name’s Andrew Moore,” he said in introduction. “And I’m the judge and jury for what you’re trying to become a part of.”
“So, does that mean I’m in?”
“If you weren’t, I wouldn’t have come here and given you my name.” He smirked. “Your background check came back satisfactory. Get in the car. We need to talk.”
Despite the situation, she felt a thrill of excitement. Eve was finally in. Now the real work would begin.
“Andrew was Moretti’s third tier and had command over all arms operations,” Lara said, finished recounting her first exchange with the man. “From that moment on, he became my direct boss...as well as my mentor.”
“You spent a lot of time with him.”
She nodded.
“Describe him to me.”
The words paused on her tongue. She thought back with hesitation before beginning.
“Handsome, in one word. Strong in another. He held himself with importance but never arrogance. Dark hair, dark eyes, mysterious. A trifecta that was only amplified by his charisma.” Lara balled her fists against her lap.
“And how do you feel about him?”
“It bothers me how attractive I find him still and—” she averted her gaze a moment “—how physically drawn to him I was. I know it sounds horrible, but he was so different from the others. He was kind and patient with me and always had my back.” Lara brought her fist up and slammed it against the desktop. “How is that possible? How is a man like him able to make me feel...” She let her words trail off. The flare of anger quickly doused. Dr. Oliviero was neither alarmed nor angry at the outburst. “How is a bastard capable of that?”
Dr. Oliviero unlaced his fingers. He stretched over the desk and patted the top of her fisted hand.
“I think that, once we explore that, you will find more peace about what happened during your time undercover.”
* * *
Exhausted.
Lara couldn’t find a better word for what she felt standing in her apartment an hour later. The good doctor hadn’t pushed her when she’d said their session that day was done. He hadn’t tried to talk her into opening up another can of worms. The exercise of examining what seeing Moretti had triggered within her seemed like a bust. But, the session had done its intended job. Lara was no longer riled up at visiting the head of the snake in prison. However, their talk had opened another wound. And it was time to try and heal it.
Almost an hour later and Lara was standing in front of a small, brick-wrapped Cape Cod and trying her best to not feel like a child. Bartholomew Grant’s last home.
It never got easier thinking about the man. Whenever she did, the image of Anna sprang up and blossomed. Normally a child’s thoughts of a mother weren’t synonymous with the father potentially being a murderer.
Lara sighed, feet planted firmly on the sidewalk.
She had spent the first years of her career poring through the case files of her mother’s murder and hadn’t found a thing. All of that hard work had been for nothing. That meant her mother’s killer was either buried beneath a tombstone Lara hadn’t visited or was possibly still out there, a free man or woman. Regardless, whatever answers Bartholomew had once known had died with him.
Now all Lara had left of either parent was a few yards away, hiding behind walls covered in aged brick.
Lara felt her feet filling with lead. She needed to go inside to do what she’d come to do. Since Bartholomew had gone into hospice care, the Cape Cod and all its things hadn’t been touched. It was Lara’s job to sort through it all and set everything right. If such a thing was possible.
Yet she couldn’t bring herself to move.
“Hey, girl!”
Startled, Lara turned to see a woman in too-tall stilettos waving from down the street. It had been a while since she’d seen her unusual friend. Lara waved back.
“Hey, Lola,” she greeted as the woman had made her way over. Along with her unrealistic shoes, she wore a skimpy outfit of a black bustier and a leather miniskirt. Her bleached blond hair was pulled up into a high ponytail, falling somewhere near the middle of her back. She was twenty-six and pretty. Two details that kept her career as a prostitute thriving.
“Long time no see,” Lola said, stopping next to her. They both faced the house.
“Sorry, work became complicated.”
“I hear that.”
Lara internally cringed. For years she’d tried to convince Lola to leave the streets—she could be so much more—but the woman had always refused. She’d had a hard life. One that had weighed upon her so long that Lara suspected the idea of anything different might scare her away from ever trying.
The first time she’d met Lola was when her father’s mental state had gotten bad. Lara had pulled up one day to see Lola and him walking hand in hand down the sidewalk toward the house. She hadn’t been wearing leather then, but her outfit had been just as shocking. High-heeled boots that laced up her shins and thighs and a red dress that dipped low and rose high. She hadn’t bleached her hair yet, but she’d already been sporting her long ponytail.
“Your dad?” Lola had asked when Lara, wide-eyed and ready to raise hell, had approached them.
“Yeah, and you are?”
Lola didn’t seem to mind the harsh tone. She outstretched her free hand.
“Call me Lola, your friendly father walker.”
It had taken a longer conversation after seeing her dad back to the house to get the full story. Lola had noticed Bartholomew walking around aimlessly, confused. She’d remembered seeing him watering the flowers in front of the small Cape Cod and had offered to walk him home. Apparently it hadn’t been the first time, either.
Since then Lara had grown an odd attachment to the woman, speaking with her during her visits to the house. Sure, Lola led a life Lara didn’t approve of, but the woman was funny and sharp. Despite their differences, Lara felt an equality between the two. A balance between quiet and loud. Plus, after everything the woman had endured, Lola had managed to hold on to her good heart. Lara respected that.
They continued to look at the house in silence for a moment. Lara reflected on her relationship with the woman next to her. They were quite the team. The FBI agent and the prostitute.
“You know, when my father was dying from cancer, I told him I was totally off drugs.” Lola finally spoke up. “I said I was a bank teller, too. Made good, honest money and lived a good, honest life. I think he died happy.”
Lara didn’t look away from the house, focusing on the front porch. “You know, you could be a bank teller,” she tried.
Lola let out a laugh. It sounded almost hollow. Lara took the woman’s hand in hers and squeezed.
They lapsed back into a companionable silence for a moment.
