"I don't either," she said, disappointment running across her face. "It doesn't make sense. We're missing something." She stood up and paced back and forth in front of the window. "And Dominic is a common denominator, but how does he really play into this?" She paused, and he could see the new idea jumping into her gaze.

  "He's not responsible for the bombings," he said.

  "He could be. Maybe Samantha wasn't just his girlfriend; she was investigating him, and he needed to take her out, but not in a way that would make him a suspect."

  "That's too far out there."

  "And what if James Cooper was a thorn in his side? What if they weren't friendly? What if Cooper was standing in Dominic's way of getting a building approved? Maybe he was also an enemy to Dominic's ambition."

  "You're painting a picture, but I don't think it's the right picture."

  "You don't know that it's wrong," she argued.

  "I know you want all this to make sense. But think about what we've seen. If Dominic wanted to take these two people out, is this how he would do it? He can afford to buy whatever he wants, and I've seen no evidence of him being violent or choosing a violent means to an end. I'm not saying he's never crossed a line. But he uses money, not bombs, to get what he wants."

  "Money could buy a bomb maker."

  "Too public," he said. "Not Dominic's style."

  She sat back down. "Are you basing that on now, or on the guy you first met in school?"

  "Perhaps both."

  "What was Dominic like when he was a teenager?"

  "He was as confident and arrogant as he is now, but he was also fun, friendly, someone who had a lot of big ideas and carried many people in his wake. Because being around him felt like being part of something really cool."

  She gave him an interested look. "So, you wanted to be cool back then?"

  He smiled. "Doesn't every teenager want to be part of the in-group?"

  "Maybe. But you don't seem like someone who is concerned about peer pressure or being liked. Unless you changed…"

  "I had to change schools a lot. Every time my mom got a new post, I had to start over, and it was never easy. That school, filled with all those rich kids, was definitely one of the harder groups to break into. But when Dominic befriended me, my life got easier. And I was always grateful to him for that. But I could see through him better than others could. I could see the vulnerability, the insecurity."

  "Where did that come from?"

  "His father. He was hard on Dominic, always disappointed in him. Whatever Dominic did wasn't good enough. That attitude drove Dominic to higher heights than he would have reached if he hadn't had a father like that. Dominic has always had something to prove to his father."

  "Is his father still alive?"

  "Yes. He lives in London, and even with all of Dominic's success, the man still asks him when he's going to do more for the world and not just for himself."

  "Is that why he's investing so much in Tajikistan and other countries?"

  "I think so. And it's also why he wants the press to cover his philanthropy. He wants to make sure his father knows without having to tell him."

  "So odd that Dominic would still care so much about impressing his dad."

  "His father is a narcissist. He's never going to be impressed by his son. He's never going to give Dominic the validation he craves. But even if Dominic logically knows that he can't stop trying."

  "I guess I can understand that. The need to be seen by the people you love can be powerful." She paused. "What about you? Did your parents push you?"

  "No. My parents were very involved in their own careers, not that they didn't care about me, but they weren't all that concerned with how I was doing in school or what I wanted to be when I grew up. They just told me I should find my passion and follow it."

  "But you didn't start at the CIA. You worked as a journalist, right?"

  He smiled. "I almost forgot you looked me up."

  "Why did you want to be a reporter? And why did you stop wanting to be that?"

  "I'd been traveling the world my entire life; I figured I'd just keep going, be a foreign correspondent. I had some language skills, and I couldn't see myself behind a desk working a nine-to-five job, so that's where I started."

  "And the CIA recruited you? Or…was the reporting job always just a cover?"

  He smiled. "It was an actual job that I did for almost two years. But I got tired of showing up after the damage had been done. Filming the aftermath, interviewing the survivors, documenting the destruction." He picked up his beer and took a swig. "One day, a guy approached me in Istanbul. Said he worked for the CIA, that they could use someone with my access and my cover. Someone who spoke the languages, understood the cultures, and had the State Department connections. It felt like a chance to be more proactive, so I took it. Occasionally, I still used the cover, but I had other covers as well."

  "And you liked it for a while?"

  "Almost ten years," he said.

  "And you got to see a lot of the world."

  "Too much of some places," he said, a little darkness leeching into his voice.

  She immediately frowned. "Like…"

  "I think we've had enough honest talk for a while. I'm hungry. Do you want to order a pizza?"

  She thought about that for a moment. "You could just go home and eat."

  "I have nothing to eat at my apartment."

  "You live above a restaurant."

  "And I need a change from dumplings. You don't feel like cooking, do you? And I suspect you don't want to go out, so let me buy you a pizza."

  "Only if we can keep talking about Dominic. I can't just do nothing the rest of the evening."

  "Then let's work on the case together," he said. "Because I'd like to find some answers, too, so I can get back to my real job." Pulling out his phone, he pulled up a food app. "What do you like on your pizza?"

  "Everything," she said.

  "Are you sure, because I might take you seriously. And I haven't had the greatest experience with ordering when a woman says she doesn't care."

  She laughed. "Okay, no pineapple or anchovies. Anything else is fair game."

  "Great. I love specifics. Makes it so much easier." He ordered an extra-large pizza and then said, "It should be here in about twenty minutes."

  "Perfect. I'm getting hungry. It's been a long time since that Caesar salad. The days feel like they're flying by, but we're not getting a lot done." She paused, confusion in her gaze. "I have to say, today's explosion was shocking. I really thought the café bombing was a one-off, that it was about taking out Samantha Barkley. But it wasn't."

  "No, it wasn't."

  "I'm tired, but I also feel wired, you know?"

  "I know. It's part of the job," he said with complete understanding.

  "What was it like being a secret agent?"

  He smiled at her words. "It was exciting."

  "Really? I thought you were going to lie and say it wasn't at all interesting."

  "Are you kidding? I was living a hundred different lives all over the world."

  "That sounds both fun and exhausting. Maybe even a little lonely," she ventured, giving him a questioning look.

  "Sometimes. There were jobs when there was a lot of waiting around, sitting in a hotel room until a meeting could get set up, but I always had a mission. And that focus made the waiting more tolerable, the isolation more acceptable. I'm sure you can relate."

  "In the NYPD, I always had a partner, and most of them were great. They became close friends. The FBI has been harder to find that kind of connection, but I went to Quantico and then to 26 Fed and now to a new team, so I haven't been anywhere long enough to forge a close relationship. And to be honest, I'm also more wary after what happened to me. I don't trust as easily as I used to. Maybe that's a good thing."

  "Probably," he agreed. "Trust can be used as a weapon."

  "Sometimes you say very dark things."

  He tipped his head in acknowledgment. "Sometimes I feel very dark things."

  Her expression grew more serious. "You have a wound, something that hurts, and I'm guessing it's not just about the criminal who was turned into an asset. Something else happened, something more personal."

  His gut tightened with each word as she came dangerously close to a truth he didn't want to talk about. His phone dinged, and he took a grateful breath. "The pizza is almost here. I'll go get it."

  "Saved by the pizza," she said dryly as he stood up. "But I don't think I'm wrong."

  "I didn't say you were."

  "You didn't say anything."

  "We have enough to talk about in the present; we don't need to go into the past." He headed out the door and down the hall and opened the front door just as the delivery guy walked up the stairs. He took it inside and found Kara pulling out plates and napkins, and he was relieved to be done with a conversation that had gotten far deeper than he'd wanted it to.

  Chapter Twelve

  After a delicious, filling pizza, of which she ate far too many slices, Kara grabbed her computer and brought it over to the table while Max finished eating. They hadn't talked about the case or their pasts over pizza, keeping the conversation to more neutral topics. Although she had learned that he loved baseball, was a big fan of indie films versus commercial blockbusters, had read a fair amount of history books, and had favorite foods in probably six different cultures. He was smart, well-read, and one of the sexiest men she'd ever met, and the more she got to know him, the more she liked him.

  She told herself not to get carried away, not to trust everything that he said. He'd admitted to being a spy. He knew how to create a persona, and she'd made mistakes before believing someone to be good when they were anything but good.

  Forcing herself to stop thinking about Max, she put Whitney Holden's name into the search engine. While she didn't have access to her team's resource databases on her personal computer, she could still do a little digging.

  "What are you looking up?" Max asked.

  "Information on Whitney Holden."

  "She really bothered you."

  "She bothered you, too."

  "She did," he admitted. "But she could have just been shaken up by her close call with death. It's not surprising she wasn't thinking clearly."

  "Look at you, giving her the benefit of the doubt," she said dryly.

  He smiled. "I try not to see anyone as just one thing, because no one ever is."

  "No, they're not," she murmured as her gaze scanned Whitney's profile. "This is interesting. Whitney is into fitness. She goes to the gym three to four times a week and has a personal trainer named Giannis, who works at…" She looked over the top of her computer. "Wanna guess?"

  "Forge Fitness."

  "You win. Whitney also goes to the gym where Samantha went, where Jonas Cray was seen, and where Elias Costa lied to us about knowing Jonas. I need to talk to her now."

  "Now?" he echoed, glancing down at his watch. "It's after nine."

  "I don't care. It can't wait until tomorrow. She could run." As she finished speaking, she opened the email Wes had sent her earlier, which contained Whitney's personal information, including her phone number and address. "She lives in Brooklyn. I'm going to see if I can catch her at home, maybe before she has time to call her lawyer."

  "She probably already did that," he said, getting up along with her. "I'll go. You might need backup."

  "I can call Tyler to meet me there."

  "Or I can just go with you. I will have your back, Kara."

  She didn't believe everything he said, but she believed that. And she didn't want to waste time trying to reach Tyler, who'd already told her he was meeting a friend. "Let's go."

  "I'll drive," he said. "You can keep digging into Whitney on the way, just in case we don't find her at home. We need to know who her friends and family are, and who might take her in if she were in trouble."

  She nodded, grabbing her jacket as she followed him out the door.

  On the drive to Brooklyn, she researched Whitney. "She lives her life online," she told Max as he sped through the dark city streets. "She's thirty-five years old and single now after her last boyfriend cheated on her. She loves working out, nutrition, manifesting, and poker."

  "That's quite a combination," Max muttered. "Maybe she played poker with Costa."

  "I don't think she's a high roller, but she's a pretty, single woman. They might have wanted her in the game." Her gaze moved down the page. "Turns out the cheating boyfriend made a living online playing poker, so she probably learned a lot from him."

  "Wonder if she's racked up some debt."

  "And maybe needed a quick payout," she said, following his train of thought. "She doesn't seem violent or dangerous or ideologically anything. But she seems to like attention, and her social media pages are full of rants about being used or taken for granted. I both can and can't believe she puts all this online for anyone to read."

  "It wouldn't be difficult to manipulate her after hearing what you just told me."

  "No, it wouldn't," she agreed. "Maybe that will help us get her to open up."

  "We're almost there," he said, checking the GPS.

  She straightened in her seat, scanning the addresses. "That's it."

  As Max pulled up in front of a duplex and turned off the lights, she saw a woman come out of the front door carrying a suitcase. She was on her phone and didn't notice them at all as she headed to the car parked in front of the garage. She opened her trunk and struggled with the phone in one hand and what appeared to be a heavy suitcase in the other.

  "She's running," she said, her hand on the door. She sprang out of the car, with Max right behind her. They were at the car before Whitney realized they were there. She squealed in alarm as she dropped her phone.

  "Oh my God, you scared me," she said, reaching down to pick up her phone.

  The screen was dark. Whoever had been on the call with her was gone. "Where are you going, Whitney?" she asked.

  "I—I'm going to my mom's house. She lives in New Jersey. I'm too scared to stay here." Whitney's gaze flickered from her to Max and back again. "What are you doing here? I told you everything I know."

  "You didn't tell me you go to Forge Fitness, that you know Elias Costa and Jonas Cray."

  "Jonas? I don't know a Jonas."

  "But you know the others," Max interjected. "Do you play poker with Elias?"

  "I don't understand why you're asking me these questions about the gym?"

  "The gym is tied to the bombing, which means you're tied to the bombing," she said. "You didn't just accidentally forget something before that bomb went off. You knew it was coming. You knew when to get out."

  Whitney's face paled in the shadowy light, and she put a hand to her heart. "I—I didn't know. I swear. I had no idea there was a bomb."

  "You're lying," Max said. "You set your boss up to be killed."

  "I didn't know," she repeated, desperation in her voice.

  "You didn't know they were going to kill James?" she asked, bringing Whitney's attention back to her. "That's good, because then you may escape a murder charge. But there could be other charges unless you help us. Tell us what you know, and I'll make sure you get the best deal possible. Make no mistake, Whitney, you are in a hell of a lot of trouble. A man died today."

  Whitney bit down on her lip so hard that she drew blood. "He just told me to make sure the inspection was today, and to make sure James checked the electrical panel on the fourth floor before he left."

  "Who told you to do that?"

  "His name is Cal. I met him at Forge Fitness at one of Elias's poker games," she admitted.

  "So you did play," she said.

  "Yes, and I lost a lot. I owed Elias forty thousand dollars. He said he'd clear my debt if I did this one small favor for his friend Cal. I couldn't say no. I didn't think anyone was going to die." Her voice broke. "I thought they just wanted to sabotage the inspection, delay the building project. Cal said that someone wanted James to understand his decisions could be painful. And that I should stay out of the electrical closet. I thought maybe there was a hot wire or something in there. Or they wanted him to find something to delay approving the inspection."

  "You thought it was worse than that," Max said sharply. "That's why you ran, isn't it, Whitney?"

  "Something felt off," she admitted. "I was afraid of whatever was coming, so I said I needed to get a file, and I left. I had barely reached the car when the building blew up. It felt like the world shattered around me." She turned from Max to Kara, giving her a pleading look. "I realized I was supposed to be in there when it happened. That I was supposed to die, too. I have to leave tonight. I have to get out of here."

  "You're not going anywhere by yourself because you're not safe," Kara said. "You're a loose end. And someone will want to make sure you never talk. The only way for you to ever be safe again is to work with us."

  The sound of an engine revving snapped her head toward the street. A dark sedan was speeding down the block. The window opened.

  "Gun," she yelled, grabbing Whitney's arm and pulling her back behind the car as gunfire erupted, shattering the windows above their heads.

  Max was on the other side of the car, firing back, but the car had already disappeared around the corner. Dogs barked, and lights came on as the neighbors reacted to the shots.

  She looked down at Whitney, who was crying, her eyes filled with terror. "Are you hurt?"

  She shook her head. "No. I'm terrified."

  "He's gone."

  "For now."

  Max came around the car, his weapon still in his hand. She hadn't realized he had a gun, but she was happy that he did, because she'd been too busy shielding Whitney to fire her own weapon.

  She called 911 to report the incident and to verify she was an FBI agent on scene so the police wouldn't draw their weapons when they saw them. The dispatcher told them that cars were already on the way.