Page 175 of I’m The Worst

I tighten the laces on my boots until the leather creaks under the strain. The longer I’m back in Chicago, the worse it gets. The noise. The politics. The fucking parties. Seeing her across rooms. Not seeing her at all. Wondering where she is. Who she’s with. How fucking drunk or high she is.

It bleeds into everything.

I need a mission.

Something violent.

Something that doesn’t require thinking.

My eyes drift toward the nightstand before I can stop them. Files, reports, my handwritten notes from Russia I shouldn’t still have. Her name circled more times than necessary.

I told myself I was done with it.

Done replaying every move. That fucking stage. The look in her eyes when I first found her.

I reach over and flip the top file closed. I don’t care about her. I care about the mistakes. Because I don’t fucking make mistakes. I bite back a curse and shove to my feet, dragging my jacket off the chair and shrugging into it.

This is fucking pathetic.

The drive to the Citadel is short, but my head gets louder with every mile. The second I step into the underground headquarters, I head straight for the armory. Heavy steel doors slide open at my swipe. The room is cold and sterile, filled with weapons and tools that should make me feel like I’m back where I belong.

“General Maddox. A word.”

David’s voice cuts through the room behind me.

I don’t react immediately. I take one more step toward the weapons rack before turning.

He stands near the far wall, hands folded neatly behind his back. He doesn’t look like he belongs in a room full of rifles and suppressed carbines.

But he does.

His gaze drags over me briefly before he speaks. “I was attempting to familiarize myself with your Russia mission. But the field reports appear to have been removed from the records.”

“I pulled them.”

“For any particular reason?”

“Review.”

He tilts his head slightly. “Review is typically conducted within forty-eight hours of debrief. It’s been a few months.”

I hold his gaze. “I like to be thorough.”

“And did your thoroughness uncover anything concerning?”

“No.”

“Then why”—he steps closer—“are you still digging?”

My hands curl into fists.

Because something doesn’t add up.

Because she wasn’t supposed to be there.

Because I know a setup when I see one.

Because I don’t trust any of you.