Page 18 of The FBI Agents Who Stole Me

We stare at each other. Everything unsaid presses in. I kept so much from him to protect him. He doesn’t realize the weight of me staying here, or why I had to become this version of myself. The one he ended up hating anyway.

Finally, he looks away.

“I’ll bring you food,” he says. “You need to eat. We’re miles away from anyone. I don’t want to drug you again, babydoll. Don’t make me.”

How dare he.

I watch him leave the room without another word. The door doesn’t lock behind him. There is no need anyway. I’m stuck. Without knowing the full scope of the warrant or who I can trust, leaving now would be stupid. I need a plan.

Sinking back on the bed, I stare at the wall, heart thudding and mind racing.

Julian thinks he saved me.

Elliot has disappeared.

And I’m still no closer to understanding why they wanted my sister dead.

CHAPTER 5

Elliot

4 MONTHS AGO

I tell myself I’m checking on her. That it’s smart and necessary even if it is illegal. But the truth is I just want to see what she does when she’s alone. I want to watch everything she does.

My thumb is opening the recordings before I can even pretend this is about the investigation. I’ve tried not to watch her every single night. I officially made it one night, which is a personal record. I click on the one with yesterday’s date.

She’s curled up on the couch in an old sweater that’s too big, legs tucked under her, a sea of candy wrappers scattered across the coffee table like she’s been at this for hours.

Some sappy rom-com is playing. I know this one. The main guy realizes he fucked up, rains pour down, and he gives a big speech about how he’ll spend forever making it right. She’s watching it with the cutest pout. No, not cute. I can’t think of her that way. Even if she really has the prettiest little face.

She shoves another piece of chocolate into her mouth and swallows without really chewing it. Her eyes are glassy. A tissue box sits beside her, and there are a few discarded pieces around the couch. Every few minutes, she swipes at her face with the sleeve of the sweater like she’s pissed at herself for crying.

On screen the hero is mid-grovel, soaked and dramatic.

She points with what’s left of her candy bar at the TV.

“What an asshole. Like total honesty can save it.”

Her voice is thick with hurt. She sniffs hard and tosses down the candy wrapper.

The movie hits its big emotional beat. The couple kisses, and a sweet song plays while the credits roll across the screen.

“Fuck you, Julian,” she whispers.

The words are so quiet I almost miss them.

I lean forward in the dark, elbows on my knees, eyes locked on the screen.

She’s crying alone and trying to eat enough candy to make herself sick as if it’ll somehow make her get over him.

Fuck that guy.

The credits start to roll. She doesn’t turn it off. Just sits there with her candy wrappers and her blanket and the wet shine on her cheeks.

I should shut the feed down. Instead, I fast forward so I don’t have to keep watching her cry.

My jaw tightens when I switch to the bedroom feed and watch her shoulders shake under the covers as she cries herself to sleep. I turn off the recording.