by Juno Rushdan
Shutting her eyes, she clutched the strap of her purse still draped over her and nodded.
He unfastened her seatbelt. One strong arm slipped under her legs, the other curled around her shoulders. He lifted her out the car, tucking her against his large frame.
Particles clung to her nostrils, burned her throat, and filled her lungs. She coughed and raked in a glorious breath of fresh air.
Gideon’s long legs stretched quickly, carrying her to his car. In his powerful arms, warm and solid, a blanket of calm covered her, dampening her chaotic thoughts save one.
She was safe with him.
He opened the passenger’s door and set her inside, but she didn’t want him to let go. Not yet.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Everything had unraveled in minutes. Trying to slow the car, the parking lot. Gideon helping. She still couldn’t make sense of it.
Gideon crouched in front of Willow and examined her, smoothing his big hands over her face and her hair. He tilted her chin up. “Did you hit your head? You might have a concussion.”
Staring into his wide eyes, now darkened to the blue-gray of a stormy sky in this light, her breathing slowed and her bunched muscles uncoiled. He looked shaken, off beat from his normal steady cadence.
“Willow? Are you all right?”
I’m okay. How bizarre since she’d almost died. “Everything is fuzzy, but I didn’t hit my head. I don’t think I have a concussion.”
“You can get it from whiplash. A doctor should check you.”
Before she voiced objections, a sheriff’s car pulled into the lot, lights flashing, siren muted. Gideon patted her knee and left her side. He spoke to the officer, pointing to her car, waving his hands in the air as if explaining everything that’d happened.
What exactly had happened?
This morning, nothing was wrong with her brakes. She’d had the car checked recently, never pushed the service due date. Yet she’d nearly been killed.
The officer approached, pad and pen in hand. His stern face looked hard enough to crack stone. His narrowing gaze scrutinized her from head to toe. She tensed, gaze falling to the asphalt, and roped an arm around her stomach to steady herself.
“Ma’am, I’m Deputy Martin. Your boyfriend was telling me what happened.”
She glanced at Gideon. Why didn’t he correct him? She looked up at the cop but avoided his probing eyes, choosing to stare at his cleft chin. “Gideon isn’t my boyfriend. He’s a coworker.”
“Oh, not the impression I got.” He scribbled on his pad. “Ma’am, I need to see your driver’s license.”
Scanning for her purse, she noticed she was tapping her fingers on the seat. The habit soothed her whenever she was tense or overly tired, but it tended to make others uncomfortable. She clenched her hand a moment and fished her wallet from the purse draped around her.
She took out her license, and the white Asperger Network card she kept in case of emergencies such as this slipped onto the ground.
Her jaw dropped. The words rising in her throat clumped together. The card was designed to help ease communication with first responders, but she didn’t want Gideon to see it.
The deputy bypassed the license trembling in her hand, bent down, and picked up the card. He went to hand it to her but glanced a little too long. The words To Law Enforcement and First Responders written on the front must’ve captured his attention because he pulled the card back. That side only gave personal details like her name, date of birth, and emergency contacts—her dad and sister Laurel. Willow would’ve preferred never to list Laurel as any sort of contact, but her other sister, Ivy, lived abroad.
The officer turned the card over. Gideon glanced at it from the side.
She held her breath. No, no. Please don’t read it. Her skin grew tight as shrink-wrap.
Gideon would never look at her the same. Today was the first day he’d even bothered to look at all. Now each word he read incinerated any chance she might’ve had to ashes.
Because of my Autism Spectrum Disorder, I may:
• Panic if yelled at and lash out if touched or physically restrained.
• Misinterpret things you tell me or ask me to do.
• Not be able to answer your questions.
• Tend to interpret statements literally.
• Appear rude or say things that sound tactless, especially when anxious or confused.
• Have difficulty making eye contact.
There was more, but she didn’t want to think about the words Gideon read as she peered at his face, searching for a reaction. His expression was a mask she couldn’t decipher. The ASD label was probably already redefining her in his head from normal to treat with caution.
The deputy took the license from her hand, swapping it carefully with the card, using his fingertips like her disorder was contagious.
“Ma’am, do you need medical attention?” His tone turned, riding the cusp of loud, the words drawn out and emphasizing each syllable, kicking her heartbeat into a sprint.
Cringing, she shoved the card into her wallet, regretting the decision to carry it.
When her father had suggested keeping the card in her purse, it sounded logical, practical even, since she’d need a little assistance communicating with a stranger in situations of high or traumatic stress. But now she wanted to dissolve. Simply disappear.
“Deputy, she doesn’t have a hearing disability.” Gideon moved toward her and turned in front of the deputy, shielding her with his body. “There’s no need to raise your voice.”
Deputy Martin peered around Gideon. “Are you like Rain Man?”
She aimed for his eyes, but her gaze only reached his sharp beak of a nose. “What’s a rain man?”
“A movie.” Gideon stepped forward, and the deputy backed away.
Putting a hand on a hip, Deputy Martin used his knuckle to tap up the front of his stiff, wide-brimmed hat. “I’m going to need her to take a breathalyzer.”
“That won’t be necessary. I don’t drink.” She’d tried on several occasions but never tasted anything she liked.
Peering around Gideon as if afraid to cross the invisible boundary line he’d created, the deputy looked at her. “Still need you to take one, ma’am.”
Gideon glanced at her over his shoulder and waited. For what? Her permission? The man was an officer of the law. How could she refuse?
She nodded. “Of course.”
An ambulance pulled into the lot. Thankfully, the siren was off.
“Let me help you,” Gideon said, as if he could see the shock of everything curtaining her.
She took his extended hand.
His long, thick fingers closed around hers, and his palm rested on her lower back as he helped her down from the vehicle. The step had been high for her five-foot-four frame.
When he let go of her, she swayed, and he clutched her arm.
She had no idea what had happened to her balance. She wasn’t dizzy, but as Gideon’s hands had left her body, she floated like a kite let loose in a breeze.
He helped her up into the ambulance, holding her at the waist. The EMT steered her to sit on a gurney, asked her questions, and pointed a small flashlight in her eyes. The tow truck arrived, and Gideon talked to the driver at length. The man in overalls kept writing for several minutes. She had no idea what Gideon said, beyond explaining the brakes had failed.
As the officer approached her again, Gideon broke away from the tow truck driver and hurried to her side.
“Ma’am, please take a deep breath and blow until I tell you to stop. Okay?” Although the officer spoke to her, he stared at Gideon, who’d recovered his usual unflappable demeanor and stared back at the deputy.
Sitting on the end of the gurney in the ambulance, Willow leaned forward, took a deep breath, and blew into a white t
ube. When the deputy raised his hand, she stopped.
He looked at the small device in his hand. “Okay, ma’am. You’re free to go.”
Gideon reached up for her with both hands but met her gaze before touching her. She nodded, and he grasped her at the waist, lifting her down from the ambulance.
More sheriff’s deputies had arrived on the scene. Officers were managing the traffic and other accidents she’d caused. Gideon roped an arm around her midsection, bringing her close to his body, anchoring her with the strength of his grip as they headed to his vehicle.
He opened the car door and hoisted her up onto the seat.
“I’m having the tow truck driver take your car to a mechanic I know, if that’s okay.”
The local garage she’d used had overlooked a problem, and she’d almost died as a result. “That’s fine.”
“I’ll finish with the driver and take you home.” He shut the door and hurried off.
Her skin was warm around her waist and on her arm where he’d touched her. She was surprised how a man capable of brutal but necessary things could also be so tender and kind.
She glanced around the Jeep. The inside further contradicted her expectations.
A faceted crystal ball, a beautiful prism of light, hung from the rearview mirror. Custom covers wrapped the console lid, steering wheel, and front seats in a striped mosaic fabric of blues, purple, and pink. The touch was feminine and the car tidier than hers, which was saying a lot, since she vacuumed her VW and wiped everything down every Saturday morning.
Even her glove box only held the essentials—a car manual, tire gauge, packet of tissues, and mini first aid kit. She opened his to see if it was similar.
A large manila envelope fell out. A rectangular label from a law firm was in the top left corner in bold red letters, and it was addressed to Kelli Stone, his wife, who had died in a car accident a year after Willow transferred to the Gray Box.
Sanborn had come across Willow at an NSA briefing, pulled her to the side, and asked her a bunch of questions. Next thing she knew, he’d added her to his Gray Box collection. That was what Sanborn did—collected those with special talents from across the board: NSA, CIA, Special Forces, DEA, even MI6, the British foreign intelligence service.
The driver’s-side door opened.
“What are you doing?” The harshness in Gideon’s voice made her jump.
Heart racing, she licked her lips. “Looking in your glove box.”
Gideon climbed in and snatched the envelope from her hand. He stuffed it into the glove compartment and slapped the door shut. “Were you going through my things?”
“Yes.”
He flinched as if the honesty had stung him like a bee. “Did you open it?”
“No.” In the chaos of the accident and the comfort Gideon offered, her guard had slipped, and she’d overstepped. If she’d been thinking, she would’ve remembered the rules she needed to follow to keep others relaxed. “Are you angry at me?”
His jaw tightened. “I don’t like people going through my stuff.” His head dipped, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “I need to take you home. Where do you live?”
“I could put it in the GPS.”
With a nod, he started the car. She punched in her address, glancing at him.
“Sorry I went through your things.” Willow waited for a response to guide her in what to say and do, but silence reigned.
As her dizziness subsided, the time to reach her house on the GPS display counted down. She was used to the awkwardness at the beginning of the end. Not that they had ever begun.
Boys were chatty at first until they discovered she was different. Then they were quiet. Except for two. Michael Dutton in college, who had been in a rush to touch her as if autistic meant easy. She’d been overwhelmed and frightened by his groping and hit him, giving him a black eye. Afterward, autistic meant dangerous.
And there was Simon Peterson at the NSA. He had been nice and as nervous as her. The second he got her in his bedroom, everything popped off at lightning speed. Including him.
“I owe you an apology,” Gideon said, his fingers tightening and loosening on the wheel.
“Apology for what?”
“I was concerned about the cut on your face and tried to touch you at the office without thinking. It upset you. The card in your wallet said to avoid touching you.”
“No, the card is for the police. You can touch me.” Touch is good. It happened so infrequently since her mother died, she wasn’t used to it anymore and needed warning. There’d been a time when her parents had showered her in affection and she’d loved it.
She pulled on an uneasy smile, but he didn’t look at her or smile back.
Her heart sank. “I didn’t expect it at the office. I wasn’t prepared.” Tapping her purse, she lowered her head. I may be a bit sensitive, but I’m still a woman who likes to be touched.
Heat rose, flaming in her face, and she wrung her hands.
“You did good slowing your car by dragging the tires against the curb. Nice job not losing your head. How did you know what to do?”
“Sanborn makes all the analysts go through a watered-down version of the defensive driving course the field officers go through. Once my head cleared from the sensory overload, some training came back.” She retained lots of details that an analyst should never have to use, like how to lose a tail if you were being followed or how to fire a gun.
He pulled to a stop, and she looked up at the quaint three-bedroom house she called home. Four-bedroom since her father had converted the basement into a mini apartment for her.
“Thanks for the ride. For helping me.” She let out a heavy sigh, grasping the door handle. “I appreciate it.”
“Do you mind if I come in for a glass of water?”
The heaviness in her chest lifted. “Yes, please.” Grinning, she struggled to open the door. The handle was nothing like the one in her VW.
By the time she gave up fiddling with the door, Gideon was standing on her side and opened it for her. She jumped out, dropping several inches to the ground. At least he wasn’t running for the hills. She didn’t know what Gideon wanted from her, if anything besides extra help at work, but she wanted to find out.
Turning, she faced the house. The white curtain in the front window drew back, and the most cantankerous man alive appeared, watching them.
05
Wolf Trap, Virginia
Thursday, July 4, 8:15 p.m. EDT
A wheelchair ramp led from the front door to the driveway, where a van with a handicap sticker was parked. The curtains in the bay window drew apart, and an old man peered out at them.
“Who is that?” Gideon asked.
“My dad.” Her voice turned brittle.
The mark on her cheek, the way she’d evaded answering his questions at work, the man in the window—it all connected. Painful memories clawed up through him, and he stiffened under a flare of protectiveness. “Is he the reason you have a cut on your face?”
She wrapped her arms around herself. “It was an accident. He didn’t mean to hurt me.”
All too common for a child to defend an abusive parent. He’d seen it before, had once lived and breathed the agony of it. “Do you have many accidents?”
Her gaze snapped to his. “Of course not. He’s been sick and hasn’t been himself. This last recurrence of Hodgkin’s hit him hard. His temperament seesaws between that of a petulant child to being depressed.” The compassion in her tone touched him, inclined him to relax.
Gideon had never seen cuts or bruises on her before today. Not that it wasn’t possible to hide marks. Maddox did it all the time thanks to her job in the field, but he believed Willow.
“Your father lives with you?”
Surprise flitted across her face. “No one ever framed it like that. People usually a
sk if I live with my dad, like there’s something wrong with me.” She pressed her lips in a grim line. “But I do live with him. There’s nothing wrong with me. It just sort of worked out that way. I take care of him, without help from my sisters. They’re too busy, and they hate me.”
“I’m sure your sisters don’t hate you.”
“How can you say that?” Her nose wrinkled. “You’ve never met them.”
“No, but I know you.”
“You know I’m a good analyst. That people call me the Factinator behind my back, like I’m a machine instead of a person. Aside from that, you don’t know me.”
“You’re the sharpest analyst I’ve met, yet humble.” He wanted to caress her cheek or shoulder and erase the lonesome look on her face. “You speak frankly, but you’re never mean.”
She kept that air of sweetness and quiet strength even under pressure. The harder she tried to fade into the background at work, the more he noticed little things about her. Every day, she brought a chicken salad for lunch. She always wore those classy pearls and the same blouse and skirt but in different colors. At first, he’d thought she randomly rotated, but he’d figured out her system was based on calendar dates. On the fourth—like today—it was a dove-gray blouse and navy skirt. Besides being beautiful and the best kind of quirky, she was brilliant, but the most telling thing about her was that whenever she made a mistake, she owned it and apologized without hesitation. That spoke volumes, considering one of the tenets of their profession was CYA—cover your ass.
He wasn’t a closet sleazebag or a stalker. She just piqued his curiosity, and there was still so much about her he longed to puzzle out.
“You’re doing the tough work of taking care of your dad by yourself. I don’t see how anyone could hate you, especially a sister.”
A pink flush crept up her face. She smiled, pure and unrestrained, holding his gaze with a glimmer in her eyes. Training and a complement of experience had taught him to compartmentalize emotion, to be the storm that devastated and washed things clean, but in that moment, he wanted to think less and feel more.
