Storm's Cage by Mary Stone (uplifting novels .TXT) 📕

silence as Amelia worked her house key free from the ring. She’d turned off her car close to thirty minutes ago, and she’d spent at least twenty with her blank stare fixed on what she could see of the Chicago skyline.

Amelia had awoken before the sun had crested the horizon. Her sleep had been plagued with nightmares that featured both Joseph Larson and Luca Passarelli. Even her pedophile math teacher from sixth grade, Mr. Davids, had made an appearance.

She’d woken with a start four separate times. Thankfully, Hup was adept at her duties as Amelia’s emotional support animal. Each time Amelia woke, Hup’s ears perked up as if she’d been watching over her the whole time.

The little ball of fluff would open her luminescent eyes, zeroing in on Amelia’s face. With a soft mew, Hup would stretch and snuggle in closer to her human. If that didn’t do the trick, she’d find Amelia’s soft spot and knead her paws against the blanket, massaging Amelia’s belly until she drifted back to sleep.

Before she’d headed out to the FBI office at the crack of dawn, Amelia popped open a can of wet food, much to Hup’s delight. Sniffling and blinking away tears, she’d scratched the cat’s head as she choked out a goodbye.

Hup wouldn’t understand why Amelia never came back. She’d think that she’d been abandoned, that her human no longer cared about her. She’d be scared and alone, just like Amelia.

Amelia closed her hand around the silver key and let her head loll back against the seat. Hup wouldn’t be alone for long, at least. If the worst came to pass, Hup would have a new home with Zane.

The logical part of Amelia’s brain told her she wasn’t likely to be sent off to prison immediately, or potentially at all.

But Amelia Storm wasn’t one to count on best-case scenarios. She’d heard stories of trigger-happy police officers who’d killed suspects and innocent bystanders alike. Plenty of them had returned to the force within a month, but she didn’t want that to be her story. Her mother had taught her to own up to her mistakes, to take responsibility.

So, that’s what she would do. What she should have done from the start. If she’d come clean right away, Joseph Larson never would have had an opportunity for blackmail. Maybe he’d have left her alone.

Yeah, right.

She didn’t understand why Joseph had to do this to her, and she knew that she’d drive herself insane if she tried to search for a reason.

He’d lied after she’d shoved him away the night before, she was sure. She might not have been confident that she’d been justified when she killed Alton Dalessio, but she knew for certain that she’d never sucked up to Joseph so he’d lie to the FBI for her.

She’d never asked Joseph Larson for a damn thing.

As the thud of a car door cut through the still air, Amelia gasped and jerked upright. Blinking against the haze of sleep, she snatched up her phone to check the time. Half past seven in the morning.

Shit. She’d spaced off for almost forty-five minutes.

Rubbing the corners of both eyes, she dropped the smartphone in her handbag and pushed open the door.

She’d hoped that by arriving at the office so early, she’d beat Joseph to a meeting with SAC Keaton. If Jasmine Keaton was going to learn that one of her agents had killed a suspect without justification, then she’d hear the admission from the source.

With a long drink from her lukewarm coffee, Amelia glanced up and down the rows of parked cars. Though there were more vehicles than she’d spotted upon her arrival, she didn’t see Joseph’s car.

She kept a lookout as she hurried across the garage to a set of glass double doors, but she still didn’t spot Joseph’s gunmetal sedan. She thought she spotted Zane’s Acura, but she pushed aside the thought and jogged the rest of the distance to the elevator.

By the time she reached the hall that led to Jasmine Keaton’s office, Amelia was out of breath. She’d planned to post up on a nearby bench if the SAC’s door was closed, but to her relief, a slat of golden light fell across the carpeted floor.

Straightening the front of her black button-down—the third black shirt she’d worn this week, almost as if she was in mourning—Amelia inhaled to the count of six and then breathed out to the count of four. She was glad that she was out of sight of the main corridor as she repeated the technique a couple more times. Passersby would have thought she’d lost her mind.

Once she was satisfied that she no longer sounded like she’d just finished an Iron Man marathon, she swallowed her mounting trepidation and walked to the open doorway.

Before she could knock, SAC Keaton looked up, as if sensing Amelia’s presence. “Agent Storm. Good morning.”

Amelia didn’t trust herself to come up with any pleasantries. “Morning. I was…wondering if you had a few minutes? I had something I wanted to talk to you about.”

SAC Keaton straightened in her office chair. “Sure. I’m not scheduled for any meetings until noon, believe it or not. Come on in.”

As she stepped over the threshold, Amelia guided the door closed behind herself. Clearing her throat, she shrugged her handbag off her shoulder and took a seat facing the SAC’s cluttered desk.

Jasmine folded her hands and turned her attention to Amelia. “What’s on your mind? Anything I can help you with?”

Though Amelia had mentally gone over her spiel more times than she could count, she hadn’t spoken a word out loud. Her pulse buzzed in her ears, and her palms ached from how tightly she’d clamped her hands. Her throat was so tight, she was surprised she could swallow.

She wasn’t here to defend herself. She wasn’t here to lie.

She was here to tell the truth. No more, and no less.

Amelia cleared her throat. “I…I wanted to talk to you about Alton Dalessio.”

“Okay. Go ahead.”

With a weary sigh she could no