Page 82 of Fallen Rook

“Didn’t you say you had an in with the enforcer? That Enzo kid?” Zeke frowned, snapping his fingers. “What happened with that lead?”

Well, Maddox, I’m glad you asked. I was too busy screwing him senseless to ask him even one question.

I shook my head. “Didn’t pan out.”

“In other news, Denise wants you to come over for dinner this Sunday,” Zeke continued. “You available?”

I made an unintelligible sound, my thoughts sailing to the task I was explicitly ordered to execute.

The assistant U.S. attorney for the Southern District of New York, Tara McMahon, was ruthlessly efficient and incredibly responsive. Two things I normally admired, but not today. She’d process my request in less than twenty-four hours, which meant that if I hypothetically wanted not to recruit the informant, I’d need to find a chink in his armor that’d make him useless to the bureau, to me.

However, I always took my time researching informants, and I wasn’t going to start slacking off now.

Zeke narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “By the way, I’m getting us tickets to the Cheese Rolling Festival next weekend. We’ll be rolling a ten-pound Double Gloucester cheese down hills all afternoon. Sound good?”

“Uh-huh.” I was still stuck in my head. “Sure.”

“Rothwell?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re not listening.”

I was about to protest, deny, deflect, before remembering who I was talking to.

“Sorry,” I said instead.

“Spill it.” His mouth stretched into a smile. “Denise thinks you have a new partner, and they’ve been distracting you.”

I shook my head. “Sorry to disappoint Denise, but I’m still single. I’m just considering all angles regarding this informant. There’s something fishy about him.”

“I don’t think there is,” he countered. “You’ve been off your game lately.”

“My performance remains above average.”

“You look like you need a break.” He ignored my words and fixed me with a stern scowl. “Your eyes are dark-rimmed, you have stubble, and you can’t keep a train of thought. When was the last time you took a vacation?”

“About three years ago.” More like four, but technically, three years, eleven months, and two weeks.

“How long for?”

I worked my jaw. “Three days, for a friend’s wedding.”

“What happened a week ago?”

Silence fell across my office before I strangled out, “PTSD episode.” My gaze dropped to my hands. “It was bad.”

“You’re taking the rest of the week off. Go see Jean, and send her my regards.”

“There’s no need.”

“There is. This past week, you’ve been looking like shit and performing just as badly.”

“I—”

“This is not a suggestion, it’s an order from your superior, Rothwell.”

As much as I hated the idea of parting ways with the mountains of work on my desk, I knew Zeke was right. A PTSD episode was a red flag, and I needed to take care of that. I could recharge at my grandmother’s house, buy some time to think about my next move with the informant, and forget about Enzo Ferrante.