Page 88 of His to Love
I looked back down the hallway. “Where’s Malik?”
He looked at me over his shoulder. “Gone.”
Then he turned toward the door and opened it with little fanfare and little regard to the fact that men had begun pounding on it again.
“You rang?” he asked, his lips curling into a sneer at the men in the doorway.
My hand flew to my chest and my mouth gaped open.
A handful of men stood on the other side, three dressed in black pants and black shirts with FBI printed in bright yellow, block letters. Others were in DPD uniforms.
In front of them all was Tyson, wearing a black suit, black dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar.
No tie.
It was amazing the details you remembered when you felt your life coming to a screeching halt.
Because as Tyson raised a sheet of paper and held it out toward my father, stating the words, “Mr. Galecki, this is a warrant for your arrest…” and continued talking…I saw everything.
His black hair.
His hard jaw.
His blue eyes that hadn’t once looked in my direction.
It didn’t matter. I already knew I would never see those eyes again.
Before Tyson was done speaking to my father, who hadn’t bothered looking at the paper in his hands, the three other FBI agents pushed their way into the house and spread out. Behind them, even more men entered, ushering those of us gawking at the scene in front of us into the kitchen, telling us to stay where we were until they told us otherwise. Eleanor’s hand wrapped around mine as she tugged me toward the counter but my feet refused to move.
I watched in horror as Tyson spun my father around, instructing him to put his hands on the wall. Blood drained from my face as Tyson then slapped a pair of handcuffs on my father’s wrists, pulling them none too gently into position. I followed them, not caring if any of the other men searching my house for who-knows-what tried to stop me. I ran after them as Tyson led him into an unmarked black car.
Jesus. This was straight out of a movie, except the reel in front of me wasn’t fiction.
This was my life.
My nightmare.
Once the door slammed shut on my father, I finally found my voice.
“Tyson!” I shouted, and rushed down the steps.
He twisted toward me and braced himself as if he expected me to rush into him. “Blue,” he said, and my feet stopped.
I froze, a few feet from him, seething, scared, and so mad at him, but more so, myself.
“I trusted you,” I hissed, leaning forward.
He raised a hand as if to silence me, but I continued, wiping away tears that were already falling. I was frantic and crazed and I couldn’t control it.
“And I loved you.”
The slightest flinch, the slightest tightening of his jaw, was the only sign he had heard me.
“And I was just a game to you. A fucking case.”
“You weren’t,” he whispered harshly. “But I had a job to do, too.”
Anger boiled my blood. Or I was going insane. That was the only explanation for why my hand suddenly raised and my palm hit him directly on the cheek. Pain vibrated along my palm and up my arm, straight to my heart.
