by A K August
"I'll do this. I want to help solve this, but my primary goal is to keep you safe. I can't go to the office and leave you at the house unprotected if there's a risk. I have to know you're safe. We're in this together. But you can't go out. You can't tell anyone you're in town. Can you do that?"
I still didn't like the plan, but I also knew Katie was right. The FBI couldn't keep the case open without leads, which they'd been unable to drum up in the past ten days. I might not be able to help, but I couldn't make it worse. I just wish it didn't feel like we were driving into the mouth of Satan, with Katie the sacrificial offering.
CHAPTER TWELVE
KATIE
The drive back to DC was surreal. I knew the town like the back of my hand having grown up in and around the city. My parents were teachers at a magnet school until they retired when I was sixteen. I was also a student at the same school.
Yeah, it was one of those. Not fun for me, either.
I met Annie on my first day and we became inseparable. Not only did we explore the school grounds extensively, but our parents also encouraged us to see the city, visits the museums, tour the government buildings. DC was a deep part of our nation's history and what better lessons could be derived than walking in the same footsteps as our great leaders who had come before. The Smithsonian offered walking tours with knowledgeable tour guides of the city: Arlington Cemetery, the National Archives, the monuments. My favorite tour follows John Wilkes Booth's path, after he shot President Lincoln at the Ford's Theater, to Dr. Mudd's home, where he received medical attention for a bullet wound to the leg.
Annie and I had taken that tour several times, always trying to trip up the guide with little known facts, but they were quick to one-up us with more information.
By rights, the drive should feel like coming home. But trepidation crept in, stirring my stomach, tightening my shoulders the closer we got to the city. Anthony and I decided together to join the investigation. Neither of us liked having things so far out of our control. The alternative was to stay hidden, possibly even leave the farm to go further away, indefinitely.
The risk should be reasonably low if we stuck to the plan. Anthony was coming off of holiday, back to work, no one wise to his connection to the case. I would stay at his house in Georgetown. He could assist the case at the office during the day and promised to review the material with me in the evenings so we could work the clues together.
Cabin fever may become a problem, being so close to my favorite haunts: chili bowl from Ben's, Steak Frites from Bistro du Coin, fresh strawberry shakes from Z Burger; I'd be itching to make the rounds, but as long as I didn't show my face, we should be able to work right under their nose. Anthony would have to get us take out.
I wanted to be in the room when Anthony walked into Desk Boy's office without notice. We debated bringing Anthony's boss into the plan. Anthony didn't like keeping it from Jeff but concurred if we told him and Jeff didn't agree, he could order Anthony to stay on the farm. It would be harder to send us away once Anthony was in DC.
I saw the signs to exit Hwy 66 for Ronald Reagan National Airport, and my stomach churned. This was a good plan. The FBI hadn't had any leads in the ten days since I showed up with the murder video. I couldn't stay off the grid forever. At some point, it would become a cold case, and I would have to resume my life, not sure when or if someone would come after me again. At least this way, I was fighting back instead of hiding.
I stole a glance at Anthony when he grabbed my hand and squeezed. I think he was more afraid than I, and even though he shot down my idea to make me bait for the killer, he had to know that we would need to revisit that idea if we ran out of options.
I tried to put the case out of my mind and not panic over the other elephant in the back seat that had been weighing the car down since the start of our journey home.
We'd been playing house for over a week and it had been great. I was surprised that being with Anthony was so easy. I didn't get the anxiety of someone analyzing my work and judging it or feeling jealous that I spent more time in front of my computer working than I did on him. And he didn't irritate me by making all the decisions on what to eat or how to dress or what movie to watch. We just co-existed in that space.
I pounded away on my documentary while Anthony searched for any clues he could find on the FBI database or the Internet. When he needed a break, he got up and went for a run or made a snack or visited with the horses. If I wanted to step away, I'd join him, but I didn't feel guilty if I stayed and kept working either. We started the day with coffee on the deck and ended it by falling into bed and discovering more about each other's bodies before letting sleep take us wrapped up together.
On the fourth night together, I slept through the night in Anthony's room. Waking up in his arms as he whispered good morning and plastered kisses down my back, I welcomed his warmth and presence; instead of the middle of the night panic that had me sneaking back to my room to over-analyze our situation, debating whether I was getting too close to Anthony.
I decided I liked the kisses and the whispered wake up call and what followed. Butterflies fluttered on my skin from my place in the passenger seat, remembering this morning, stirring in my sleep, feeling his warm body pressing close, his morning wood working itself between my legs as he hummed in my ear.
But that was an illusion, a self-contained wonderland where we suspended reality. Now, I would be living in Anthony's home. We hadn't talked about how we would act once we arrived. Do we continue as we were on the farm? Do we share a room, or should I stay in the guest room? When we first started this, I told Anthony I wasn't sure what I would want once the investigation was over and we went home. Unfortunately, I linked those two things in my brain; assuming that after a week they'd catch the killer and we'd go home.
In less than thirty minutes I would be walking into Anthony's house, potentially for an extended stay. The farm was an equally shared space, not home to either of us. But this was Anthony's home I was going to, his space. I was invading his area, his towels, his glasses, his desk. How could I feel comfortable staying there?
Anthony let go of my hand and pressed down on my trembling knee. "Worried?"
The heat of his palm bled through my jeans, infusing his strength and calming me. "Yeah, a little. But not why you think." I warily smiled, turning in my seat to be able to see him more clearly.
"Oh?" He glanced my way but then went back to the road. His hand was still on my leg, gently rubbing it. Tiny sparks emanated from the space beneath his fingers and had me checking the landmarks.
Lincoln Memorial is up ahead; you should be at Anthony's in about ten minutes and could be naked two minutes later. Holmes' mind loves numbers.
Oh, that was tempting. I could delay this tough conversation in favor of seeing where else Anthony's fingers could generate sparks.
I think it will get increasingly more complicated if you wait to have this conversation after you get to the house. Talk now, and you enter the premise clear-minded. You can still jump him. Watson's argument prevails, as usual.
"I realize we never talked about how we are sharing the space at your home, Anthony. I'm a guest and need to know the house rules."
"House rules?" He asked.
"Yeah. I can't leave so I won't be able to go shopping, but I don't want you to pay for all the groceries. Do you have a desk or someplace you work from when home? Is there space where I can set up my computers? I don't want to commandeer the kitchen table." I was skirting around the big question, not sure how I want Anthony to answer it.
I had my room at the farm even though I spent most of my time in Anthony's. The principle kept me from freaking out. I didn't want to stop sleeping with Anthony; I just wasn't ready to conceptualize the idea of moving in with him.
I knew rationally that wasn't what this was, but it didn't stop my nervousness.
Anthony stole another look at me but didn't say anything as I chewed my bottom lip. I was hoping he'd get my meaning an
d say the perfect thing to assuage my apprehension. But I wasn't going to get so lucky.
"How many bedrooms does your place have, Anthony?" So I chickened out a little. I was just working up the courage.
Anthony smirked before replying to me. At the same time, his hand traveled a little up my leg, cupping my thigh in a possessive grip. "Why don't you ask me what you really want to know, Katie?"
I slatted my eyes when Anthony deigned to raise an eyebrow in my direction.
"Okay, mister. Will I have a desk or table where I can set up my computer?"
"Yes."
"Will I have my own bathroom?"
"Yes, if you want your own."
I wasn't quite sure what he meant by that last comment, but looking closely at him, he wasn't making fun of me. "Okay. Do you expect me to share your bedroom?"
"I don't expect anything, Katie. I hope you want to share my bed, and if you like, there's plenty of closet space in my room, but there's also a guest room across the hall you can use." His hand continued to caress my thigh, and that was doing as much to ease my concern as his words.
"I want you to feel comfortable while you're here. I'd like us to act as we did at the farm. Cook together, work as we need to, spend time together. I have a little backyard; if the humidity abates, it's a great place to have coffee in the morning. Nothing has to change with us if we don't want it to."
Act as we did at the farm.
Nothing has to change if we don't want it to.
He said the perfect thing, after all. I hope I continued to feel as confident once we're there, but right now, I couldn't think beyond what would happen two minutes after we arrived.
◆◆◆
We had the weekend to unpack and settle in. Anthony hadn't restocked his kitchen since before he went undercover, so we ordered in Chinese for dinner, and he went out first thing in the morning with an extensive list.
I went through the house, testing the mattress on the spare bed—yes, I spent the night in Anthony's king-sized wonder bed. I unpacked my bags; the guest room closet was small, so I took Anthony up on sharing his massive walk-in closet, which was barely a quarter used, mainly with suits for work and a handful of jeans and t-shirts; although the guy had a lot of socks, all different colors, and designs.
I also brought my toiletries into Anthony's master bath. He has dual sinks and a shower brought down from heaven. The thing needed a digital controller to cover all the options. It could be a dry or wet sauna, had jets that sprung from the walls or the ceiling, which you could pick and choose which you wanted, plus settings for the intensity, a light rain up to pounding the knots out of your back. And you could set the temperature digitally, so you always got the ideal shower. I wanted to move into his bathroom and call it a day.
The master bath also contained a washer and dryer, which I put to good use. I was on my second load of laundry and in the middle of setting up my computer at a table in the den, next to Anthony's desk, when he came back from the store, and we started unloading the groceries.
As we unpacked, I learned where things were kept and was surprised at how efficient it was.
"How long have you lived here?" Anthony's head shot up at my question.
"Why?"
I glanced around the living room; nothing hung on the walls. I remember two bedrooms upstairs that were full of boxes, and the furniture was sparse. "From everything I've seen looking around, I would guess that you've only been here a couple of months, maybe moving in shortly before going undercover. Yet you have a fully stocked and efficient kitchen. When I moved into my apartment, I must have rearranged the kitchen three times before I found the right combination to make it function well."
"I grew up in this house, so my mom set up the kitchen a long time ago. I took ownership of the house about a year ago and kept the kitchen the way Mom had it, but I haven't gotten around to making the rest of the house mine."
It seemed like there was more to the story, and I wanted to ask but felt he'd tell me if he wanted to talk about it.
Anthony skimmed over that topic. "I want to paint the walls, get new furniture. What you see here is about a decade old and from my studio apartment, not stuff I intended to keep for a lifetime. I have some art, but hope to find more that would go with the house." He spoke of these projects in part with excitement but also sadness.
"I updated the master bath when I moved in but haven't had time to address the other bathrooms, and I'd like to do something in the backyard."
I followed his gaze beyond the French doors to the decent-sized backyard, a coveted item in the tightly packed area of Georgetown.
"Do you have colors picked out for the walls?" He'd stumbled on my weakness. I am pretty good at managing my time and maximizing my research so I can be frugal when interviewing and still get the sound bites I need. Shooting is the most expensive part of a media project when you consider you'll spend anywhere from two hours to six hours with a subject and maybe only use five minutes of their interview in the final piece. When working, if I get stuck on a project and have to work out how to move forward, I'll set it aside and rearrange my apartment, or in worst-case situations, I'll paint the walls. There's nothing like a fresh coat of paint to change your perspective. And it's the main thing I use to procrastinate.
"No. I'm no good at choosing a color. Thought I might hire someone to help."
I tried not to bounce in my seat. "I'll do it!"
I was putting on my shoes and halfway out the door when Anthony asked a question. "Katie, where are you going?"
"To get paint samples. Can't choose a color without knowing how they'll look in the room."
"I appreciate the help, but you can't go out there, Katie."
I stopped cold, my fingers holding the twisted knob to the door. "Right. Sorry. I forgot." The reality slammed into my chest as if I had been flying at Mach 2 and lost consciousness under the pressure of G-force. Supersonic one minute, adrenaline dump and exhausted the next.
I let go of the door and slid to the floor. Anthony was in front of me before my butt hit the hardwood.
"Hey. You can still help. We can get paint. I'll go to the store and get the samples, and you can help me pick which to use." His hands smoothed my hair and cupped my cheek, raising my head to meet his eyes. The empathy was too much. I hadn't emotionally broken down since that first night when everything was fresh and I was processing the shock. On the farm, in the bubble of our relationship and the beauty of the land, I kept the fear at bay. Back in the city, it never felt more real or scarier. A week and a half, and we still didn't know what was against us. Only that someone tried to kill me, and we assumed he'd try again given an opportunity.
Hot rivulets trailed down my cheeks as Anthony held me in the foyer. Would this ever be over? Would I be able to go home? Visions flashed in my head, first of Jonathan Colby seizing on the floor then of the masked man who invaded my house. I felt helpless, scared, angry. Why me? Several minutes passed before I'd cried myself out, and I pushed softly away from Anthony, embarrassed at my outburst of emotions.
He let me go but stayed on the floor as I got up and went to splash water on my face. When I returned, he was still sitting with his back against the door. "Feel better?"
I smile weakly. "Not really."
"Want to talk about it?"
I looked at this man, legs crossed, calm, confident, resolute as he regarded me standing before him in all my messy glory. "What's there to talk about?" I added the flip of my hand as I brushed off the topic and moved to the kitchen, searching for a distraction.
He followed me into the kitchen. "How about what you're feeling right now?"
I whirled around, waving a banana in his face. "Why would you think I want to talk about anything right now?"
His demeanor didn't change; he didn't move from the doorway, his arms gripping the frame, supporting his weight. "Because, if you keep it tucked away, it grows, changes, morphs with your imagination into undefeatable obstacles that will paralyz
e you. Get it out there, where you can hear it, see it, deal with it."
"How do I deal with it when I'm not in control of it!" I yelled and pushed past Anthony, stomping to the living room where I could pace.
"What aren't you in control of?" He followed me, sitting on the sofa, again taking a position of complete relaxation that belied the fury stirring in my belly.
His calmness irritated me. "Why are you…you?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I'm having a nervous breakdown, and you look like you're ready to take a nap." I tried to control my breathing; it was twenty steps from the dining table to the French doors; one breath every five steps. Five steps breathe in, five steps breathe out.
"Would you prefer if I stormed around the room, throwing my hands up and yelling?"
"YES!"
"Fine!" He surged to his feet and took a position behind me, following me around the room.
Staying less than a foot away from me, he spoke fast. "All we need is some music to cut out, and we can scramble to find a seat. Just note, you may run faster than I, but I am a champion at musical chairs."
The image he conjured was so ludicrous I couldn't hold back a giggle. I could see him watching me closely, gauging which seat I would try for if or when the music stopped and then sliding in under me, so I ended up sitting on his lap—not a terrible place to end up.
Distracted from my meltdown, I contemplated testing his so-called champion reflexes. "Don't try it…." He warned. "You'll lose." The taunt was hard to resist.
We were both competitive, something discovered while on the farm. Our fun runs would end up in sprints as we rounded the turn back to the guesthouse. Finding a few board games, the winner was not at all gracious, rubbing salt in the loss for hours after. I think we tried to one-up each other with verbal slayings as well. If memory served, we tied at four wins each. I best him here and I'll be ahead, as well as recover some of my dignity.
Who was I kidding? My dignity would only take a further hit if I played his game. But I couldn't back down from the challenge.
