“In his apartment.” Keegan grimaced. “Self-inflicted gunshot wound.”
Remy tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry. Turning his head, he stared blindly out the window as dark images flashed through his mind like explosives detonating on a battlefield.
“He was a ticking time bomb,” he whispered hoarsely. “He needed help.”
“I know,” Keegan said grimly. “You tried to warn them.”
Remy hardened his jaw, turning from the window.
Keegan’s shrewd eyes probed his, seeing through Remy’s battle-scarred armor to the anger and grief that had haunted him for the past three years.
Keegan said quietly, “Everyone who matters knows you did the right thing that night in Fallujah.”
Remy’s mouth twisted bitterly. “For all the good it did me.”
Keegan, to his credit, offered no empty platitudes.
A heavy silence lapsed between them. A silence weighted with memories and raw emotion.
Remy drank the rest of his coffee and set down the empty cup, then retrieved two fives from his wallet and slapped them down on the table.
“Thanks for the coffee.”
Keegan smiled wryly. “Not if you’re the one paying.” He watched as Remy slid out of the booth and stood. “Lieutenant Brand.”
Remy met the older man’s concerned gaze.
“Have faith,” Keegan said quietly. “Everything will work out in the end.”
Remy’s response was a brief, humorless smile.
As he left the coffee shop and slid on his sunglasses, he wished he could share the commander’s optimism.
But he knew better.
And Keegan should have, too.
Chapter Sixteen
“So who are you leaving in charge of the agency while you and Remy are off on your love trip?”
Zandra sent an amused glance at Morgan Morrison, who was lounging in the visitor chair in her office. Morgan’s feet were propped up on the corner of the desk, showing off the red bottoms of her Louboutins. The razor-edge bangs of her sleek bob accentuated her doe eyes, and she wore a retro-print romper that was so haute couture, she could have been strutting down a runway in Milan.
“I’m leaving Christine in charge.” Zandra paused. “And it’s not a love trip.”
Morgan gave her a knowing look. “Riiight.”
Zandra deliberately ignored her, returning her attention to her computer screen. “I can’t get over what a fabulous job you did with my website,” she raved, admiring the ultramodern design that beautifully incorporated shades of pink, brown, silver and black. “It’s sleek and stylish and stunningly sexy.”
Morgan grinned, flashing exquisite dimples. “I’m glad you’re pleased.”
“Are you kidding?” Zandra exclaimed, clicking through the pages once again. “I absolutely love the new look.”
“There was nothing wrong with the previous design—technically. But I just thought you needed something fresher. Fun and edgy, but still sophisticated.”
Zandra nodded. “You definitely achieved that. And I love the teaser photos of the girls with just their eyes showing. Gives them even more of an aura of mystique.”
“Exactly. It’ll have users salivating by the time they click on the image to see the full photo and bio.”
Zandra grinned. “Brilliant, woman.”
Morgan preened at the accolades, folding her hands behind her head and crossing her legs on the desk.
Zandra chuckled. “You really ought to consider starting your own business, Morgan. You could offer graphic design services as part of your public relations consultancy.”
“I know.” Morgan sighed. “It’s very tempting, considering how miserable I am at Adventura.”
Morgan worked as a public relations specialist for a nonprofit association, a job she’d loathed for as long as Zandra had known her.
“Life’s too short to be miserable, Morg. Especially at twenty-six.”