Catching Sam: Book 2 of 5: The MacDonald Brothers by Emily Matthews (best mystery novels of all time TXT) 📗

subject either. Weren’t you just touting our longtime friendship and how we know each other so well? You think I haven’t noticed that you’ve worshiped Tracey since the day I hired her?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “Seriously, what’d the note say?” He made a playful grab for Sam’s pocket.

“If I’m going to hell by asking out an employee, why don’t you come with me? I think she likes you too. Not gonna tell you,” he said, neatly sidestepping Phil’s attempt to grab the note.

“One of us has to stay out of hell to help the other out when he starts to burn,” Phil replied. “I don’t like secret-keeping Sam. You used to tell me everything. I couldn’t shut you up.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Sam said and then lowered his voice to a whisper. “If you promise to ask Tracey out, I’ll show you the note.”

“No deal. Keep your stupid secret then.” Phil pouted.

“Fine, but it’s juicy.” Sam went back to his desk and made a show of locking the note in a drawer.

“You have a locked drawer? Since when?”

“Since right this second. This is the first thing I’ve ever locked up in here,” he said smugly. “And you don’t have a key.”

“I know the combo to your safe. I have access to every top-secret file in this company. You don’t keep secrets from me. What the hell is going on?”

“Times are a changing, my friend. Apparently, I’ve turned into a rule-breaking, secret-keeping matchmaker. I’ll even ask Tracey if she’s seeing anyone and feel her out about her feelings for you. If I’m wrong and she’s not interested, I’ll tell you. And I’ll let you off the hook about asking her out.”

Phil knew better than to argue with him when he set his mind to something.

“You swear you’ll tell me if she’s not interested? I don’t want to make things awkward. Oh, hell. Who am I kidding? Things will be weird whether she says yes or no.” He got up to leave for real this time. “You know I hate change, Sam. This sucks.”

As soon as Phil was gone, Sam picked up the phone and called Annie. He pulled the note out and reread it while waiting for her to pick up.

I, Annabelle O’Neill, hereby, do solemnly swear that the sex I have had with Samuel D. MacDonald has been totally and completely consensual (not to mention, fucking fantastic).

“Thanks for the note,” he said when she picked up. “It gave me a chuckle.”

“You’re welcome,” she said. “Maybe it could even count as a legal document.”

“Right. Well, hey, my week’s pretty packed, but do you want to hang out this weekend?”

“Sure, that sounds great.”

They chatted until she had to go. Sam slipped the note back into his pocket. There were no locked drawers in his office—he was just messing with Phil—and he didn’t want to accidentally leave it lying around. He booted up his computer to work, but was having a hard time getting Annie off his mind.

The Fourth of July was coming up. He should plan something she would like. He opened up a new search window and began looking for ideas. This woman had him distracted beyond belief. God help him and his business.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Annie threw back the last gulp of wine and set the glass on the counter with unsteady hands. It was her second glass of the night. She never drank during the workweek, but this was an emergency, she reasoned.

Spread out on the kitchen island were letters, some open, some not, from Wayne. They were all postmarked from a California prison and stamped with a note saying, “This letter was mailed by an inmate confined to the Mule Creek State Prison” and advising that the contents had been reviewed. They’d arrived in a huge manila envelope from her attorney, and she’d opened it with dread. Wayne had saved all the letters he’d written that had come back as “undeliverable” and finally forwarded them all to her attorney, who’d sent them on to her. It was quite a stack.

When Wayne first went away, she’d responded to his letters, but after committing to leave him, she began to send them back automatically, unopened.

She stared at the pile in front of her. Not having the slightest bit of interest in what they said, she was tempted to throw them all directly into the trash, but then thought better of it. It would make her feel better, but what if there was something she needed to know in the letters?

After organizing them into descending order by postmark date, she decided to selectively open only a few. And she would just skim those, to get the gist of what he was thinking. The first one she read, from near the beginning of his sentence, made her laugh out loud. I don’t fit in. The dudes in here are crazy. There’s one guy who keeps giving me this look—like he’s starving and I’m a juicy cheeseburger. I try to avoid him whenever possible.

The laughter didn’t last long.

In the first couple of letters he wrote after receiving the divorce papers, he expressed concern and was adamant they could work things out once he returned home. But over time, the letters became increasingly hostile and aggressive. He demanded to know why his letters were coming back with notes saying “no one here by that name” and wanted to know where she was. Those must have been from after she’d moved out of their shared home.

Each letter ended with his complaints about prison life and how unfair it was that he was stuck there. He took no responsibility for his actions and showed no remorse that someone had died because of him. Typical Wayne. It was all about him, how he felt, and how things affected his life.

She’d skipped ahead to the more current letters, sensing everything in between would be variations of what she’d already read, and had just finished reading the one with the newest postmark.

Picking it up,