The lies are stacking upon each other and it's like I'm sitting in between a house of cards that are about to collapse on top of me. I'm playing with fire and I've let my feelings for Isabelle get in the way of what I'm supposed to be doing. 

I turned this Death Row chick in last night to take Isabelle's place, but I didn’t turn her into Agent Roberts, which was my job. I'm likely about to get my ass handed to me and stripped of my job while I play house with Harley Salem. 

We're walking across town and I take Isabelle's hand within mine, watching as Everett eyeballs me with a murderous look. "For the night, you're my girlfriend. You're an artist working toward opening your own gallery in Boston. You grew up in Hartford, Connecticut. Your mom is a nurse and your dad is a software engineer. You're an only child."

"If only that were all true," she mutters. "What does this Roberts guy do again?"

She’s pushing to see if I’ll answer her. I never told her, but seeing as she’s joining us for dinner, I’ll dumb it down to sound less invasive. "He works with Death Row to supply us with bodies."

I can see the nervous look in Isabelle's eyes and I'm suddenly hyperaware of the danger I'm putting her in so I try to distract her from the tension. It doesn’t help that she’s been unknowingly distracting me from focusing on what I should be.

"You covered your freckles tonight," I whisper to her. 

"I don't like them," she responds as quietly. 

"That's too bad." 

Everett walks ahead, leading the way to the restaurant we've eaten at several times in the last few months. It's our go-to when we have our monthly meeting with Agent Roberts. 

As we come to the front doors of the restaurant, Everett stops and turns to face us. "This is a really bad idea," he says, pointing to Isabelle. 

"Why?" she asks. "Why is this a bad idea? What aren't you telling me?" 

My pointed look in Everett’s direction may or may not be getting through to him, but God help him if he says anything else. 

 "She needs to go back to the hotel," Everett says. "I'm not going to just sit back and watch this happen. I'll take her back. You go meet with Roberts and that'll be the end of it." 

Isabelle is looking between the two of us, obviously desperate to know what's happening, and Everett is causing a bigger scene than necessary, but I'm not going to get in an argument with him because it won't end well. 

"Fine, whatever," I tell him.

"What if I want to go in with you," Isabelle says. She's testing the waters. She wants to know why, and I can understand. 

"Everett is right," I tell her, trying my damnedest to look truthful.

"Well, this was all a huge waste," she says, swinging her arms down by her sides. She looks gorgeous in her dress, all made up, and ready for a night out on the town. Yet, I was bringing her alias out to meet the man who is in search for Isabelle. Leaving her alone is basically like setting her free. Letting her go with Everett makes me want to lose my shit, and bringing her into this restaurant would be far worse than either of those other options. I thought I could keep her identity concealed, but I am playing with fire.

"How about I take you out for dinner," Everett offers. "It would be a waste after you got all dressed up just to go back to the hotel alone." 

A pain gnaws in my gut, culminating an urge to punch Everett in the jaw. I haven't admitted to him that I had feelings for Isabelle, or that they've come rushing back. He's been trying his hand with her since we met, and he's not the type to give up easily. This is the perfect opportunity for him to make a move, and I don't know how Isabelle feels about either of us. For all I know, she may never want to come near me again after I basically ravaged her today. 

"Axel, is that okay with you?" Isabelle asks, waving her hand in front of my face. "Are you okay?" 

I don't know how much of the conversation I've missed but they're both staring at me, waiting for an answer. "Yeah, I said I don't care."

"No, you didn't," Isabelle says. 

"Well, I don't, so go," I tell them.

Everett places his hand on Isabelle's semi-bare back before walking away with her. "Give me a call if you need anything," he says. 

"Will do," I tell him. I can glare at him all I want and he can attempt to decipher what the look means, but probably won't. I don’t think he understands how badly I want to be away from this goddamn situation, the contract I signed with Roberts, Boston, and basically everything else in my life.

Isabelle gives me a solemn look as she curls her fingers into a quick wave. "Good luck," she says. 

I head into the restaurant, refusing to turn around and watch them walk away, knowing they'll have a good time tonight. Everett is the definition of a good time and I'm just the rock with no visible emotions. Chicks don’t dig that sort of thing from what I’ve experienced. 

As I step inside, I'm greeted by the hostess, clothed in a black fitted dress. "Mr. Pierce," she greets me. "Will there be others joining you?"

"No, it’s just me tonight." 

I follow her into the main dining area that’s dimly lit with only whispering conversations. I spot Agent Roberts toward the back of the restaurant in a secluded area as usual. The hostess pulls the chair out for me and leaves us to our privacy.

"Pierce, how goes it?" he greets me while taking a long sip of his whiskey. 

"Good, sir, and you?" I ask while taking my seat.

"Just fine. Where is your partner? He's usually here with you." A waitress appears from behind me and places down a matching glass of whiskey in front of me. 

"Thank you," I tell her. 

"He had an engagement tonight," I tell him, feeling a knot form in my throat. I don't know how much or how little Roberts knows about my life but being affiliated with the government in any sense tells me he has the ability to know everything there is to know, including the small fact of Isabelle being in our custody. 

"I see," he says. I lift the glass and spill a mouthful of whiskey down my throat, inviting the grizzly burn that accompanies it. "How are we doing with the case?" 

"Still no sight of her yet," I tell him, staring him down to show anything but the fear running through me. 

"I saw the arrest this morning," Roberts says. 

"I was buying us more time, sir." That part is true.

"Good thinking." Roberts's focus moves from one side of the room to the other as if he were either waiting for someone or suspicious of something. "Look, Pierce, I know you've been doing everything in your power to find Isabelle, but it's been over six months and we need to speed up this process." 

I was afraid of when I'd reach the point of this conversation. I've been receiving large weekly paychecks for months and I have found nothing according to him. "I understand, sir." 

"I'm aware you utilized a few of our death-row convicts for testing, but wasn’t there another suspect you found too—someone who resembled Isabelle? You were testing her knowledge, correct?" Nothing gets by him. I should have assumed he had tabs on everything going on.

"Yeah, I was wrong, though," I tell him. "She’s not Isabelle."

"Are you sure you were wrong?" 

It takes a lot to make me nervous, to make me twitch, or break a sweat, but I'm about to keel over from apprehension. "She wasn't Isabelle," I tell him again. 

The waitress returns with two dinner plates, filled with a variety of meats, veggies, and starch. She doesn't ask if we need anything else, nor does she make eye contact with either of us. A napkin roll is placed to my left by another attendant and my whiskey is refilled by an aluminum shaker. 

"Isabelle Hammel has been missing since the day Mason Phillips was arrested. What do you think that means?" he asks. He knows something. He wouldn’t be asking me this.

"She's either dead or has changed her name," I respond quickly. 

"She's not dead," he says. "In fact, we receive the weekly reports of fake ID's scanned from across the country, and last week, we received one report from a bar in Boston. A woman by the name of Harley Salem used a fake ID at this bar." This doesn't sound like something Isabelle would accidentally screw up. 

"Really?" I ask, casually, while slicing into my steak. 

"Fake ID's didn't matter much back in the day because we didn't have the ability to track them via the chip that is now inside of the plastic. The chip that was found inside of this particular ID came from a third-party distributor, though. The vendor is a post-grad, twenty-something-year-old who was making bank out of her three-hundred-square-foot apartment. This vendor also happens to be an old friend of Isabelle Hammel. Of course, this could be a complete coincidence, but we'll need to check it out." 

Oh shit. The bar we all went to. She didn't get carded. None of us did. The memory of the douche bag hitting on her and buying her shots slings through my head. She was up at the bar with him and they must have carded her then. "Of course. I can do that as soon as I return to Boston," I tell him. 

"Perfect, I'll be interested to hear what you find out."

"Me too," I tell him, taking another bite to fill my mouth.

"I gotta hand it to this vendor, though, the ID was solid. It had everything a registered ID would have except for the trademarked chip that only the Government has visibility on. The typical scanners can't detect this type of information yet, but the reports we receive show the discrepancies. In any case, I'm hoping we're coming to the end of this search soon." Roberts lifts his glass and holds it up, waiting for the return gesture. I clink my glass against his and shoot down most of the whiskey. I have to get her out of Boston. Harley Salem must go. 

"So, did you hear about the Sox's new lineup for the upcoming seasons. It's nothing to blink at, huh?" 

"Yeah, I think we have a good shot at bringing it home again this year. The Sox don't let us down too often, that's for sure." 

The conversation is becoming uncomfortable and we busy ourselves with finishing up what's left on our plates. Usually, Everett is here to keep the random pieces of conversation going but Roberts and I are one of the kind when it comes to socializing, it's not preferred for either of us. He wants and gives the facts, and I do the same, which leaves many quiet moments between. 

He flags over the waitress as he's taking his final bite. Without a word, he points to our two glasses and she rushes off toward the bar. He's attempting to loosen me up. We've never had more than one drink at dinner, and this will make the third overfilled glass of whiskey. 

The same gentleman as before returns with the shaker and fills both of our glasses to the same lines as before. "So, before we finish up here tonight," Roberts begins. "I need to change our plan of action a bit." 

At the moment, I'd like to inhale the whiskey in order to re-open my lungs that feel like they’re collapsing. With that thought, I take a mouthful, no longer feeling the burn drip down the back of my throat. A numbness has taken its place. "It turns out Isabelle has an outstanding piece of evidence we need to retrieve before you bring her to me. We’ve seen the situation before where there is hard evidence being kept on a suspect, and they will either ingest the object or use other—methods to make sure they go down with the evidence." 

"What is it I'll be searching for?" I question.

"It’s an encrypted SD card." Everett mentioned finding the card she had evidently been sleeping with. "If you locate it, it will have the Darkest Perception documentation and an MP3 file of Perception’s Ensemble. It’s important we have the card and Isabelle intact." 

I pull out my phone to make a note of it, finding my display empty of missed calls and texts. It's rare when I have one, but for some reason, it never goes unnoticed that I'm probably the only person on the face of this earth who wonders what it's like to have someone trying to contact me for personal reasons. 

Roberts polishes off his glass of whiskey, and I follow in suit. "Dinner was great," I tell him, closing the conversation.

"Thank you for taking the time to meet with me," he responds cordially. "I'm looking forward to hearing what you find out this week." 

"Absolutely," I tell him. 

We both stand from the table and take a couple of steps toward the exit when Roberts grabs me by my jacket sleeve. "Pierce," he says under his breath. "I can trust you with this case, can't I? I mean, you know what's at stake here." Two fingers from his free hand jab into the center of my spine, sending along his message loud and clear. I either walk away without a criminal record, or I am dead. 

"Yes, sir, you can trust that I will handle this situation." Meaning, Isabelle will end up dead. 

He slaps my back with laughter. "I'm just messing with you kid. I know you'll do right by me." It's no joke. He's made it clear several times. 

"Thank you, again," I offer before taking the lead out of the restaurant. 

I walk in the opposite direction of the hotel, afraid to run into Everett and Isabelle. My walk around the city has caused a buildup of the anxiety that has been brewing, and for the life of me I don't know what the hell I'm going to do about this.