Behind the Veil

by Kathryn Nolan

  “I know why you’re mad,” I pleaded. “But the book is back.”

  “Yes,” he said. “The book we were paid to find by one of the most high-profile museums in the country, in the highest profile exhibit this year.”

  “Not finding it could have ruined Codex’s reputation. Francisco threatened as much,” I argued.

  “You and Henry getting into a gunfight in the middle of Victoria Whitney’s party could have ruined our reputation. And almost did.”

  I felt, rather than saw, Henry slump in his seat.

  “Do the two of you want to continue working at Codex?”

  We both said “of course” immediately.

  “Good,” Abe continued. “Because I’d very much like the two of you to stay. But believe me when I say that if you do anything to betray my trust again, I will fire you.”

  It felt like a bucket of ice water had been dumped on my head.

  Abe scrubbed a hand down his face. “I’m going home. I need you both to go home. And I need to think about how we’re all going to keep working together in the future.”

  This time I did look at Henry. “But you just said we’re not fired.”

  “You’re not,” he replied wearily. “But this was a big violation of trust, Delilah. We’re all going to need time.”

  Abe scooped up his jacket, escorting us out of his office. We all flipped off the lights robotically, creaking down the stairs in total silence. My heart was lodged in my throat—I was torn between sullen anger at Abe and paralyzing guilt.

  Outside, Abe hailed a cab with his jacket over his shoulder.

  “Listen,” he said, opening the door as a taxi pulled up, “it should go without saying that I’m indescribably pleased that the two of you are safe. Don’t ever put me in that situation again.”

  44

  Henry

  The streets of Old City were still and silent as a graveyard. Delilah and I stood on cobblestones packed with dirt that told a million stories. Horse-drawn carriages had bounced down these streets through open-air markets. The brick row homes surrounding us were hushed—but 250 years ago this would have been a bustling block, embroiled in the American Revolution.

  The night had turned on a dime—from sweet victory and passionate limo-sex, to Abe’s anger and disappointment.

  We stood beneath the golden circle of a streetlamp, defeat carved into our shoulders.

  “Well, I guess someone should file our divorce papers,” Delilah said, breaking the silence. Her expression was unsure, wary.

  “I’ll have my lawyer draw something up.”

  Delilah ducked her head, but I caught her full grin.

  Hope sprang from the curve of those lips.

  I took her hand in mine, gently slipped off her fake wedding rings. Removed my gold band, flexing my newly bare fingers.

  Then I closed them in her palm. Tapped back into that sense of power and control I’d felt back at Victoria’s mansion, harnessing it into words that were pure and unfiltered. Delilah and I had the ability to turn the page, start fresh with a new chapter. Whatever happened next, I knew that my honesty was the only way forward.

  “Can I tell you what I’m noticing?” I asked, like I was back at the McMasters Library, talking to a group of students.

  She nodded. I was still holding her closed fist.

  “I really love this job,” I said. “And Abe being angry at us makes me feel like shit.”

  “Same here. Like total and complete shit.”

  I turned over my feelings in my mind. “I still…I still feel proud of what we did, though.”

  “Same here,” she echoed. “Very proud. And so happy.”

  My thumb stroked over her knuckles. “Delilah, I thought what we did in that limo might get our sexual attraction to each other out of our systems. Some kind of release that would leave things between us friendly, but professional.”

  She took a step closer to me.

  “I can see now that even entertaining that thought for a second makes me the world’s biggest idiot.”

  “I thought the same thing,” she admitted, looking almost shy. She took another step. Her feet slid between mine, hands on my chest.

  “Can I be brutally honest with you right now?” I asked, voice rough.

  “Please.”

  “I want you to come home with me.”

  Delilah placed a hand on her stomach—a gesture I now recognized. “When I was with Mark, I felt slowly roped into our relationship, like I was a rabbit being lured into a snare. We’d meet up after work for drinks or dinner, and I’d feel bad the entire time. Weird and uncomfortable. I thought it was my body telling me it was wrong for us to break the rules, that after we both left the police force, it would feel better. But it was my body telling me it was being used.”

  Delilah gave me a long, lingering kiss. When she stepped back, her eyes were clear and sure. And then a huge smile spread across her face.

  “What is your body saying now?”

  “It’s telling me to go home with you,” she said.

  The kiss I gave her was harder but no less sweet. Delilah gripped my lapels and let me kiss her breathless.

  “I want to be clear,” I said. I took the rings from her palm and dropped them weightlessly into my pocket. “I’m taking home Delilah Barrett tonight, not Delilah Thornhill. No more games, no more fantasies. I want you.”

  “No more husband,” she said, head tilted.

  I cupped her cheek and she kissed my palm.

  “Like a date,” I said.

  An intense emotion shuddered across her face. I wondered if Abe’s words were in the background of her mind the way they were for me—if you betray my trust again, I will fire you.

  His coworkers dating behind his back would assuredly betray his trust, especially after what he’d experienced at the FBI.

  Except I couldn’t seem to want another way forward other than taking Delilah Barrett home with me. I was as sure of this as anything I’d ever felt in my entire life. She still hadn’t answered me—but I wasn’t trying to take her home under false pretenses, some lie to make her feel comfortable. Not after what had happened in her past.

  “I’d like you to know my intentions, Delilah,” I said softly. “I’m not taking you home to fuck you. Although whatever you need, I’ll give it to you.”

  Her pupils dilated, her body swayed into mine.

  “I’m taking you home to spend more time with you. Talk, eat, cook, nap…whatever we want.”

  “Yes,” she said simply. Boldly. “I’d like that very much.”

  45

  Henry

  Delilah Barrett was standing in my living room, craning her neck to take in the sheer number of books in my house.

  I was attempting to make my house as comfortable as humanly possible. Like most row homes in Rittenhouse Square, I had an old brick fireplace with a mantle, low ceilings, built-in bookshelves. An oversize couch dominated the space, with books and blankets strewn across it. As I stacked wood and flipped the kettle on, Delilah peered at the novels spilling over from every flat surface.

  “Why am I not surprised that Henry Finch lives in a house filled with books?” she said, smiling over her shoulder. “How do you organize them?”

  “The Dewey Decimal System.”

  “Really?”

  “No,” I chuckled. I grabbed two giant mugs. “They’re arranged however they’d like to be arranged. At home, I’m less librarian, more avid reader.”

  Delilah picked up a worn copy of Bel Canto by Ann Patchett, flipped through the pages. Her expression shifted from mild curiosity to real interest.

  “Do you want that book?” I asked, leaning against the entry to my kitchen. I liked watching her examine the intimate corners of my home—even after our night of running and jumping and limo-sex, she was exquisite in her gown—a statuesque beauty surrounded by dusty bookshelves.

  “I was never a big reader, you know,” she said. But she kept flipping.

  “It’s a
bout a hostage situation and an opera singer.”

  She clutched it to her chest like a beloved stuffed animal.

  “Take it,” I said.

  “I’ll borrow it,” she clarified.

  “Books are meant to be given away. It needs a new owner.”

  The fire kicked up, and as I watched the water boil in the kettle, I noticed her limp.

  “Sit,” I said, pointing at the couch. She sank into the cushions with a grimace. I knelt in front of her, shifted all those gauzy layers until I found her feet, which were red and swollen against the straps of her stilettos.

  “Side effects of doing this job,” she shrugged.

  But when I touched her ankle, she winced again.

  “How often do you let people take care of you, Delilah Barrett?” I unhooked the leather strap on her right foot. Gently worked it open and away from her skin.

  “Not often,” she replied. “My dads always said I was the most self-sufficient child they’d ever met. From ten years old, I was taking care of myself. Not because they weren’t there. But just…”

  “Because you wanted to?” I held her foot steady, slid the shoe off in what I hoped was the least painful way possible. Our eyes stayed locked together—she didn’t wince. I kissed her ankle, the top of her foot. Pressed my thumb into the ball and she let out an actual purr.

  “I didn’t need much as a kid,” she said. “The woods, a good game of capture the flag with my siblings. Going on hikes with my dads.”

  I wanted to ask her how she’d become a police officer, but I was carefully removing her left shoe—and when her arches touched my hardwood floor, she wiggled her toes and let out a luxurious sigh. She might have been exquisite in that gown, but I knew what she needed next.

  “Wait right here,” I said, pressing a mug of tea into her hands. As I walked upstairs to my room, Delilah was cozying up on the couch, hands in front of the flames. She seemed content, relaxed. A minute later, I’d tossed on gray sweatpants and a white undershirt.

  “I come bearing gifts,” I said.

  She held up a Penn sweatshirt that was five times her size. “Pajamas?”

  I shrugged, rubbed the back of my head.

  “Everything I ever wanted,” she said. She kissed me on the cheek and turned around. “Will you unzip me?”

  “Of course,” I murmured. I kept my touch light and friendly as her dress peeled away from her skin. She stepped out of it like Botticelli’s Venus, ascending from the shell—all pale white skin, glowing with firelight. I wanted to press my mouth to her shoulder blades, kiss her bare back. But though the moment was erotic, it felt more emotionally intimate than sexual. Still facing the fire, Delilah dropped the sweatshirt over her head.

  It came to her knees. She rolled the sleeves up four times until it almost uncovered her fingers.

  “How do I look?”

  Delilah turned—bare legs, the curve of her breasts visible through the fabric, hair mussed. Seeing her in my clothing caused a possessive feeling to stir low in my belly. It was arousal, but also a feeling of deep, protective yearning.

  “Very elegant.”

  She ran a hand through her hair, messing it up even more. Then she sank back down on the couch with her tea.

  I pulled her feet into my lap. “How are your feet, Warrior Princess?”

  “Freya calls me Xena sometimes.” She grinned cheekily, sliding up the sweatshirt to show me she was still wearing the garter belt. I swallowed a growl and pushed my thumb hard into her foot, massaging first one, then the other.

  Delilah let out a heavy, gratified sigh and sank back onto the pillows. “They feel a lot better now. That was a lot of sprinting through hallways in four-inch heels.”

  I bent my head over, kissed the top of each knee. “You’re a beautiful bad-ass.”

  “You’re a very handsome bad-ass,” she replied.

  The fire popped and hissed. She watched me over the rim of her mug. Beneath my fingers, her muscles relaxed. I caressed her ankle, rubbed the knots in her calf muscles. She made that purring sound again.

  “Would you do this for me every night?”

  She appeared to be teasing, but I said “Absolutely,” and meant it.

  “Delilah?”

  “Mmmm,” she hummed.

  “Would you tell me the rest of your Mark story?”

  She nodded, watching the flames for a minute as I kissed every single one of her toes.

  “The unit I was assigned to that year, the burglary unit, was full of corruption. The leadership had been crooked for years. Mark was a sergeant, but it was obvious to anyone that knew him he was nothing but ambition. I think, if you asked him now, he’s probably vying for the mayoral seat. But at the time he wanted nothing more than to be the Police Commissioner.”

  “Was it harder working in such a corrupt office?”

  She blew out a breath. “I barely noticed. I mean—” She grimaced here. “I did notice. Misuse of funds, romantic relationships, nepotism… The office was crawling with it. But I was a new officer and was given my own cases, which I worked dutifully. I followed leads, tracked down suspects, arrested them. I felt secure, happy, eager to do a good job.”

  I remembered what she’d admitted the other night—that her obvious eagerness might have been the reason Mark had gone after her.

  “There was always this political talk about ‘cleaning up our unit’ but never any action behind the words.” She shrugged, sipped her tea. “I kept my head down and did the job I was honored to do.”

  I encircled her ankle with my fingers. “I’ve been there before,” I confessed.

  That seemed to bring her a measure of relief. “Mark and I began our relationship about a year into my post there.”

  I tried—and failed—to keep an irrational sense of jealousy at bay.

  “It lasted about a month. First meetings that became friendly, flirtatious. Emails that were not appropriate. Text messages. He was older than me and had a charm that worked on a lot of people in that office. I felt special that he singled me out for his private affections.” Her jaw clenched, and I wanted to kiss away the tension there.

  “Bernard used to call me his ‘young successor’, especially in front of an audience, or people that I was impressed with,” I said. “I think now it was a way to guarantee my trust, endear me to him. It was one of the reasons why I didn’t want to believe he was a thief.”

  “It’s how they soften you up.” Her smile was grim.

  “Yes, it is.”

  She seemed plagued by something, eyes mournful. I kissed her toes again, her ankles, the first few inches of her calves. Worship was my intention. I did that, over and over, until a smile ghosted across her face.

  “Mark is…was…a slimy egomaniac and I knew it. Deep down, I knew it. But he was already drawing me in, and every time he noticed me pulling away, he’d amp up the romantic gestures. Weekend trips, romantic getaways, gifts.”

  I kept massaging her feet, hoping the relaxation would make her feel safe.

  “And all of this was happening against this backdrop of corruption in our unit. There were articles being written up about some of my colleagues in Philly’s local papers. My fathers were very concerned that I’d landed in hot water. But I was ‘in love’ and didn’t care.”

  “Were you really in love?” I asked.

  “No, not at all.” She watched my fingers wrap around her ankles. “Not even a little bit. Which makes this next part so awful.”

  I was silent, watching her collect her thoughts. “Our relationship was very much against the rules. I knew, if we got caught, especially with how prominently our office was being investigated, there’d be hell to pay. Mark wanted us to come clean and both quit on the same day so that we could be together.”

  My stomach clenched at what I knew came next in her story.

  “The night before Mark asked me to…” Delilah swallowed. “To delete our emails and texts to each other. As a sign of trust. So that if they found out about
our relationship, the evidence couldn’t be used against us.”

  The look that crossed her face destroyed me. I reached across the couch, wrapped my arms around her waist, and dragged her into my lap. She came willingly—but not without a bemused arch of her brow.

  “You were too far away,” I said.

  I settled her against my chest, stroking her back. She felt cozy in my sweatshirt, bare legs tucked beneath her.

  “So I deleted them. Every last one of them.”

  I kissed her hair.

  “I went to work the next day with my resignation letter. When I came in, Mark was there and I just…I just beamed at him like an idiot. He was with our HR rep, and the look he gave me was disgusted. Almost afraid. Although he was playing it up for the rep in the room.” She pulled at my shirt, twisting it between her fingers. “Mark, as my supervisor, had the very hard task of firing me. And in front of that rep, he said it was because I had pursued him romantically against his wishes. He even had the emails from me to prove it. Emails that he hadn’t returned, of course.”

  My hands tightened into fists. I relaxed them, held her close instead.

  “He said to the rep, ‘I don’t want to make this about age or gender, but this isn’t the first time a young female detective has latched herself to a superior officer. It does happen.’”

  “I wish you’d stilettoed his face and broke his dick that night we saw him,” I murmured into her hair.

  “There’s still time,” she said. “Anyway, that was Mark’s plan all along. The first step was finding a willing victim and orchestrating a relationship. The second was to smear me through the press, which he did.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There were articles about me, opinion pieces. Every asshole on talk radio on the local stations proclaimed me the Jezebel of police officers, attempting to seduce my boss to get promoted—a nickname that Mark gave me in one of the interviews. I became the symbol of corruption in that unit, even though with the exception of Mark, my record was spotless and my case close rate was impeccable. All of this was happening while I was up north, with my dads. One of the beautiful things about growing up out there is that internet is hard to come by, and the local one-sheet printed in that town was more concerned about the bear population than anything occurring in the ‘big city.’ All of it hit me hard the first two weeks, but then I fled to the wilderness, basically.”