Chapter Eighteen
Emily
I stared at my phone, my finger hovering over Dion's name in my contacts. It had been three days since the warehouse, three days since I'd watched him disappear into that ambulance, and no one would tell me where he was, and he never answered his phone no matter what number I dialed from.
"He's recovering," was all Gideon would say when I cornered him at Salvation. "He needs time."
Time for what? To decide I wasn't worth the trouble? To realize that I'd nearly gotten us both killed because I couldn't trust him enough to stay put?
Because I was a pathetic, whiny bitch that had nearly gotten him killed?No wonder he doesn't want to see you.
The apartment I'd been staying in—one of Salvation's safehouses—felt like a prison. Outside, the world was moving on. The news had broken about the trafficking ring. Arrests were being made. Susan Blackwell was in federal custody. Richard Kline had been arrested and was blaming everyone.
And my father was under investigation for financial connections to Oak Developments. Melanie had tried calling me incessantly, but I wasn't interested. Apparently, all Dad's clients had fled, and she was trying to pick up the pieces.
My mom hadn't tried to call me even once.
I should have been sad about that, but I couldn't summon anything except relief to be done with the lot of them.
My phone rang, interrupting my spiral. Unknown number.
"Emily Carter," I answered automatically, my heart leaping.
"Ms. Carter, this is Agent Martinez with the FBI. We need to schedule a follow-up interview regarding your mother's involvement in the Oak Developments case."
I closed my eyes, disappointment and exhaustion washing over me. "I've already told you everything I know. My mother called me, said she was in trouble, asked me to meet her. I went because I thought she was in danger."
"Yes, but we've discovered some additional information that suggests—"
"That suggests what?" I snapped. "That she's been working with them all along? That she used me as bait to lure Dion into a trap? Because if that's what you're going to tell me, Agent Martinez, save your breath. I already figured that out."
There was a pause. "Ms. Carter, I understand this is difficult—"
"Do you? Do you understand what it's like to realize your own mother was willing to sacrifice you to protect herself?"
"Your mother claims she was coerced. That they threatened to kill her husband if she didn't cooperate."
I laughed bitterly. "Right. So, she made her choice and now I'm making mine." I didn’t care. I’d lost the one good thing in my life and I’d only myself to blame.
I took a shaky breath. "Schedule your interview. I'll be there. But don't expect me to defend her actions."
After I hung up, I sat in the silence of the empty apartment, staring at the evidence boxes I'd been reviewing. Zoe Morris had been recovered safely, along with three other children, and, thank God,Marisol. She wassafe. Even if Marisol and the others been sent to a different part of the US, and I wouldn't see her. She was safe. They had even found documented evidence to find other kids, blackmail material apparently. The Bennetts, the Wilsons, and six other families had been arrested. It should have felt like victory.
Instead, it felt hollow.
Because Dion was gone, and I knew it was my fault.
I'd pushed him away, questioned his motives, accused him of treating me like a child. And maybe he had been overprotective, but he'd also been right. I'd walked straight into danger because I was too stubborn to trust his judgment, because my mother's voice in my head telling me to grow up had been louder than the one I loved.
I knew I'd fallen for him when I'd met him at Furbabies, but as usual I'd been too stubborn to admit it.
Now children were safe because of his team's work, not because of the evidence I'd gathered, but because of the man who'd made it all possible—who'd taken two bullets to save my life—and he wouldn't even speak to me.
My phone buzzed with a text from my sister:You need to speak to the authorities about Dad. This is ridiculous. – Melanie.
I deleted it without responding and then added that number to my ever-increasing list of blocked ones. It was only the slim hope Dion would get in touch that stopped me from changing it altogether.
Three more days passed in a haze of FBI interviews, paperwork, and sleepless nights, and I moved back into my apartment. I'd been cleared to return to work—with a new supervisor and a commendation for my role in exposing the trafficking ring—but the thought of going back to the department felt surreal. How could I sit in meetings and review cases when the man I loved was somewhere out there, refusing to see me?
