Would Sean really go down there to protect Madison’s son if he didn’t know that Jesse was also his son? Maybe. Because Sean would do anything to protect the innocent.
But he had seen the photo of Jesse Spade. He could do the math just like she had. Jesse would have been conceived when he was at Stanford. When Madison was at Stanford. When they were both young college students. Before Carson Spade. Before Lucy.
That didn’t bother her, not really. It bothered her that Madison had never told Sean, it bothered her that Sean didn’t know his son.
But it hurt—physically hurt—that Sean wasn’t telling her the truth about why he was risking his life in Mexico.
“So you don’t believe Madison that they’ll be home Friday.”
“I don’t know what to believe about the call she got from her husband; all I know is that Kane and I located them and we have a plan to get them out without anyone getting hurt. Okay?”
“Okay.” She waited.
Tell me the truth, Sean. Please tell me the truth.
“Is something wrong?”
Yes. You’re lying to me.
“It’s a tough case.”
“I wish I could be there for you, princess. You know that, right?”
“I know.”
I thought I knew. I thought I knew you better than I know myself.
“I’m hoping this doesn’t take much longer, Lucy. I need to see you. I miss you.”
You’re lying to me, Sean. Why won’t you tell me?
She almost asked him. She almost asked if Jesse was his son. But she didn’t, because she wasn’t certain Sean wouldn’t lie to her. She didn’t want him to lie to her, it would destroy her.
“Luce? Are you there?” Sean asked.
“Yes. I was distracted.”
“Kane’s almost back, I need to go—but be careful, okay?”
“You, too.”
That was it? Not even We have to talk about this later … There’s more going on, but I can’t tell you over the phone … Jesse’s my son, I’ll explain everything when I see you.
“I love you, princess.”
“I love you, too,” she heard herself saying. Her voice sounded far away.
She hung up. Her chest hurt because she wasn’t breathing. Her eyes burned. She wanted to scream, but instead she swallowed her emotions. She locked up everything. The pain would knock her down if she let it out.
There was something fundamentally wrong in her relationship with Sean that he would keep something so important a secret.
She walked down the hall to the bathroom and slipped inside. She put her head against the cool tile wall. The fan ran quietly, cold, sterile air pushed out into the small washroom. She tried to breathe normally, but each time she drew in air, a stabbing pain had her gasping.
She did not want to cry. She rarely did, and when the tears came she wouldn’t be able to stop.
Do not break down. Do not.
Breathe. Focus. Breathe. Again.
She had a case to work, victims who needed her to be at her best. Victims who needed her to be alert or she would miss something. Or, worse, put her life or her partner’s life in danger.
Eventually, the pain subsided. She could breathe normally, her eyes no longer threatened a waterfall she wouldn’t be able to control. She had no idea how much time had passed, but she didn’t care.
She splashed more water on her face. It was splotchy, as if she had been crying, though not one tear had fallen. She just looked crappy. She touched up her makeup and frowned. She was going to have to fake it. She’d faked years of her life, telling her family and the few friends she had that she was fine, just fine. It wasn’t until Sean that she finally was fine. That she could put the past behind her because Sean taught her that she deserved to be loved, that she deserved a life and a future and a career that she wanted.
She put the mask back on, the cool facade that had saved her time and time again. Why was it so much harder now than in the past?
Because in the past, you never took it off.
She straightened her spine, rolled her shoulders back, and left the bathroom. Noah was still in the law offices, pacing. Only thirteen minutes had passed since she’d stepped out to take Sean’s call. It had felt like a lifetime.
Noah glanced at her, but if he noticed anything odd, he didn’t react. That helped. She didn’t want to explain to him or anyone what was going on with her right now.
A few minutes later a tall Asian woman walked in and said, “Agent Armstrong, was there a problem with the file I prepared for your warrant?”
“Yes. I need to know who owns these businesses, the name of the lawyer in charge of this company, and the name and address of a person—not a business—who is responsible.”
“I see. I read the warrant, and it was very clear that you needed the entity or individual who owned those two properties. They are owned by a business. I don’t have the information as to who is in that business, but even if I did, that wasn’t specifically asked on the warrant.”
She was gloating, and Noah knew it.
“The lawyer’s name.”