by Tara Brown
“Yeah, I must have used old checks or something. I don’t know where anything is. You know James did everything like that.” I was kicking myself as I spoke. How could I have trusted that man with everything?
“Sure thing. You have some catching up to do then I guess, huh?” Her voice was the mom tone that proved she hadn’t yet accepted that I was an adult. Not that my life gave that impression. It looked like children were running it. I think we all had more faith in Jules and Mitch than me.
I covered my eyes and held my face tightly as I clicked the phone off and slumped back onto the bed.
“Who was it?” Jules asked in her squeaky voice.
I lifted my head and smiled. “Grandma.”
She climbed off the bed and ran out of the room. I heard her playing with her Monster High dolls as I fell back to sleep. Denial was still better than coping.
I woke to a strange sensation. The room was dark. Had I slept all day? I had to stop being this mother. I blinked up at the ceiling as something vibrated under me.
I fished the moving thing out from under my butt while it vibrated again. I turned it over in my hands only to see the same face staring at me. I must have pressed “Accept” to the FaceTime call as I grabbed it.
His voice was pleasant, “You look lovely, Mrs. Evans. Those pajamas are becoming on you. You have to meet a Mr. Cooper in an hour at the Boston Harbor Hotel, in the Financial District. I'll meet you in the lobby. Hurry.” The handsome young face was gone instantly.
My fingers shook as cold sweat covered me. I picked up my cell phone from the bedside table and called my mom's cell. Instead of ringing, an automated message played, “Nine-ten-three-two—we are sorry but your phone is not activated. Please call to speak to a representative.”
I clicked the phone off and looked at it. My phone wasn’t active. Chills ran up my spine. Chills caused by memories of taking away people's needs. I had done all this before to other people. I grabbed the house phone from my bed and pressed the “On” button. A busy signal rang through it.
I scrambled from the bed, throwing on a pair of yoga pants and a sweater. I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and ran from the room while hauling on my socks.
“Mitch?” I called. “Mitch, Jules?”
My stomach dropped when no one answered from their dark bedrooms.
I raced down the stairs, screaming, “MITCH!” Oh my God, my kids were gone.
“Mom?” he called from the kitchen. I stumbled in to see him with a spaghetti noodle across his lips like a mustache and Jules trying to make one with the noodle in her hand. She sat on the counter next to my mom who was stirring a pot.
I took a breath and clutched my chest.
All three wore the same confused face.
I stammered, “Uhm—I—I gave the wrong checks to everyone. I have to run out and give cash to people.”
My mom sighed and turned back to the pasta. She knew the look on my face. She knew the tone of a well-laid lie.
“Sorry!” I yelled and ran for the garage. I shoved my feet into sneakers, jumped in James' car, and hit the garage door opener. With the phone clutched in my hand, I backed out like a madwoman.
“Mr. Cooper?” I muttered while drumming on the steering wheel. The name meant nothing to me. “Who is Mr. Cooper?” I got out onto the 90 and was just passing Auburndale when I realized how familiar it all was. I’d done a job just like this one.
I decided to try something and put the phone in my holder for hands-free and pressed 911. Immediately, the young man's face was there, smiling at me on FaceTime again. “Hi,” he answered, seeming confused as to why I’d be calling him.
I frowned, trying to see behind him on the screen. “What do you want?”
“I don’t know. It isn’t me doing this. I'm just a receptionist of sorts.” His blue eyes were burned into my mind forever.
“Are you hackers?” I asked.
He laughed. “I guess, sort of. Look, just do as Coop asks. He doesn’t do well with insubordination.”
Rage filled me. “You aren’t even old enough to spell that word, you little shit.” My spit hit the screen. He gave me a perplexed look and then he was gone, again. Annoying little dick. I screamed and threw the phone.
The thought of driving back to get my kids lingered, but where would I go with no money and no house? My mom's old age security and Dad's retirement savings were great, but they wouldn’t get us all by. Especially not if we were trying to live off grid, on the run from the government or whoever was trying to control every facet of my life.
And honestly, I didn’t want that. I could run but what kind of life was that for my kids?
My inner agent whispered that it was better than death.
I surveyed myself in the mirror. How had I bought it all? How had I believed all the lies? I was beginning to sound like a broken record.
Frustrated, I gripped the steering wheel as angry tears streamed down my cheeks. I wiped them and parked a couple of blocks from the hotel, needing the air from a short walk before I had to face Mr. Cooper.
I tried to process it all as I strolled in the damp mist of the post-rain evening. The bellhop at the hotel greeted me with a quizzical brow.
“Good evening, ma'am.” He opened the door for me. His Boston accent reminded me of Matt Damon.
I entered the lobby and was instantly greeted by the young man I had just raged at on the phone. He walked to me and grinned. “Floor 23, Suite 2304.” He strode past as though he hadn’t meant to speak to me at all, reminding me of the kids downtown who offered drugs in muttered words.
But that wasn't just a drug dealer move. It was also a move I was once comfortable with.
There was no longer doubt in my mind; I was being brought in. I paused and turned, surely covered in what could be mistaken for confusion as he left the building. Swallowing my nerves, I observed the lobby. It was busy, bustling and moving with people who had no clue of the things happening in front of them. If I were a regular woman I could say I was being victimized within reach of each of them.
Then I’d just reach out and touch one of them to explain, maybe even cry. I was on the verge of tears again anyway. One of them would help me, would they not? They’d call the police and protect me from everything.
The problem with that theory was that nothing could protect me and the people reaching for me could wrap their arms all the way around the world.
A woman strolled up with a patronizing look on her face. “Are you lost?” she asked.
I opened my mouth but nothing came out. The fear of what would happen to my aging mother and two children flashed through my mind. There wouldn’t even be enough money to bury me if everything was frozen.
“No”—I strolled past her—“just thought I saw something.”
She smiled and I wanted to slap the look off her face. It wasn’t a rational response. It belonged to a version of me that no one had seen in a long time, and I was terrified she’d find her way out, like a demon.
The elevator doors opened to the bellhop beaming at me. “What floor?”
I closed my eyes and stepped inside the large space. “Twenty-three.”
He nodded. “You having a lovely evening?”
The doors closed, sealing my fate. I eyed my reflection in the shiny doors and nodded my head like a good soldier. “Very lovely.”
He grinned back. “Excellent.”
I had a hard time recognizing the face in the reflection of the shiny metal. The lifeless stare was one I had tried to forget.
The elevator landed smoothly. When I stepped off, a rush of fear and regret hit as I spun back toward the man inside.
He peered up from the buttons and frowned. “You all right?”
“Yes,” I lied and swallowed the bile in the back of my throat. “Have a nice night.”
The stricken look on my face must have shocked him. He didn’t reply. He seemed as though he wanted to stop the doors from closing, but he didn’t. I could have reached out t
o him and he might have offered me help, but what could he do? What could I do?
Turning back around, I froze, staring at the doors and the distorted face of the girl in the brushed-metal reflection. My breath was lost somewhere in my chest, trapped by the pounding heartbeat and terror of the unknown.
My legs and arms started to go numb.
The phone’s vibration in my pocket startled me. I jumped. Pulling it out, I checked the number calling, but I didn’t recognize it.
I tapped the green button and held the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“I put some money in the meter for you, before I realized it's nighttime and the parking is free,” the voice of the young man rang into my ear.
I clicked the phone off and made my way down the corridor.
He was at my vehicle. He could tamper with the brakes or steering. He could plant a bomb. Is that what happened to James? Did they damage his rental car, killing him? Or did they just kill him and send those poor men dressed in uniform to my door to lie to me about how it happened?
When had I become so trusting that I never suspected his death was a job and not a regular accident?
Feelings mixed with fears, leaving me with the sickening sense of being trapped and lost at the same time. It was overwhelming, almost kindred to finding out James was fucking everything that breathed on the PTA around the same time I found out he died.
The suite number was directly ahead of me. I took deep breaths to stop the sensation and fear that I would be sick any second.
My brain lied, soothing me with hopes that what they wanted was nothing major, just some intel on something I could get quickly. I laughed inside. Nothing was ever easy with them, and besides, what intel experience did I have now? It had been over ten years since I worked at all.
I licked my lips, nodding to myself. The least I could do was hear them out and pretend I was on side to buy myself a bit of time. No matter what they had to say, I would protect my children. They could still be little hacker shits who wanted to steal my identity. I could easily let them have it. Evie Evans was never a great identity anyway.
Taking a breath, I knocked once, softly. I didn't have the strength for anything else.
The door slowly swung open. My breath was lodged in my throat. I held it as I stepped into the dimly lit suite. The back of a man in a dress shirt and slacks walked away from me. He had opened the door and turned his back to me. Bizarre. Maybe I knew him.
His dark hair was styled in a military cut, only slightly longer than most military kept it. His broad shoulders and thick arms looked the part.
“Close the door,” his deep voice commanded, not in a bark but more of an arrogant tone. It struck a nerve with me.
He was military, there was no doubt.
Fighting the urge to run, I closed the door and pressed my back against it. From the darkness of the long corridor a fair amount of the suite was visible. It had a view of the gloomy night and the city lights. He disappeared around a corner.
“Come in here, Evie.” He spoke my first name like I was a child.
I gripped the handle of the door and speculated how long it would take him to catch me if I ran. His long, strong body would beat me in a foot race, but if I had the advantage of a head start maybe—no. I was a distance runner not a sprinter. His thick legs said sprinter.
I swallowed and let go of the cold metal handle. My steps were thick and hindered by the nerves and fear dumping hormones into my body. Adrenaline, then cortisol, and finally noradrenaline. My boots had become concrete.
I walked forward, unprepared for what I’d find, when his deep voice spoke again from around the corner, “I guess we should get right to it then. You are being brought back in. I have to hope you’re still the agent you were back in the day. Your grades in high school were quite good. Your first four years of service were exemplary, easily getting you into Fort Huachuca, after BT and the mandatory four years. You went through the paces and ended up in CI. Your superiors had no issues with you in Counter Intelligence, and even recommended you for a couple of promotions, which you declined and took leave, exactly at the eight-year mark. Sound right?”
A memory attached itself to every single word he had said: happy times, hard struggles, James courting me and getting me pregnant, me leaving for the sake of Mitch, who had just turned two at the time of my leaving.
I entered the room, catching his expression from where he sat in the far corner, drinking an amber liquid from a rock glass.
His face was incredible—young, but incredible. I took a breath when I saw the taciturn look in his steely blue eyes.
Cold eyes, square jaw, strong nose, long thick neck, arrogance clearly displayed in his tanned face. He cocked an eyebrow. “Well?”
“Sounds right,” I conceded.
He pointed to a chair. “Have a seat.” It wasn't an offer. I went to the chair and sat on pins and needles.
He leaned back, taking all of me in as a grin crept across his lips. That arrogant smile was part of the kit when you started in CI. He was Intelligence. He was like me.
“Do you have any idea what your husband has been doing the last ten years while you were having kids and driving them to playdates?” His tone was mocking. I stared at the floor, fighting the urge to tell him to watch the way he spoke to me.
He drank the last of the liquid and stood, strolling to the bar set up in the corner by the window. “James was good at keeping secrets from you. Perhaps his only redeeming quality.”
I was confused. I wanted to defend James and say he was an amazing father, incredible husband, and kind soul. But I assumed we both knew the truth of it all. My children’s father was a fucking failure and no amount of excusing his behavior would redeem him, not even for my kids.
“James worked for Counter Intelligence, as you obviously know. He failed at what he was asked to do. You will have to take it over, and since you’re a smart girl, you’ve probably already guessed that.”
“Why me?” My throat tightened.
“You’ve been named in the intel we have—" Liquid poured over the sound of the simplest and yet most complicated words I'd ever heard—"therefore you're compromised."
“Named? You serious?” It came out before I had a chance to better articulate my confusion.
He returned with two drinks. He placed one on the coffee table across from me and sat again. “You had limited service when you went on maternity leave and then took a desk after your child was born, which you only lasted at for a very short amount of time."
Did he just make finger quotations when he said maternity leave?
He grinned at my obvious resentment. “So that makes me senior officer here. If you want to get snarky, you can add a sir to the end of that question.”
A homicidal rage crept across my face.
He shrugged it off. “Or Cooper. When you get to know me better, you can call me Coop.” He winked. It was the first playful thing I’d seen. It was disturbing, considering he’d just put up the finger quotations for maternity leave, implying it wasn't a legit reason to take a leave from work.
“Why am I being brought back in and not protected?”
“We aren’t the ones bringing you back in, sweetheart.”
Cringing at the term “sweetheart,” I reached for the glass. Holding it made me feel better, as if it grounded me. I sipped the scotch. I never drank anything but red wine since joining the mommy brigade. They had rules and enjoying red wine was one of them. I always assumed it was because Dr. Oz had mentioned it a few times. Those women were nuts for Dr. Oz. He could say smearing your own spit across your forehead was a way to stop cancer and they'd do it.
The scotch burned my throat, but I chugged the whole glass back like a sorority girl.
As I placed it down he watched me with a half grin. The fact he was still a child himself, made me feel better. This was an act to try to bully me back to work. I could handle a whippersnapper like him.
“Okay then.” I cleared my th
roat and started, “I am flattered you think I’ve retained even an ounce of the training I had before. I haven’t, but thank you. That actually made my day. You ruined the rest of it, of course, by bouncing all my checks, freezing my accounts, and canceling my cell phone. You've terrified me by making me think I had hackers trying to steal my life.” I took a breath. “I don’t understand why on earth you would want someone like me to help you. I'm under-qualified, under-trained, completely in the dark about the technological advances you've made in the decade I've been off, and I'm really busy as a mom—”
“Stop!” he cut me off. “Seriously—it isn’t us bringing you back in. Your name came up in some intel. I'm here to handle you, that’s all. I don’t want to hear about your bake sales and bullshit.”
I snapped my mouth shut and his faced changed. The playful, cocky grin was gone. He was back to being senior officer in the room. “James and the man who's coming for you, did this to you. We need your help to fix it, but that wasn’t us bringing you in, Evie. The man we believe is coming for you, he isn’t ours. He’s a mark.”
“A mark?” Heat crept up my face. I hated the way he controlled the conversation. “That lawyer—”
“No.” He laughed, cutting me off again, “No offense but you're right. You're under-qualified, out of shape, outdated like the suits in the offices, and frankly, you don’t seem to take things seriously. Having to handle you is going to be a fucking nightmare. You'll be expecting to still act like a civi, and I'll have to swoop in and stop everyone from killing you, every minute of the day. Do you remember any of your training? You’re in over your head, but I'm being told this is how it is. I get your dad was a hero, but seriously, sweetheart, you’re out of your league.”
I snapped, “You little shit, I am not out of shape. I ran a marathon three months ago. I ran the Boston Marathon and I got a good time. I—”
“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.” He laughed bitterly, discounting my obvious accomplishments. “But for the job I'm asking you to do, you're outdated. However, we're stuck with you as much as you're stuck with us. The man your husband double-crossed this country for, killed him. He thinks you know things. The intel is that you're up on the roster as the next piece in his puzzle. He owns you. Are you ready for this?”
