Break Me (Corrupted Hearts Book 2) Page 15

  So not one of those dreams.

  I knew I wasn’t supposed to touch him—as he’d made sure not to touch me during my flashback—so I hurried to sit on the side of the bed, calling his name.

  “Clark, it’s okay. Wake up, Clark. It’s just a nightmare. Wake up.” I repeated the litany over and over, as loud as I could without shouting.

  He kept writhing for a few minutes, but I kept it up, until he finally calmed. I thought maybe he’d settled back into sleep, then gasped when he sat straight up and grabbed my shoulders in a viselike grip.

  “Sayeeda . . .”

  His voice was steel on gravel, his fingers biting into my flesh.

  “Clark, please, it’s me. China. I mean, Mack.” I was desperate for him to wake up. “You’re hurting me!”

  Those words were the right ones because he suddenly snapped out of it. I could see awareness return to his eyes.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I-I heard you,” I stammered. “I-I was worried—”

  “You shouldn’t be in here.”

  The way he said it, the way he still gripped my shoulders, scared me. If someone asked me to describe a man—a dangerous man—on the edge of losing control, it would be Clark in that moment. A chill washed over me.

  “Clark, please . . .” My voice broke.

  He suddenly released me and I sprang to my feet, putting some distance between us. My heart was hammering in my chest and my palms were sweaty. The wall was at my back, but I was still hesitant to leave. The kernel of worry for Clark kept me rooted to the spot.

  Shoving his fingers through his hair, he released a pent-up breath. He was bare-chested and his legs were bare as well. Sweat glistened on his skin, but I was more worried about his state of mind.

  “Are you all right?” I whispered into the darkness.

  Instead of answering, Clark threw aside the covers and stood. That’s when I saw he slept nude.

  Oh. Oh my.

  I hastily looked away, my face burning, as Clark grabbed a pair of jeans and tugged them on. He didn’t bother fastening them, just took my hand.

  “C’mon,” he said. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

  I didn’t protest—didn’t know what in the world to say—and let him lead me back down the hall to the room I’d just come from.

  He readjusted the sheets for me and stepped aside, but it was weird. Something was off. As usual, I was clueless as to what it was and I fumbled for the right thing to say.

  “Clark, I can’t just go to sleep, not knowing if you’ll be all right.”

  “I’m always all right. Get in.”

  But I didn’t. I stayed where I was. “I’m not. Not until you tell me.”

  “Tell you what?”

  His eyes glittered in the darkness and he loomed over me. A shiver ran down my spine, but I still didn’t move. At this point, I didn’t know if it was because I was trying to help, or because I was too frightened.

  “Why did you call me Sayeeda?”

  It felt as though there was a bubble around us. Nothing else existed. And I waited to see if he’d answer me. Finally, he did.

  “You look like her.”

  My heart skipped a beat.

  “Your hair. Your eyes. Talking about it tonight . . . it brought it all back.”

  “I-I’m sorry.” I didn’t know what else to say.

  “It’s not your fault. Go. Get back in bed, Mack.”

  I finally got my feet to move and I climbed into bed. Clark pulled the covers up, tucking them under my arms. My head was full of questions without answers, and an overwhelming feeling of empathy for Clark.

  Impulsively, I reached up, resting a hand along his cheek before he moved away. The shadow of whiskers on his jaw scraped softly against my palm.

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  He froze. I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing, but I thought it bore repeating.

  “What happened to Sayeeda wasn’t your fault, Clark.”

  “You don’t know that, but thank you for the sentiment.” And he was gone.

  It was a long time before I fell back to sleep.

  11

  My cell phone woke me up and I fumbled for it. I didn’t recognize the number, but I answered anyway.

  “Hello, is this China . . .” a man’s voice said, before massacring my last name. Fifteen letters long and unpronounceable by anyone I’d ever encountered. I stopped him midattempt.

  “Speaking. Who is this?”

  “John Dunlap, Department of Justice.”

  I sat up in bed, now fully awake. I certainly hadn’t been expecting that. “Mr. Dunlap, what can I do for you?”

  “We’d like to question you regarding your work at Cysnet under the direction of Jackson Cooper.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. Damn. “I see. And is this a request or a demand?”

  “At the moment, it’s a request. But we can make it a demand, if you prefer.”

  Threats from the government. How strange and unusual. I rolled my eyes. “I understand. When and where will this questioning take place?”

  He gave me an address downtown and I memorized it. “Does today at ten o’clock work in your schedule?”

  I’d rather it be sooner than later, so I agreed.

  “Thank you,” he said, not bothering to try my last name again. “We look forward to speaking with you.”

  I needed a shower and coffee and my own home, in exactly the reverse order.

  It was early even by my standards and I searched near my bedroom, finding a bathroom that had enough spare toiletries under the sink for me to wash my face and brush my teeth. I had no brush or comb so had to use my fingers to smooth my hair well enough to pull it back into my ponytail. Finally, I slipped my glasses on.

  They were an older pair that the optometrist assistant had convinced me were fashionable at the time—black horn-rimmed with tiny rhinestones in the corner—but I’d never gotten used to them and had gotten a new pair from a different shop. Now I was forced to wear them until I got a chance to replace the ones that had been broken Saturday night.

  The house was even more stunning and breathtaking by daylight. The view out the back looked over trees and a river, the fog of early morning still clinging to the grass. A seating area in front of the windows beckoned and I couldn’t help creeping closer for a better look. I had no idea if Clark was awake or not, and part of me hoped he wasn’t. Last night had been . . . strange, even by my standards.

  I sank down into a cozy, overstuffed chair just as I smelled coffee. I glanced up as Clark came around the corner carrying two large mugs.

  “Thought I heard you up,” he said, handing me one.

  “Had a phone call this morning,” I said, taking a sip of the steaming brew. Clark raised his eyebrows in question, settling into the matching chair opposite me. “The DoJ. They want to question me today about Cysnet.”

  “That’s not good. Are you taking a lawyer?”

  I hadn’t thought of that. “Do you think I need one?”

  He shrugged. “That depends. It’s a protection for you, but they haven’t accused you of anything. You might wait and see where the questioning goes. I imagine they’re wanting you as a witness, not as someone to prosecute.”

  “Witness against Jackson, you mean.”

  “They’re looking for more information. I think you can tell them enough to satisfy them without compromising Jackson. Or yourself. Cysnet did nothing wrong, though that may not stop them. Just be circumspect.”

  I looked at him. “Circumspect. Have you met me?”

  He snorted his coffee and choked on a laugh. After coughing a couple of times, he said, “It’ll be okay. You can do it. You just have to think a few steps ahead, that’s all. Give them enough, but no more. As smart as you are, it’ll be a piece of cake.”

  Clark’s words were a welcome surprise and I sipped my coffee. Last night ran through my head, but I decided not to say anything. The adage let s
leeping dogs lie came to mind, one that my grandma’d had to explain to me when I was fifteen.

  “Thanks for letting me come here last night,” I said. “But I’d better get home. I need to change and head downtown for this meeting.”

  “You can’t just go home,” he said. “Lu still knows about you, and he killed someone last night.”

  I ignored the first part of what he said. “Did Genna check in with you? Did she follow him? Did they find out who the guy was?”

  “Lu just went back to his hotel. And the police ran an ID check on the dead guy. His name was Fred Dwyer. He worked for the DoD.”

  “Why would Lu kill him?” I asked. “He had to have known a lot of information.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he had a change of heart. People do sometimes. That weapon he’s after could be just the tip of the iceberg. Or maybe it was a warning to a bigger fish.”

  “Like who?”

  “Like you.”

  That struck the nerve I’d been trying to ignore. “I’ve got to go,” I said, jumping to my feet so quickly, I nearly knocked over my coffee. “I know you’re worried, and I appreciate that, but I’ll be fine. I work almost directly for the president of the United States. I’m incredibly important and would be very difficult to replace. I’ll be okay.”

  I needed my normal routine. Nothing bad would happen to me if I could just get back to routine and schedule. If I said that, I knew I’d sound crazy and I knew it wasn’t logical to think like that. But routine made me comfortable and in control—two things I hadn’t felt for too many days in a row.

  Clark had stood, too, and he looked unconvinced, but there wasn’t anything else he could do—short of forcibly restraining me—and he knew it. He gave a curt nod.

  “Fine. I’ll see you at the office afterward.”

  “Okay.” I passed by him, glancing one more time out the window at the beautiful view, then paused. “Clark?” He turned, his dark brows frowning slightly. “Thank you for showing me this place. And for helping me last night.”

  His face smoothed and I had the fleeting impression that he was relieved. Maybe he was glad I hadn’t brought up what had happened in the middle of the night?

  “No problem.”

  I hurried downstairs, grabbed my keys from the table in the hallway, and was out the door.

  The building where I was supposed to meet Mr. Dunlap was one of those nondescript office buildings that housed a dozen or more businesses. I took a deep breath before going inside. I didn’t want to do this, but also didn’t have a choice.

  I adjusted my jacket when I got in the elevator. I’d worn a dark pair of jeans, my Not All Who Wander Are Lost T-shirt, and a black suit jacket my grandma had made me buy years ago. It was the one business-attire garment I owned.

  Pushing my horn-rimmed glasses up my nose, I tightened my ponytail and stepped off on the twenty-first floor. The corridor was quiet and I navigated to the suite number Dunlap had specified, hesitating before pushing open the door.

  A welcoming reception area lay beyond, with a few sofas and chairs, akin to the waiting room of a psychiatrist’s office rather than a government agency. It was empty save for myself and a woman sitting behind a desk. She glanced up when I walked in.

  “I’m here to see—”

  “Yes, welcome,” she interrupted me with a polite smile. “Right this way.”

  I followed her down a hallway past several closed doors. We entered an open room that looked like your average generic conference room.

  “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Water?”

  “Do you have Red Bull?”

  She looked at me for a moment, then smiled the perfect, polite smile that I never could quite master. “I’m sorry, but we don’t.”

  “It was worth a shot. Thanks.”

  She left and I considered the seating before choosing a chair. Back to the windows so a glare wouldn’t be in my eyes, and somewhere in the middle, not the end.

  I was nervous, the urge to tighten my ponytail nearly overwhelming. The last thing I wanted to do was implicate Jackson in any wrongdoing and jeopardize not only his company, but his freedom as well.

  They had me wait nearly seven minutes before entering, three men, all in suits. I stood when they walked in the door.

  “Good morning,” the first to enter said, and I noticed he didn’t attempt my last name again. “I’m John Dunlap. Thank you for coming. These are my associates.” He didn’t introduce them, just gave a generic hand wave their way after shaking my hand. All three took side-by-side seats opposite me. Fabulous. I felt as though I was facing the Inquisition.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said. Completely false, but societal convention and all.

  “We won’t be taking up much of your time,” he said, opening a legal pad and brandishing a pen. One of the “associates” pulled out a voice recorder and set it on the table. I eyed it. “We just want you to answer a few questions and you can be on your way.”

  I nodded stiffly, waiting for the “few” questions.

  “You worked at Cysnet for a total of how long?”

  “Four years.”

  “And you worked on a variety of different projects, correct?”

  Duh. “Of course.”

  “Any of these government projects?”

  Trick question. The Vigilance project had been government, but through a third party: Wyndemere. “Maybe. I don’t remember.”

  “You don’t remember if you worked on a government project?” he persisted.

  “Some could have been,” I said. “I was there four years. That’s a lot of projects, some of which I may only have worked a little on.” Which was perfectly true.

  “Do you recall working for a company called Wyndemere?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what sort of work was it?”

  “Project management.” Also true.

  “And what was the purpose of the project? What was it to be used for?”

  Ah. Dicey territory. “I can’t speak to the purpose of the project. Cysnet was hired to complete it. That’s all.”

  Dunlap gave me a sardonic smile. “I find it hard to believe that you wouldn’t know the purpose of a project costing over fifty million dollars.”

  Holy shit. Had that been how much they’d spent? Wow. “I wasn’t privy to the start of the project. A contractor’s death was what brought Cysnet in, as the project was on a deadline.”

  “You’re talking about Tom Lindemann,” he said. “Who committed suicide.”

  Tom hadn’t actually committed suicide, he’d been murdered, but I went with the “official” story. “Yes.”

  “And there were several other Wyndemere employees who suffered fatal . . . accidents . . . while working on the same project as you, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  He glanced up from his notepad, eyebrows raised. “Yet you and Mr. Cooper were unscathed.”

  Was I supposed to apologize for that? It sounded bad when he put it like that, as though our being alive was proof of guilt. I didn’t know what to say at first, then my logic kicked in. “Do you have a question? Because that was a statement, not a question.”

  “I’m just wondering what the project’s purpose was that left so many people dead in the wake of its completion.”

  “Again, that’s a statement.”

  “Let me rephrase. What would you conjecture would be the purpose of the project on which you worked for Wyndemere?”

  “I don’t feel comfortable speculating.”

  The sardonic smile again. “Come now. A woman as obviously intelligent as you—a genius, in fact—would surely have a few theories as to the purpose of a project you’d been brought in to complete?”

  “Anything I say would be a guess,” I said. “And I’m not in the business of guessing. If you want to know the purpose of the software written, I suggest you go to the source.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “Whoever paid, obviously.”

&nbs
p; Dunlap leaned forward. “Well you see, that’s the thing. We can’t seem to find who exactly authorized such an expenditure. All trails lead to a dead end.”

  I wasn’t surprised. The NSA had been the first to commission Vigilance, then abandoned the project once the whole Snowden story broke, fearing more press about government surveillance on its citizens would make things even worse. Vigilance had been resurrected and finished under a secret presidential directive. And I seriously doubted Gammin had left anything to chance in protecting the secrecy of the president’s involvement.

  It was my turn for a sardonic smile and raised eyebrows. “You mean to tell me that the government of the United States can spend over fifty million dollars, and the Department of Justice can’t trace where the money came from?” I laughed a little. “It sounds like you may have your own problems.”

  That must have struck a nerve because his expression turned from knowing to a stiff sort of embarrassment.

  “If you don’t have anything further,” I said while I had him at a disadvantage, “I need to get back to work. I trust you know how to reach me, should you have any more . . . questions.” I got to my feet before he could respond.

  “Of course. Thank you for your time,” Dunlap said, also rising, but I was already through the door. I didn’t breathe properly until I hit the street.

  I needed to get to work so I started walking, but my attention was caught by something else.

  Lance was standing on the sidewalk beside a car. When he caught my eye, he discreetly beckoned.

  I was mindful of anyone who might be watching as I walked over. “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Mr. Cooper is waiting in the car,” he replied, opening the back door.

  I hesitated for a moment, glancing around first, then hurriedly slid inside. Lance closed the door behind me. Jackson was sitting in the backseat.

  “What in the world?” I asked. “How did you know I’d be here?”

  “I have my sources.” He paused. “So what did you tell them?”

  “Nothing. I said nothing at all. Their questions were more insinuations and subtle accusations than anything concrete. I don’t think they have any hard evidence at all. Just conjecture and supposition.”