Rockwell Agency: Boxset

by Dee Bridgnorth

  He had managed to send most of his books to the floor, scattered and lying bent, before someone threw open his office door.

  It was Hannah, and she looked at him, aghast. “What is going on in here? Where’s Angela?”

  “I do not want to talk about it,” Ryan said, kicking aside a slew of books to get to his desk chair. He sat down hard in it, searching all over his desk for the picture he had discarded. “Leave me alone, Hannah.”

  “I will not,” Hannah said, her soft, sweet voice deceptive. Hannah was of the purest heart and sweetest nature, but she also tolerated no bullshit. And it was clear that she thought he was full of bullshit at the moment.

  Maybe he was.

  “You’re creating a disaster in here,” Hannah said, disapprovingly. “This is no way to deal with whatever happened, you know.” She lifted her hands and moved books out of her way, creating a path that allowed her to walk towards and then around his desk. She perched herself on the edge of it, stilling his hands as he continued to sift through the debris for the picture. “Now,” she said. “What happened?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  She was quiet for a moment, and he paid her little attention. But then, in her hand, was the picture he was searching for. “Does it have anything to do with this?” Hannah asked, pulling the picture away when he tried to snatch it from her. “Ryan—don’t. It was so long ago.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Ryan said for the third time. “Give me the picture, Hannah. I am not asking—I’m telling you.”

  “I’m not scared of you,” Hannah said, lightly, keeping the picture from him as she pushed away from the desk and put distance between them. “Or your temper, thank you very much. You always do this when someone brings up James. I didn’t know you had this picture.”

  “I had forgotten about it,” he said, looking away from her. It was clear that he was not going to dissuade her from pressing the issue, and the rawest edges of his anger had softened enough that he wasn’t willing to yell at her the way he had at Angela.

  God. Angela.

  He winced, hating himself for throwing her out the way that he had. She had taken him by surprise with the strength of her negative reaction to his revelation, and he had already been on the defensive. When she had told him in no uncertain terms that she didn’t want to stay, but she would because he had forced her to, it had hurt him more deeply than he would have imagined. The idea that a woman who had been so vulnerable with him only hours earlier would suddenly shut down, shut him out, and assume the worst, was enough to drive him crazy.

  Maybe it was foolish, but he had thought that they were closer than that.

  “You have to let this go,” Hannah said, still holding the picture. She looked at him, her soft brown eyes gentle even though there was still rebuke in her expression. Hannah’s face was as sweet as her personality, and she had rosy apple cheeks and eyes that crinkled when she smiled, which was often. Her wavy chestnut-brown hair fell to her shoulders, adding more softness to her face, and her long, thick eyelashes were her defining feature, making her look wide-eyed and wondering. Sometimes those eyelashes were deceptive, because they hid how sharp and determined she was.

  “I have let it go.”

  “You just destroyed your office,” she said. “Presumably because you were surprised by this picture.”

  Ryan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb. “I know. Okay? I know. It was …a combination of things. Mainly the picture, yes. It was lying out on top of a book for no reason. Angela found it.”

  “And how does that make you feel?”

  “I’m not a client, Hannah,” Ryan said. “You don’t have to help me through a crisis.”

  “I know. You’re a friend.”

  Ryan groaned, unable, like anyone else, to resist the power of Hannah’s gentle, insistent nurturing. If it had been Jordan who had come to check on him with her brusque ways and her hard-ass mentality, he would have had no problem telling her to fuck off. If it had been Quentin, he would have done the same. He probably would even have blown off Barrett.

  But Hannah wasn’t the kind of person you could blow off.

  “I don’t think about it,” Ryan said, giving her the explanation she was looking for. “I never think about James—not unless I have to. Even then, I don’t let his face come into my mind. I don’t let myself remember what he was like or what we did together. I just don’t. Because I can’t. I can’t bear it. He haunts my dreams, and he darkens my conscience. And yes—being surprised with it apparently makes me irrationally angry. I don’t know what else to tell you, Hannah. What do you want to hear?”

  “James wouldn’t have wanted you to feel that way.”

  “James wouldn’t have wanted to die while his friend did nothing to help him,” Ryan said, his voice tight. “James would have wanted to grow up and live his life, and he can’t. Because I didn’t help him.”

  Hannah reached out to touch his arm, but Ryan had had all he could take. He took her hand and pressed it gently before pushing it away.

  “Don’t,” he said. “Please. I know you want to help, and I love you for it, Hannah. I really do. But this isn’t something you can fix. And if I don’t go now, I’ll never be able to fix a mistake I just made with someone else I care about.”

  “Angela?”

  He nodded. “She did not take it well. She ran off, but the thing is …I can’t let her be alone. There’s no telling what she’ll do.”

  “You care about her a lot already,” Hannah said. “She’s not just a client. She’s a friend.”

  “I thought so.”

  “Trust your instincts,” Hannah said. “It seems to me like two people got surprised with something that didn’t sit well with them, and they took it out on each other. If you’re already regretting that, think about her. She probably is too.”

  Ryan took Hannah’s shoulders in his hands and pulled her to him, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You are sweet. Don’t ever change.”

  “I don’t plan to,” Hannah said with a smile. “Go and fix your screw-up. I’ll tidy up your office.”

  “I don’t know how to make her understand,” Ryan said. “If she doesn’t want to know about this side of the world—the supernatural side—then I can’t force her.”

  Hannah shook her head. “No. You can’t. But there’s nothing wrong with giving her a second chance, is there?”

  “No, there’s not. But it hit a nerve with her, Hannah. I’m not sure what I can do about that. It wasn’t just that she was in shock. She was angry.”

  “People are usually get angry when they’re afraid of something,” Hannah said.

  Her words hit on a nerve, and he looked around his office, shaking his head at the mess that his burst of anger had caused. Ryan had a temper that rarely ignited, but when it did, it was sudden, it was intense, and it was usually messy. Luckily, his temper also usually faded quickly. All that was left of it was the sick feeling in his stomach. He was sick over the shock of seeing James’ face and the fight that he’d had with Angela. One, he would never be able to make right, but there was a chance that he could, at least, end things on a better note with Angela.

  The fact of the matter was, she couldn’t be on her own. She knew that, and he knew that. She needed him, and that might be enough to make her reconsider listening to him.

  He knew why she needed him, but what he didn’t understand was why he needed her so much. When she had rejected him, it had cut him deeply. He had already come to terms with the fact that she was going to be a client who became personal, but he now realized that this was a level of personal that he hadn’t experienced before.

  It was a level of personal that he needed to be careful with, because clearly his emotions were engaged. He needed to make things right with her, but he wouldn’t tell her about James.

  He wouldn’t talk about James. Not with her or anyone else. Some things were better left buried.

  Chapte
r 14

  Angela

  Angela paced back and forth across the floor of her apartment, her mind working so hard that the sounds of students walking up and down the hallway just on the other side of her front door didn’t even register. Normally the weekend sounds bothered Angela. Students played music and shouted in the halls and even ran up and down, playing frivolous games and flirting as they chased each other. When she wanted to work, she often had to put on her headphones and turn her music way up, just so that she could concentrate on anything other than the fact that she was living in student housing with people much younger than her.

  But today she didn’t need music to concentrate. She couldn’t think about anything else—anything other than what Ryan had told her, and then how angry he had become when he saw the picture that had fallen out of the book. The former dominated her thoughts, and as she looked back, she realized that she should have known that this was the direction in which he was heading. He kept calling what was happening to her a thing that was controlling her. He kept saying that it wasn’t her doing these things—it was someone else. She had thought that such suggestions were his way of trying to alleviate her sense of guilt, but in reality, they were hints about his own mindset. He thought she was possessed by a spirit of a dead person—a spirit!

  Things like that just didn’t happen. She had heard that Louisiana was a place where the mystical was part of everyday life. She hadn’t really believed it. Not until now. Back home in Bristol, nobody spoke of such things. The very idea that a spirit could possess someone, eliminate their consciousness, and control their body was laughable.

  Apparently in Louisiana it was the most reasonable conclusion.

  It was preposterous. She wasn’t going to entertain it—or him. And he could be angry all he wanted. She hadn’t done anything wrong. He had left her in his office to wait, and all she had done was idly pick up a book. She hadn’t been snooping, and she hadn’t thought anything of the picture.

  A man who reacted like that was a man who had far too many secrets, and Angela couldn’t trust him. Here in Baton Rouge, she didn’t have anyone she could trust. And at any moment, she could blackout again. She wasn’t safe, and no one around her was safe.

  She needed to get out of Louisiana.

  It was a task to focus on, and Angela grabbed onto it with both hands. Rushing into her bedroom, she pulled out the traveling case she had arrived with, opened it, and began shoving her clothes into it. Her shoes followed, and then her books. The whole time she was arranging her clothing inside the large case, she was thinking of all the things she would need to do.

  It was a Sunday. The next day she was supposed to show up to her lab and continue her work with labeling the specimens she had found during her expeditions into the bayou. She had numerous reports to write up, and she was supposed to begin gathering the data she would use as the basis of her final project into a spreadsheet. If she hadn’t been distracted with her affliction, she would have been working on that all weekend. But if she didn’t show up tomorrow, someone would miss her, and this was a serious program—there was no leeway for taking time off.

  She was going to have to send an email withdrawing from the program. That realization hit her hard, because she did love what she was doing. But it had to be done. She would have to withdraw as soon as she actually made it to London. She could cite family reasons and say that she had to return to Bristol indefinitely. Then she would have to book a ticket. It would cost a fortune, showing up at the airport and asking for the next available flight to London, but she had the money to cover it.

  At least, she hoped she did. She had kept herself on a tight budget here, and she hadn’t had to eat into her modest savings much. Surely she would be able to get home.

  But she wouldn’t go home. She would go to London and stay there, and she would consult a doctor. A real doctor. Not some kind of paranormal special investigator who wanted to tell her that she was possessed by a ghost. She would find someone who was reputable and discreet, without telling anyone—not her university or her family—that she was back in England.

  That was going to cost money, too.

  Better to put the plane ticket on her emergency credit card.

  Angela was nothing if not an efficient woman, and in less than thirty minutes, she had placed every personal item she owned into the large case. The student housing apartment looked even more barren than it normally did, devoid of any warmth or hominess. But then again, this place had never become home anyway. If she’d had more time, she would have cleaned, but the desperation to get out of Louisiana was clawing at her throat, and she grabbed her case and headed for the door. In less than two minutes she was outside. She abandoned the small car that she had bought for less than a thousand dollars, and she headed for the bus—the same one she had come in from the airport on just months earlier.

  It was a long wait at the bus stop, and then an even longer ride on the bus. It took an hour for the old, rickety bus to make its way through the streets, bumping over the jagged roads and making a stop every few minutes to allow more passengers on. Angela’s suitcase was large, taking up a seat of its own, and as the bus grew more crowded, people began to give her dirty looks. An older woman got on the bus, looked around for a seat, and sighed as she reached out to hold onto one of the handholds. Angela, flushing in the awkward situation, climbed over her case, trying to avoid jostling too many people. She motioned for the older woman to sit down in the seat, and the older woman smiled gratefully and accepted.

  The bus continued, with Angela half bent over her case, people pressed against her on all sides. She closed her eyes and tried not to think about what might happen if she lost consciousness in this moment. Whatever part of her was coming out in these blackout moments was violent, uninhibited, and reckless. On a bus full of innocent bystanders, there was no telling what kind of trouble she could cause.

  She just needed to get to the airport.

  And then survive the airport.

  And then make it through the first two-hour flight to Boston. And then make it through the five-hour flight across the ocean to London.

  And then find somewhere safe in London—somewhere she could lock herself in at night.

  That was all she needed to do. It was simple. Get on a plane, then get on another plane, then find a hotel in London. She could do that. And if she could do that without hurting anyone, then maybe she could have another try at figuring out what was wrong with her. Because it sure as hell wasn’t a ghost.

  Chapter 15

  Ryan

  “Hey!” Ryan stepped in front of a girl who was pulling her keys out of her purse, about to enter the student housing building where he knew Angela lived. He had been waiting outside the building for half an hour because Angela wasn’t responding to calls or texts, which meant she was either blacked out or ignoring him. Both were very real possibilities.

  “Hi,” Ryan said again, a little more calmly, as the woman looked up at him, startled. “Could you let me in?” He gave her a winning smile. “My girlfriend is passed out upstairs, and I’m worried about her.”

  The woman, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-two, was the serious type. She had dark, thick glasses that framed her eyes, a straight black bob that framed her face, and a nose that scrunched skeptically. “Good try,” she said, pushing past him. “Get away from here, creep.”

  “No,” Ryan said, moving towards her again. “I’m sorry—I know I seem creepy. I totally get that. But I really am worried about my girlfriend. Her name is Angela Winston. She’s an exchange student from Bristol, England. She has auburn hair and pretty eyes. She’s studying botany—you know. Plants.”

  The girl was looking at him again, still wary, but also curious. “Angela Winston is your girlfriend?”

  “Yes,” Ryan said, lying easily. “Yes—you know her? Oh that’s great.” He smiled winningly, his relief evident. “She’s not responding to any of my texts or calls, and she hasn’t been feeling well. Fain
ting spells, you know. I really need to check on her.”

  “Maybe she just doesn’t want to talk to you,” the girl said. “She hasn’t been herself lately. Maybe that has to do with you.”

  Ryan shook his head. “It’s not like that. I promise.” He wished for a moment that his ability to move objects applied to the mechanisms of a lock and that he could just unlock the door for himself, but it didn’t work like that. Besides, the doors were heavy-duty, with two locks. He had no hope of breaking them down either, even if that hadn’t been a wholly impracticable solution. And this girl did not look impressed with his story. He wasn’t going to get in, and every minute that Angela was on her own was a minute that she could get herself into trouble. And it would be his fault, for scaring her away with his blunt delivery—even though she had asked for it—and with his anger over something that had nothing to do with her.

  “Listen,” Ryan said, holding up his hands. “I really do understand, okay? You have to keep yourself safe—I get that. You don’t want to go around letting strange men into a dorm full of people. That’s smart. I wish I didn’t have to ask you to. But if you’re not comfortable, I understand. No hard feelings.”

  He was hoping that his withdrawal of his request would soften her, and she would let him inside, but this woman was having none of it.

  “How about I check on Angela for you? I know where her room is. I’ll knock on the door, and if she answers me, I’ll ask her if she knows you and wants you inside. If she does, I’ll come down and let you in.”

  It was a very reasonable solution. The girl had a clear head about her. Good for her. But bad for Ryan. Because Angela was furious with him, and apparently a little afraid of him, too. And he was definitely not her boyfriend. So if this girl went up and talked to Angela, there was a very good chance that Ryan wasn’t getting in.