Chapter 5 The Man Sent for Her

Weston

The suitcase told me Brooke Mitchell was about to run.

She stood inside the open garage with one hand wrapped around its handle, staring at my badge instead of my face. Most people looked at the gun first. Brooke studied the credentials like she was checking the fine print on a contract.

“Special Agent Weston Foxx,” I repeated. “FBI.”

“Let me see that again.”

I held the badge out rather than approaching her. She didn’t move closer, either.

“Open it.”

I did.

Her eyes moved over my photograph, name, and agency information before lifting back to mine. Nothing about her posture relaxed.

According to the classified file I’d spent most of the afternoon reading, that caution was calculated. Brooke Mitchell was a twenty-seven-year-old technology executive suspected of facilitating illegal international financial operations through Mitchell Systems. 

The intelligence package connected her company to organized criminal networks, classified her as a potential national-security threat, and suggested she could be responsible for her father’s murder.

One assessment went further.

Potential traitor. High flight risk. Specialized apprehension authorized.

My orders were simple: locate Brooke Mitchell before local authorities lost control of the situation and bring her into federal custody.

She didn’t know that part yet.

“Are you here to arrest me?” she asked.

Direct. No wasted movement, no attempt to charm me.

“I’m here because staying in this house isn’t safe.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

Her mouth tightened. “So answer the question.”

I understood why the file called her difficult. I was less convinced about the manipulative part.

“Not right now.”

“That is an impressively reassuring answer from someone who wants me to get into his vehicle.”

Her gaze shifted toward the black SUV parked behind me, then toward the street. She was evaluating exits.

So was I.

“You packed quickly,” I said.

“Someone broke into my house while I was upstairs.”

“I know.”

“Then you also know why I’m not interested in spending the night here.”

“I know enough to tell you that leaving alone would be a mistake.”

Brooke released the suitcase handle and folded her arms. “And somehow going somewhere unspecified with an FBI agent who won’t tell me why he’s here is the intelligent option?”

“Compared to driving away with no destination while the police consider you a murder suspect? Yes.”

Her expression hardened.

The file photographs showed a different woman. Perfect hair, tailored suits, controlled smiles beside politicians and corporate executives. The woman standing in front of me wore jeans and a sweater, her hair pulled into a loose knot and exhaustion carved beneath her eyes.

That didn’t make her innocent.

Dangerous people rarely looked dangerous when standing beneath suburban garage lights.

“I have an attorney,” she said.

“I know.”

“Then call Evelyn Shaw.”

“I can.”

“That means you won’t.”

“It means I’m trying to get you somewhere secure before we spend an hour arguing about procedure.”

Her laugh held no humor. “People have been making decisions for me all week under the excuse that they know what’s best. You’ll forgive me if that particular sales pitch isn’t working anymore.”

Something in the way she said it caught my attention.

“You think I’m trying to control you.”

“I think you’re refusing to tell me whether I’m free to say no.”

Fair point.

Unfortunately, answering honestly would end the conversation.

I shifted my attention toward the street as a sedan slowed at the intersection before continuing past. Probably nothing, but Brooke noticed me watching it.

“Am I being followed?”

“Possibly.”

That got through the armor. Her eyes moved toward the road.

“By who?”

“That’s what I’m trying to determine.”

“The people who killed my father?”

“You’re assuming someone killed him.”

“The police are investigating a homicide.”

“They’re investigating you for it.”

Her gaze snapped back to mine. “I didn’t kill my father.”

The certainty was immediate.

I’d interviewed liars before. Good ones could manufacture outrage, tears, even grief. Brooke gave me none of that. She simply looked furious that I had said it aloud.

“The evidence doesn’t look good,” I said.

“The evidence looks perfect. That’s different.”

That was nearly identical to a note buried in the case assessment from her attorney.

Interesting.

She continued before I could answer. “Someone used my credentials, put my authentication key in my father’s office, and made sure half the ballroom watched us argue before he died. Now someone breaks into my house and ignores everything worth stealing. Either I have spectacularly bad luck, or somebody is arranging this.”

“And you decided running would improve how that looks?”

“I decided staying somewhere a stranger can walk into while I’m upstairs is stupid.”

Another fair point.

The intelligence brief had painted her as entitled, impulsive, and accustomed to buying her way out of consequences. So far, she had called the police during the break-in, cooperated with investigators through an attorney, audited her own company, and packed only after someone entered her home.

The picture wasn’t matching the file as neatly as it should have.

That didn’t change my orders.

I stepped closer. “Brooke, whoever is behind this knows what your father was involved in. They know what you found, and they know what they’re looking for. If you stay alone, they’ll come again.”

Her face gave nothing away.

I should have stopped there.

Instead, I added, “And if they believe 041973 leads somewhere, losing the ring probably won’t be enough to make them stop.”

Brooke went completely still.

I knew the mistake before she spoke.

“What did you just say?”

I didn’t answer.

She took one slow step backward into the garage.

“The officers know someone searched my house,” she said. “They know I told them one personal item was missing. I never told them about the engraving.”

My jaw tightened.

“And I definitely never told them the numbers.”

“Brooke.”

“No.”

Her hand slid into her pocket, probably toward her phone.

“How do you know about 041973?”

There was no clean answer I could give her without revealing the classified intelligence behind my mission.

Her expression changed as she reached the same conclusion.

Whatever she had thought I was when I arrived, it wasn’t a rescuer anymore.

She tightened her grip on the suitcase and stared at me.

“You weren’t sent here to protect me.”

Not exactly.

And judging by the look on her face, she already knew it.