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“Oh, good. So that means you don’t have any.” My lawyer, Samuel Tomei, snaps his briefcase shut and stands. I’m all too eager to join him. “For your sake, let’s hope you do find something. Otherwise, it’s going to be a very ugly lawsuit ahead. For you.”
“Talk all you want, but it’s there. I have you dead to rights.” Smithson moves to block the door and get in my face. I don’t know what’s worse—his attitude or his breath. “You better watch yourself, Chekhov. I know I will.”
Tomei checks his watch. “Is that a threat, Agent Smithson?”
“Special Agent Smithson. And no. It’s a promise.”
There’s no stifling the snort that escapes my nose.
“Something funny, Chekhov?”
I slip on my coat that Tomei returns to me, along with my wallet and my dead phone. “I’ve just never met a grown man who needs to be reminded so often that he’s special.”
It’s the only shred of mirth I’ve enjoyed in what feels like an eternity in this box.
The look on Smithson’s face is worth it.
The second we leave the precinct, Tomei hands me a new phone and dossier. “For now, and for later. I’ve pulled up all I can for now. But if I were you, I wouldn’t be too worried. They have nothing on you and no loose strings to tug.”
“Should I be worried at all?”
He squints at the sunlight, then shakes his head. “No. Well—not about this, anyway.”
I see what he means when I turn the new phone on.
I have eighty-three missed texts, one hundred and nine missed calls, and seventeen voicemails.
Shit.
“Hey. I’m out.”
Mak sighs into the speaker. “Good fucking God. Took you long enough. Listen, there’s?—”
“How is she?”
“Just shut up and listen. There’s a chopper waiting for you at a helipad only five minutes from your location; I’m texting you the address. We secured permission from the hospital to land on theirs. Get your ass over here, now.”
“On it.” I hold my phone out to Tomei to show him the GPS. “I need to get here.”
He nods and motions for me to follow him to his car.
I’m trying not to let Mak’s abrupt tone ride under my skin. He’s rarely like this—commanding, efficient, serious.
Which means one of two things:
I royally fucked up.
Or something’s wrong with Daphne.
On second thought, both can be right at the same time.
Reviewing the missed texts while the helicopter takes off doesn’t make me feel any better. Worse, actually—it makes me feel far fucking worse than I ever knew I could.
Daphne went into labor.
I may have missed it.
No. Don’t think like that. Keep your shit together.
