“We’ve had a problem for several weeks now, sir.” She saw his eyebrow wing up in silent question. That’s right. I have the job now. I’m going to act like I’m here to stay, even if you’re seconds away from firing my ass. Fake it. “I’m not sure what changed today that you needed me in here. I understand this is an expensive hit to take, but—”

“It’s more than that. We might have a suspect.”

She blinked at that, and had to remind herself to breathe. “Thank God.”

Andrew opened the folder, let out a deep breath and passed it over to her. It took her a full ten seconds to understand what she was looking at. Greg, but a younger version, staring at her from a mug shot.

A mug shot.

She looked up, saw her supervisor’s grim face, and held up the file. “What is this?”

“I thought you would be telling me.” Andrew swiveled in his chair, as if giving her a moment to answer. When she just stared, dumbfounded, he continued. “A couple of days ago, you were in here signing a form disclosing your relationship. You’re telling me you had no clue about this?”

“I . . .” She looked down again, reading the text that came with the heartbreaking photo. Words jumped out at her, like popcorn from the oil. Foster homes. Fighting. Petty theft. Criminal mischief. Juvenile detention.

“Where did you get this?” When he didn’t answer, she held it up. “Where? Where did this come from? If these are juvenile records, they should be sealed. This isn’t stuff you can just search online for.”

She would know. She’d searched all her Marines’ names, most especially Greg’s. She’d uncovered none of this.

“It was dropped off anonymously.” Andrew lifted a hand, let it fall heavily to the desk. “Someone is concerned that he’s our man. Our vandal. The thief,” he added with a grimace. Then he motioned for the file folder back. “Can’t say I don’t blame them, with this history.”

Her head hurt, which was nothing to say of her heart. He’d kept this from her. Made her look like a fool in front of her boss, probably in front of more than just him. And yet, she knew in the heart that was breaking, he had nothing to do with the vandalism and theft.

“He was a kid. He’s not our guy.” She fought for something—anything—to make this go away. “He couldn’t have done some of those pranks. I was with him for some.”

“See, there’s the problem. You’re connected emotionally. I have to take everything you say with a grain of salt. Plus, he had access to your keys. Can you tell me, without a doubt, he never made a copy of your key?”

She couldn’t, not when put like that. But she wouldn’t have ever assumed it possible.

“People will be breathing down my neck, saying you’re lying for your boyfriend.” He muttered something into his hand then unbuttoned the top collar button of his polo shirt. “Why are all my Marines just falling ass over boots for my employees? Why am I cursed with this? Couldn’t have been the women’s volleyball team. No . . . gotta be the boxers with a stalker.”

She took a few deep breaths. “You realize whoever sent this to you is probably our guy, right? I mean, who would send this besides someone trying to cause trouble and focus your attention elsewhere?”

“I’m not an idiot,” Andrew said with a sneer. “I understand that’s very likely. But what do you think will happen when this hits the newspapers?” When she sucked in a breath, he nodded. “You think David Cruise is going to bypass the chance to say something about the ‘thugs’ we have on our boxing team?”

“He’s not a thug.” She stood, realizing her knees were shaking but doing it anyway. “Don’t ever say that. Whatever this is, it’s not him.” She snatched the folder off his desk. “I’ll handle it.”

“Robilard, I don’t think—”

“I’ll handle it,” she snapped. “It’s my job.”

Or it was, for now.

CHAPTER

24

Kara led the team through a series of stretches she swore were a great prematch ritual. Something about loosening certain muscles while keeping the tension necessary to box. Greg didn’t listen, just followed along. When she moved, he moved. When she stopped, he stopped. He figured she was the expert for a reason.

Beside him, Graham panted. Greg looked over to see his friend’s head in the wrong position for what they were doing, making it more difficult for him to breathe. “Head down, Sweeney.”

Graham tore his eyes away from Kara, narrowed them at Greg, then resumed watching his crush as she flowed to the next position.

“So bad,” Greg sighed as he adjusted. “You’ve got it so damn bad.”

“Bite me.”

“We’re not to that position yet.”

“Gentlemen,” Kara said softly, her voice carrying over the sound of ocean waves on the CD she’d brought. “Focus, please.”

He did his best to clear his mind, find his chi, locate his center, levitate his spirit, whatever. But his center was probably still in bed, warm and sleepy and a little mad at him for waking her so early to say good-bye.

His balance . . . that he’d lost an hour ago when Coach Cartwright had finally let him finish his sprint drills. His penance for the fight with Tressler was complete, as long as there were no repeats. Since Tressler had walked in that morning and immediately picked a spot as far away from Greg as possible, he doubted it would be a problem.

He finally felt his heart rate slow, and started to feel some of that peace Kara was always harping on, when he heard the click of Reagan’s heels approaching. His body tightened in response, undoing all the hard work Kara had put into their relaxation breathing before their yoga class. He could barely see her legs as she approached Coach Ace, doing paperwork on the side by the folded-in bleachers. Heels, of course, in royal blue this time, with a skirt he assumed, as her legs were bare to the knees. That’s where his peripheral vision cut off.

“Higgs!” Coach Ace bellowed.

He snapped up straight. “Yes, Coach.”

“Ms. Robilard needs to speak with you privately.” He paused. “For professional reasons.”

Greg heard Graham snicker, but he ignored it. “Yes, sir.” After rolling up his mat, he weaved his way through the Marines in downward dog, grabbed his shoes and socks, and followed her to Coach Ace’s office across the gym.

“Good timing,” he said as she opened the door and gestured him in. He sat and pulled on his socks, already tying one shoe when she sat in the coach’s chair behind the desk. “I like Kara and all, but I’m really not sure about this yoga stuff. It’s a nice break from practice, but—”

“Greg.” Her tone firm but soft, Reagan cut him off. He glanced up and realized her face wasn’t one of contentment or happiness, or even morning grouchiness, but one of frustration and hurt.

“What? What happened?” He leaned forward, reaching for her hand across the desk. She moved it out of the way. His heart skipped. They’d been fine when he’d left. Was she pissed about his leaving in the middle of the night? “What’s wrong?”

She blinked a few times, staring over his shoulder, then sighed. “My supervisor called me in this morning, before I could head here.” Reaching in her bag, she pulled out a manila file folder. “He said this was sent to his office anonymously.”

She handed it over with trembling fingers.

Greg stared at the folder, a feeling of dull knowing creeping through his body. After a minute of thick silence, he opened the folder and found his past staring up at him. He couldn’t meet her eyes, just stared at the word “delinquent” and wanted to throw up.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

At that, he met her gaze. Why was she apologizing?

“I don’t know why . . .” She swallowed hard, and he saw tears swimming in her eyes. “I don’t know why they fixated on you, but someone seems to think you make a great fall guy for the vandalism and theft.”