This Could Be Us (Skyland, #2)(35)

“As you know, it’s in the FBI’s hands now, but based on the trail my team was able to establish,” I answer, looking down the length of the table, “we’ve traced about three million and recovered about two million of that. Without account numbers and a reliable map of his transactions, I can’t be sure.”

“So your best estimate is that we have recovered maybe a third of what he’s taken,” Delores says. “But most likely less than that.”

“I would say that’s a fair assessment.” I nod. “I still think we’re missing something. Or rather someone.”

“Are you saying you think another CalPot employee,” Brett starts, his expression darkening, “is part of this? That we have a thief still on our payroll?”

“I can’t say definitely,” I admit. “It’s an instinct.”

“Your instincts have gotten us this far,” Delores says. “I know you’ve got that fancy degree, but I think that gut of yours is the best thing you have going for you.”

“It’ll take more than my gut to get that money back.” I lock my fingers behind my head. “We need a break.”

Or a miracle.

“Fuck instinct,” Dick says, seated across from me. “Have we put more pressure on the wife? Is everyone on this team taken by a pretty smile and a great ass? That’s where we should be applying pressure. I’d bet my next paycheck Soledad’s in on it.”

“I’ll take you up on that offer.” I sit forward and rest my elbows on the conference room table, tenting my fingers and looking dead in his eyes. “Donation to my favorite cause?”

“What are you talking about?” Dick huffs a confused laugh.

“You said you’d bet your next paycheck that Soledad is involved in Edward’s shit. I’m taking you up on it. When I figure this out, and Soledad didn’t do anything wrong, you can donate your full paycheck to the cause of my choice. I know several charities who could use it.”

“I didn’t…” Red flares on Dick’s cheeks. “I wasn’t—”

“We all heard you,” Delores weighs in. “You did say you bet your paycheck.”

“It’s a figure of speech,” Dick says stiffly.

“It’s someone’s life,” I counter, my calm tone belying the anger straining my composure. “Someone’s children you’re talking about. I take it all very seriously, including when you put your paycheck up to persuade this team to ruin Soledad Barnes without any substantial proof.”

“It’s that damn booty,” Dick sighs, shaking his head.

“Enough,” Brett snaps, looking between Dick and me with impatience. “There’ll be no bet and there’ll be no more pressure applied.” He looks at me meaningfully. “For now. The longer this goes on, the colder that trail gets and the less likely we’ll recover our money.”

He rises, jerks his head for Willa to follow, and leaves the room.

I stand immediately in case Dick says some sideways shit to provoke me. He is not usually perceptive, but he somehow has tapped into something I hate to admit even to myself.

I have a soft spot for Soledad.

As much as I try to ruthlessly suppress my instinct to protect her, it won’t stay down.

Delores stands at the door waiting. I keep walking past her, even when I see her open her mouth to speak.

“I have a meeting in ten minutes,” I tell her, not pausing on the path to my office. “We can talk later.”

If I have a soft spot for Soledad, so does she, and I don’t need any help sympathizing with a woman who could very well be the missing link to crack this case open.

I round the corner to the suite that holds my office and come to a halt when I reach my assistant’s desk. Sitting in the waiting room is the last person I expected to see.

“Soledad?” I ask, slowing my steps until I’m standing in front of her.

She looks up, her eyes liquid and dark, her face a landscape of lush lips and heavy lashes. The deep waves of her amber-streaked hair pile into a messy bun, soft curls escaping at the edges of her hairline and neck. Her slim-fitting jeans, ballet flats, silk T-shirt, and long camel-colored cashmere coat make her look delicate and expensive.

But there’s desperation in the way she clutches her purse strap, in the wide eyes ringed with fear. Signs of strain peek out from beneath her carefully crafted composure.

“I told her you have a meeting in a few minutes,” says my assistant, Perri, impatience in her tone and the press of her lips. “She insisted that—”

“It’s okay, P,” I tell her, not looking away, unable to look away from the sober expression on Soledad’s face.

“I just need a few minutes,” Soledad says, her voice hoarse and scraped over. “I won’t take much of your time.”

“I’ve been trying to tell you,” Perri says. “He doesn’t have a few minutes. He has a meeting. You can’t just come in here and—”

“Cancel it.” I swing a glance at Perri to shut her protests down. “The meeting. Cancel it.”

I’m the only Black director at Callahan, the first to ever serve as director of accounting. As one of the few other Black employees on this floor, Perri is always careful to present herself professionally. Full face of makeup, stylish wardrobe with coordinating hijabs. Prompt, efficient, thorough. She takes pride not only in her position, but in mine. It makes her very protective.