She put her hand on Cooper’s back, sighed, and pushed her sunglasses up her nose. “I love you, you know.”
George turned and looked at her, a tear threatened to fall from his eye. “I swear, El, you’re going to be the death of me.”
The bullet had clipped her heart and traveled through her shoulder blade and her back, wreaking havoc on internal organs and bones. She had heinous scars on her chest, spreading across her from one side to the other, where surgeons had to repair the internal damage. At one point, staples and stitches were the only things that held her together. All the doctors said she had been lucky, an inch this way or that way and she would have been dead. Lucky that the bullet had gone through her shoulder blade and not her spine or she would’ve been paralyzed; lucky that the bullet exited her body at all. Lucky. Her doctor told her that going out in the sun with the scars was a bad idea, but she could cover them up with bandages, which is what she’d done. She was a walking bandage.
“Maybe...” Stella smiled faintly. “Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad way to go, would it?”
He grabbed her hand.
“You know George, I don’t know if I’m digging the new tattoo. It’s kind of lame.”
He looked at her with wide-eyed astonishment; he thought she’d love it. “You don’t like it?”
“I love the thought behind it, but it looks like someone started something and it’s not finished.”
George used his thumb to stroke her hand. “First of all, I could never have a tattoo as badass as yours.” They both laughed. “You have an actual bullet hole through where your heart is supposed to be. How can I match that?”
Stella ran her hand down Cooper’s back and stared at the waves.
George reached out and took her hand, kissing her knuckles. “It’s not finished, Love. You and I aren’t finished.”
The next morning, Stella’s eyes opened hesitantly. It took a few minutes to realize where she was. George must’ve gotten up early again. Her long raven locks covered her face. Light shimmered through the closed burlap curtain; the bright green of the walls reminded her of the Jell-O they served in the hospital. All the artwork in the room she was sharing with George was happy, palm trees and sunsets on beaches. She knew it was meant to be relaxing. It was a beach house after all, but it was so cheery it made her want to vomit. Hate curled around her, nuzzling her neck. The past weeks had been full of doctors, physical therapists, and people talking in hushed voices. Hushed voices pissed her off. All the doctors and nurses had walked on eggshells around her. She was alive. She’d been poked, prodded, talked about, and basically degraded for weeks. Her bitterness was difficult to hide, but she was trying. The least they could do was talk honestly.
As she rolled onto her back, the dull pain in her chest made her rake her hand over the battered skin above her breasts. Her chest ached; she’d been told it may always ache. Just another thing to make it impossible to get that motherfucker out of my mind. The stitches and staples that had once covered her chest had either disintegrated or been removed, but the jagged scars and the feeling of being ripped apart remained. It might never go away. She was reminded on a daily basis, often multiple times a day. Hate.
She was getting better at smiling, laughing, and talking about normal things. It was hard work to push away the feelings she felt toward him. The betrayal and the hatred threatened to smother her and invaded her thoughts on an hourly basis, sometimes more. Stella was trying; she was working on perfecting her fake smile. It had come a long way since waking up after weeks in a drug-induced coma.
She’d opened her eyes and felt a weight in the palm of her hand; someone was clutching her fingers. Not quite able to see clearly, it took several minutes to take in the room. There was someone on her left and that person was most definitely holding her hand. There were two more dark figures in the room, but her vision was hazy. Someone was pacing at the foot of her bed. She heard the low rumbling of music off to her right. The level of light coming through the window kept the room in shadows, showing it was daybreak or sunset. Where was she? Opening her mouth to speak, she was stunned to find that she couldn’t. Then she realized there was something down her throat and she started to choke on it. Choking, she involuntarily squeezed her hands and the person on her left yelled.
“El? Oh God, get the nurse. El!”
The person at her feet ran out, the one on the right started crying. She tried speak again, but couldn’t. Panic started to set in. What the fuck? Her mouth felt as if someone had poured an entire sandbox into it and then banned her from drinking water. The room suddenly came into view, her eyes clearing substantially.
George was leaning over her, clutching her hand. He looked as if he was going to cry or had been crying, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. There was so much exhaustion in his eyes that the familiar green flecks were barely noticeable.
Her mother was standing on the right and blubbering, her hair disheveled, which never happened. She tried to say “Mom.” She couldn’t.
“Stella, baby!” her father yelled as he bounded back into the room. “Holy shit, I ...”
Nurses and doctors swarmed her bedside, pushing everyone else out of the room. Tubes were pulled, her throat opened and she took a huge gasp of air. She began coughing uncontrollably, which made her entire body fill with a weird sensation. Pain. Her gown was pulled down as the doctors and nurses examined her entire body. Stella was mortified.
“Stella, I’m Dr. Houston. I’ve been watching over you for the past couple of weeks. We’re going to check some of your vitals and other parts of you and then I’ll allow your loved ones back in. Okay?”
When she didn’t respond, the doctor asked again. “Okay?”
Stella nodded. She couldn’t talk; her throat felt like sandpaper. A nurse finally offered her a plastic cup with a straw and put it to her lips. Stella took a long drink of the cool liquid. It tasted like a watered down sports drink, but was like heaven and soothed her parched throat.
As the doctors and nurses went through the routine of checking all of her vitals, she looked around the room. She tried to remember how she got here or how long she’d been here; anything. Her brain couldn’t think of anything except Jamie’s eyes as he pulled the trigger, making her entire life veer in a different direction, again. Her stomach turned at the thought that Jamie, the person she’d once thought was the love of her life, had shot her while looking into her eyes. She felt a tiny growth in her gut, an unfamiliar feeling she couldn’t quite place.
All the memories came rushing back and she dry heaved. A nurse held a plastic bowl in front of her in case she threw up. The memory that this person she’d followed to DC and who she had planned to marry, faked his own death to go undercover with the ATF, reverberated throughout her body. She heaved again. And then the fucker came back from the dead and shot her. Angry tears sprang from her eyes. He did this to her. She was ripped to shreds, literally and figuratively.
The sun was blistering her bare shoulders, warming the scars that reached across her chest and making her pull her hat down on her head. The waves crashed off to her right as she walked down the beach. Cooper ran up and down the beach and dove into the white crest of the waves. Stella had been unemotional when she was in the hospital and even more so in rehab. She had the pain medications to thank for that convenience. Taking a sip of the Bloody Mary she’d made that morning to drink with her cocktail of medications, she stepped in the surf. She pulled the pill box her mother bought her out of her pocket and threw it into the crashing waves. The pills dulled her senses, made her forget things, and made her so drowsy that she’d sleep for most of the day. They’d been a godsend in the hospital; it was the only way she’d been able to handle what had happened to her in Montana, but now she needed to get back on her game.
After she’d woken up, it took several weeks for her to feel like herself again and to get a grasp on how colossally different her life would be when she left the protected area of the hospital. She squinted and bli
nked her eyes at the sun, having forgotten her sunglasses in the house. Stella remembered the first couple of days after she woke up in the hospital as though no time had passed.
Even through the haze of pain medication, she remembered the second she realized her life had turned into a three-ring circus. Cue the music.
Shortly after the doctors and nurses had rushed in, Stella fell back to sleep, the pain medications knocking her out. Her eyes popped open some time later at the sound of her name. Looking around her hospital room, she couldn’t see anyone talking to her. Glancing at the television, she saw a picture of her face filling the entire screen. Holy shit! What the fuck is going on?
“Why the fuck am I on TV?” she asked no one in particular.
Her mom’s head lifted from the couch. “Oh honey, you’re awake!” She rushed to Stella’s bedside and grabbed her hand, patting it gently. She gestured to the TV. “It’s been like this since the incident.”
“Like what?” Stella honestly had no idea what her mom was talking about. She turned her attention to the news story on the TV. The reporter was in Athens, Georgia, where Stella had gone to college, “talking to the best friend of the FBI Beauty.” She tried to sit up too quickly and knew immediately the sudden movement was a bad idea. “Shit.”
Her mother shrank away, ready to hit the call button just as George rounded the corner with four coffees. “Stella, are you feeling okay? Should I call the nurse?”
“I’m fine,” Stella muttered. She really didn’t feel anything. “What the fuck are they calling me?”
“The FBI Beauty,” he answered. When he saw the look on her face, he chuckled. “Seriously, El. The FBI Beauty.”
“Are you guys fucking with me?” Stella looked around like there was a camera somewhere and this was all one big joke. She looked to her dad, who sat silently in one of the chairs in the corner, for confirmation.
“Stella, you don’t have to cuss in every sentence,” her mother chastised.
“Ever since they started getting pictures of you, it went from ‘an attorney with the FBI’ to ‘The FBI Beauty.’” Her father almost snarled. “Next thing you know, some wacko’s going to send you a sash.”
She ignored her father and addressed her mother. “Oh, excuse the fuck out of me. I just wake up from almost dying to see my face on TV and I’m supposed to be calm and cool about this? And who gave them all my pictures?” she asked, looking right at her mom.
“Oh no, ma’am, this has nothing to do with me! According to Patrick...”
Stella interrupted her mother at the sound of Patrick’s name, she actually hissed. “Patrick?! Where the fuck is that bastard?!”
The surprise in her mother’s eyes was quite comical and George actually started laughing. “They had a bit of a falling out, Mrs. Murphy.”
Her mother scowled. “Well, if I was the one to give them pictures, it wouldn’t be the ones they’re using. Undoubtedly, there were tons of pictures on Jamie’s website of you and him. Several are of you in very tiny, inappropriate bikinis.” She shook her head and her face looked as if she had tasted something awful. “I would’ve chosen more tasteful photographs of my daughter.”
“El, you were the only one who lived,” George announced, handing her a coffee. “They’re calling you a hero. It’s been the top story for weeks.”
“Fucking ‘FBI Beauty,’” her dad muttered. He took the coffee offered by George and stomped out of the room without another word.
Stella watched him go and then she turned her gaze toward George. “Wait…what do you mean, I’m the only one who lived?”
“Love, the other three people in the office at the time of the blast died. You were the only one who lived.” George pointed toward the door. “The FBI has had two agents assigned to the room since you’ve been here. They’ve been trying to talk to you since you woke up, but your dad has been out there beating them away.”
Numb. Stella couldn’t understand her detachment from the situation. She didn’t feel anything. She looked at her mother and then down at her hands. “This is all so ludicrous. I’m not a hero. I got shot. I didn’t save anyone. I didn’t apprehend anyone.”
“Well, according to the news, you’re a hero for surviving. Especially since one of the guys left many identifying marks on you and your clothes,” George sneered. “And by the way,” he attempted a smirk, “your whole backstory is very tragic.”
“No shit,” Stella agreed as she looked at her mom. Her mom nodded, tears silently streaming down her cheeks. Stella turned back to George. “What do you mean, marks?”
“Well, he left fibers all over your clothes and skin,” George answered, not making eye contact.
“Who—”she started. “Oh,” was the only response Stella could muster as the information sank in. Fibers on your clothes and skin. You’re a lawyer, you know what that indicates… Stella shook her head, clearing away the cobwebs, trying to remember what happened before she was shot.
George cleared his throat and changed the subject. “There was a really funny bit where an entertainment tabloid show went to your house and Patrick answered the door without a shirt on. It was quite funny and has gotten tons of airtime. You should’ve seen him go off. I’ll show you the You Tube video later.”
“I don’t understand.” Stella ran her hands over her face. “Why are me and all my friends all over the media and why are there agents at the door?”
“Because they haven’t caught them,” her mother answered softly.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Caught who? You just said everyone else died.” Stella blew her bangs out of her face. “I need a fucking haircut.”
“Yes, you do.” Her mom smoothed her black bob into place. “And language, please. I didn’t raise you to speak like a trucker.”
George spit his coffee across the room. “I hope you cut your bangs so you don’t have to blow them like that.”
Stella glared at him. Men.
Stella finished her Bloody Mary and contemplated going back into the house to make another, but instead she sat down at the bottom of the stairs that led to the back porch of the house they were renting from her parents’ friend, toes still blissful in the sand. She gazed out at the water.
“Coop!” Stella called from the stairs. Cooper came running at full speed, stopped in front of the stairs, and shook all the water and sand from his fur. “Damn it, Coop.” Stella laughed. He flopped down on her feet, panting from the exertion of running in the waves. She scooped out an ice cube from her drained glass and chewed on it, thinking about her precarious situation.
Stan, her supervising attorney at the General Counsel’s office for the FBI, had walked into her room less than 48 hours after she woke up. He popped his chewing gum and hummed as he walked to the right side of the bed and pulled up a chair. “So, sleeping beauty wakes,” he quipped, grinning. He sat across the bed from George and looked directly at him. “Son, I need to speak to Stella alone.”
George frowned. Stella’s parents were at the hotel, showering and taking a much needed break. He didn’t feel comfortable leaving her alone. “Whatever you need to say to her you can say to me.”
Stan laughed obnoxiously and shook his head. His white hair was disheveled from the flight and he wore jeans and a plaid button down, instead of his typical suit. “That’s not how it works, kid. Get out of here. I’m trying to get her ready for what’s coming.” He looked intently into Stella eyes. “Soon.”
George turned to Stella, fuming. Stella nodded weakly, a pained expression on her face. She’d explain later. Now, she needed to know what was going on with the investigation. “Real piece of cake you sent me on...” she said as George slammed the door.
“Look, Stella, I’m real sorry about how everything went down, but you need to prepare yourself for this investigation. You’re the only witness; they have no leads. The only evidence they found was on you. The entire case will be on you.” He looked at the door and then whispered, “The media is going crazy with all this �
�FBI Beauty’ shit. I’d be worried about my job if I were you. They’re digging into everything and splashing it all around.”
Closing her eyes, she asked. “So you know?”
He nodded. “Know what?”
She looked at him, puzzled.
“If you happened to have some relation to an undercover agent for some reason, I certainly don’t know that. I’m not the only one who doesn’t know. That knowledge is, like, top secret information, though, so I’m hoping it doesn’t come out.” He stared intently at his hands, which he’d propped on the side of the bed. “But, you know how we are, Stella. The FBI’s dick is bigger than the ATF’s and no one is agreeing to share any information. I seriously doubt they ever will.”
What?! Stella’s brain wasn’t working as fast as usual to translate what was innuendo and what was truth. “What do I do?” she whispered. The realization that Stan was here to help her, even though he had no business in Montana, was making her panic. He was here to warn her, obviously. But why?
“Keep your head down. Tell the truth about what you saw and no matter what, keep your mouth shut about unnecessary shit.” He glanced at the door again like he was expecting someone to burst through any minute. “You get me?”
The answer went unspoken. She nodded at the same time a man and a woman entered the room without knocking.
Stan stood up. “I’m so glad you’re feeling better, Stella. We’ll talk later, okay?”
She nodded, her brain still processing what he’d told her.
The two suits didn’t even blink at Stan as he left. “Ms. Murphy, I’m Monica Peterson, the Assistant Attorney General heading the investigation into the terrorist attack in Montana. This is Special Agent Jason Harris. He’s the agent in charge of the case.”
Tension Page 2
