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)
“Liar,” I whisper, bringing the unpleasant tension down a notch while sending the chemistry through the roof. “These haven’t faded the slightest in almost thirteen years.” I brush the back of my hand down her freckled cheek, doubling their hue while also staining them with a salty droplet her bursting eye couldn’t hold back any longer. This is the first time she’s displayed hurt when my hands are on her, and it cuts my maturity to the rawness of a boy instead of a man. “Mace—”
“It’s okay. I’m okay.” She angrily brushes away her tears before she digs her phone out of her pocket. “I’m just emotional thinking about how I will feel once I am in your shoes. That’s all it is.”
She’s lying, but I let it slide. Instead, I give her more reasons to consider how she’ll feel when we finally bring Kendall home. “You know this changes nothing, right? We’re working this case like we do every case because every woman we bring home—”
“Frees another six. I know,” she interrupts.
“Then what’s the issue? Why are you upset?”
I know why. I just can’t admit it out loud.
The fear of losing everything you know is debilitating. I’m still struggling to pull myself out of the rubble.
After encouraging eye contact, I say, “My objectives are the same. I promise you, they are.”
Her smile is authentic but weak. I’ll take it, though. I’d pick her smile over her tears any day.
After dipping her chin, which threatens to free a handful more tears from her soaked eyes, she logs into the photos app on her phone, peruses an image, and then screws up her nose.
“It must have been one of those fading freckles I’ve never had the privilege of owning.” She shows me an image on her phone. “See, no mole.”
When I remove her phone from her hand, wanting to zoom in on the area I’m referencing, Macy excuses herself to the bathroom.
Everything about Cameron is precisely as I remember. Her eyes, her lips, and her high cheekbones are there, but her mole is gone, erased from her face like she wishes she could erase me from her life, and her hair is as molten as Macy’s.
Needing to ensure I’m not mistaking the features of the only two women who have truly fascinated me, I enter the living room to gather Cameron’s file. Printouts of her missing person flyers are in there. They show her profile in precise detail—including the mole under her left eye. It is proof I haven’t mistaken the tiny freckle high on Macy’s left cheek as one of Cameron’s features.
Why would the syndicate responsible for Cameron’s disappearance remove a detail like that? Moles aren’t like birthmarks. They’re not hereditary. Organizations like this prefer their merchandise to be perfect, but just like Macy’s freckles add to her appeal, Cameron’s mole also increased hers.
It makes me wonder if it was a deliberate act to hide her identity, which is usually reserved for people hiding in plain sight, not deep in the trenches of the trafficking conglomerate.
Confused, I dump Cameron’s file onto the coffee table before slouching low. I’m exhausted, but I don’t see rest coming anytime soon. More questions plague me now than the night Cameron was abducted.
My brows furrow when a quick scan of the room has my eyes locking in on a black dot on the wooden base of a side table lamp. I forgot about the micro-recording devices I installed to snag Thompson. That little camera has been recording and uploading footage to the bureau’s servers for days. I positioned it where I did because it has a bird’s-eye view of the apartment. It can see everything, and I mean everything—including Macy through the partially cracked-open bathroom door, haphazardly removing the tape I placed on her stomach earlier.
Fuck.
Not wanting to stomp on Macy’s privacy more than I already have, I peel off the micro camera, careful not to leave any marks on the lamp’s wooden frame. The sticky residue holding it in place stubbornly clings to my fingers. It feels gross against my calloused skin, so I can only imagine how frustrating it is for Macy to have layers of it coating the silky-smooth skin on her stomach.
After dumping the now-disconnected surveillance device in a pile of many, I grab a bottle of tea tree oil and some cotton swabs from above the refrigerator, then head to the bathroom.
“Need some help?” I push the door open a smidge more before jingling the tea tree oil.
Macy grimaces while picking at a stubborn strip of medical tape. Her frustration vanishes when she realizes what I am holding. “Yes, please. Anyone would swear you placed the tape on with superglue.”
When I join her in the bathroom, she attempts to remove the tea tree oil from my hand. I pfft her. I put her in this situation, so I’m responsible for getting her out of it. Right?