the lightbulb in my head switches on. “You’re probably low on iron, so I’ll jot down iron tablets as well.” I add iron tablets and a handful of items Macy will need to the list I could input into a DoorDash order if my eagerness to de-fleece the dead wood swamping me wasn’t as blindingly apparent as Macy’s smile. “But if you get iron tablets, you’ll probably need a stool softener too. They clog some women up.” I add a handful more suggestions to the list. “You’ll also need sanitary napkins for after the birth. Nipple shields, breast pads—”
Macy’s grin slips. “They have pads for your breasts?”
Her pupils dilate when I nod. “They’re small compared to the ones you’ll wear between your legs. They don’t need to be thick. They only catch the occasional squirt of breastmilk, not the big nasty blood clots…” My words trail off when Macy looks seconds from fainting. She sways so uncontrollably that I grip her shoulders to keep her upright. “Are you all right?”
She peers at me with massively dilated eyes. “Yeah… Um. I’m not good with blood.”
“Okay.” How am I only learning this about her now? We spoke extensively during our multiple joint undercover stings. Hemophobia never came up. “But you know you can’t give birth without it, right?”
Her shoulder notches toward her ear before a faint whisper tumbles from her mouth. “I was kind of hoping.”
Laughter chops up my words. I’m an ass for laughing, and it is highly unprofessional, but it can’t be helped. I’ve always viewed Macy as more of a friend than a colleague, but her expression warrants more than a half-assed smirk.
I rarely laugh, but it doesn’t bother me as it usually does since it is happening with Macy.
If anyone should be allowed to let go of the reins occasionally, it should be us.
“Mace—”
She wipes my smile from my face with a stern I-was-trained-how-to-hit whack to my stomach. “It isn’t my fault. Underpaid and overworked nannies raised me, and the only time I could mention periods was when I was placing one at the end of a sentence with my English tutor.”
I laugh again, assuming she is joking. I am way off the mark. The disgust on her face proves this beyond a doubt. It is the same look that morphed onto her face every time her mother’s big, bulky tennis bracelet hit the desk in the interview room of the New York field division office. It was flashy and enormous and had me confused as to why anyone would kidnap her daughter. The perps would have made more from the sale of her bracelet than from the sale of Kendall’s reproductive organs.
Although I raised my suspicions with Tobias, I never spoke of them to Macy. Macy believed her sister was abducted, which was all the incentive I needed to keep Kendall’s case open.
Hating the unease forming in Macy’s eyes, I attempt to eradicate it. “Never pictured you as a trust fund baby, freckles.”
Anyone else would take my comment as an insult. Macy doesn’t. Everyone who truly knows her knows she takes nothing for granted. She won’t even accept the perks most agents get in a close-knit community. She pays for every coffee she drinks and every parking fine she receives, which is ludicrous considering they were only issued because she had to park illegally outside a culprit’s residence or let them get away.
“Probably because I’m not a trust fund baby, Malfoy.” After grabbing her coat from behind the laundry room door, she heads for the exit. “My parents stripped my name from the ledger the instant I joined the bureau.”
She leaves her apartment, depriving me of the chance to interrogate her further.
After snagging my keys and wallet off the kitchen counter, I follow her into the parking lot beneath the apartment building. Her car is the standard government-issued vehicle that all agents receive during a long placement. Dust covers its dark paintwork; the cab is filled with paperwork, just like her apartment, and the gas tank is almost empty.