Under My Skin

Page 59

“You’ve traced the email?” Jackson asks.
“Of course,” Ryan answers. “One of my guys just got back to me, actually. Sent from a burner smart phone. A dummy email account to a fake ID. All we know is that it was sent from the LA area, but that doesn’t do us much good. I’ve been assuming all along that the son of a bitch we’re chasing is local. And most likely in-house.”
“At least you’re no longer looking at me,” Jackson says, a wry edge to his voice.
“You said it yourself,” Damien says. “You have too much pride in your work. You wouldn’t fuck it over for a vendetta. Especially not one against me. I don’t mean that much to you.”
Damien glances at me. “There was a time you might have thrown your work under the bus if it meant getting back at Ms. Brooks. But I think that time has passed.”
“It has.” Jackson’s voice is as stiff as his posture. “And you’re right—you didn’t mean that much to me. Or if you did, I wouldn’t have wanted you to realize it.”
Damien chuckles. “And now I can?”
Jackson looks as confused as I feel.
“You said I ‘didn’t’ mean that much to you. Do I detect your growing respect and admiration?”
His voice is light, almost teasing, but Jackson answers seriously. “Yeah. I guess you do.” He locks eyes with Damien, then smiles thinly. “But don’t let it go to your head.”
The corner of Damien’s mouth twitches. “I’ll do my best.”
“Any leads?” I ask Ryan. So far, the investigation has hit dead ends and rabbit trails. “Surely the security team caught something today? They can’t possibly have done all this damage and stayed out of range. That area’s the whole reason we have the security cam.”
Ryan glances at Damien and frowns. “They looped the feed.”
“What?” I heard his words. I even know what he means. But somehow I just can’t process what he’s saying.
“How long?” Jackson asks.
Ryan shakes his head. “It’s a thirty-minute loop. Looks like it was recorded about two A.M., and they started the repeat at two-thirty. There was no moon last night, so it’s only the infrared, and nobody at the monitoring station noticed.”
“So how did you find out?”
“Once Damien got the email, we knew what to look for.”
I glance at Jackson, who is doing a valiant job of holding in his temper. I can see it though, pushing at the edges, building toward release.
He turns to me, the tension in his body palpable. “I may end up in prison after all, because I swear I will kill whoever is fucking with us.”
“You’ll have to fight me for the privilege,” Damien says.
I look between them. “Don’t even joke about that, you two.”
They look at each other, and despite everything, I see a hint of amusement in their eyes.
I can’t help it—I have to smile. They’re brothers, all right.
sixteen
I spent most of Tuesday and all of Wednesday on the island with Jackson organizing cleanup and wading through the vile remnants of that horrible, massive act of vandalism. My stomach started hurting the moment I stepped onto the island and saw the destruction—machinery destroyed, storage sheds toppled. And that was only the tip of the iceberg.
It was horrible and vengeful, and all I want now are two things: to find the bastard and to fix the damage. Because fixing it will be like lifting my middle finger and telling the fucker he lost.
Thursday morning I’m back in the office, but I can’t say that the day is shaping up to be much better. Damien has back-to-back international calls all day, which means that I arrived at my desk by four A.M. The only good thing about Damien’s early calls is that I have no time to brood about the sabotage or worry that a detective is going to show up to arrest Jackson. Both Tuesday evening and all of Wednesday were blissfully arrest-free, but I’m still on edge.
The morning has been a blur of calls and emails and minor crises, both professional and personal. The professional all center around Damien’s schedule and the resort. We’re trying to get him ready for the China trip. He’s spending only a week in Beijing, but with all the preparations we’re making, you’d think he was staying a month. He’s leaving Sunday night, and everything in the office is crazy.
The personal is entirely centered on me. We’d returned to the marina late last night, and as soon as we were back in range, my phone pinged with a dozen messages from Ethan asking if I was okay and telling me that he loves me.