Over the next few days, I keep getting stronger and stronger. The woman continues to give me doses of her medicine, which she grinds up with a mortar and pestle from dried plant ingredients. After each dose, I always fall asleep and wake up half a day later, but every time I wake up, I feel stronger. I eat more, drink more, and sometime later, I even start to move around on my own. My stomach’s healing, and so is my leg. The woman seems pleased with my progress, nodding and smiling during each pivotal step in my recovery. Eventually, I start to make my way outside and walk more and more around the cabin. As I suspect, the woman lives all alone with the two kids in the middle of a thick jungle, with only a dirt road leading up to their house.
When it’s finally time for me to go, the goodbye is bittersweet. For more than a few days, I actually debated whether or not I should stay here for good. Everyone thinks I’m dead, so what if I actually stayed dead? I could start a whole new life. I used to think that a simple life is nothing to want, but now I have my doubts. This family seems much more content than many middle class families that I’ve seen in the States. They’re actually happy. Genuinely happy. Everything is simple here. Life is about all the little pleasures. Growing your own food. Going swimming under the waterfall. Playing with the chickens and the dogs. There are no worries about careers and mortgages. Those aren’t really my concerns, but I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t a little jealous about their way of existing in the world. And if I stayed here, then I definitely wouldn’t have to fulfill the rest of my contract to Truman and that organization, which I’ve come to despise.
And I probably would stay here, were it not for one person. The person who I thought about day and night during my recovery.
Avery.
I should not have kept this secret from her, but how could I have known what would happen? What the hell was she doing there on the beach? Without context, I must’ve looked like a murderer to her.
I don’t want to admit it, but I’m a little more than terrified of her not believing me. When I find her again, will she believe me? I mean, isn’t being a CIA agent some perfect lie to cover up being an actual murderer? I think I heard that killers use that lie on more than one occasion in television shows and movies.
What if she asks for proof? I don’t have any. That’s the point of being covert. I’m not even on CIA’s regular payroll. Only a handful of people within the CIA even know about Daffodil. Besides the extra phone, which is encrypted, I don’t have any other paperwork or physical object proving that I work there and that I was authorized – no, forced – to do what I did. And of course, there’s no way that Truman would ever corroborate anything I’m saying to a civilian. He’s not the sentimental type. So, if she doesn’t believe me…that’s that. She’ll be terrified of me, and I can’t scare her more. She deserves better than that.
If she doesn’t believe me, then I’ll come back here, I decide. I’ll build myself a little hut a little bit away from this one. I’ll help the woman with her animals and the gardening. I’ll play with the kids. I’ll learn Mayan. I’ll start a new life.
Chapter 28 - Avery
Truman leaves and takes life as I know it with him. All of these thoughts that I thought about Logan over the last couple of weeks are completely false. He was completing a mission for this country and died on his mission. And I caused it. If I hadn’t screamed, then none of those other men would’ve come in and killed him. The thought of that is devastating. I can’t breathe. I start to cry, and I can’t stop. Cynthia isn’t here to help me. Not that she could anyway.
I sob and cry and sob for hours until my tear ducts run dry. And when twilight falls and the moon comes out, I cry some more. It starts like a wave, a tsunami, that I have no power of stopping. I cry myself to sleep and when I wake up, the first thing I do is cry again. The very thought of Logan breaks me down. Suddenly everything in the apartment reminds me of him.
There’s a knock at the door. By the sound, I can tell that it’s Cynthia. I mumble something and she comes in.
“Oh my God, Avery, what’s wrong?” she asks. “What happened?”
I look at her and break down again. My eyes fill up with tears that I didn’t know I still had and then roll down my face. My eyes are so dry that the salt in my tears feels like someone’s cutting at my naked eyeball with razorblades.
She goes to the kitchen and comes back with something. I can’t see very well. When she presses something cold and soft to my face, I feel a little better. If only you could die from crying, I think to myself. Then I’d be dead already, and maybe that’s not such a bad thing.
After I calm down a bit, Cynthia asks me what’s wrong again. I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to lie. I can’t. Since Logan is dead, what does it matter anyway? So, I tell her. Everything. As it happened. She gasps and then doesn’t say anything for a while. From what I can make out of her face, she’s in shock.
“I can’t believe this,” she shakes her head.
“I know,” I mumble. My throat is dry, and I cough. She hands me a bottle of water. I gulp it all down before either of us says anything else.
“So, all this time, you thought that he was a killer? That must’ve been so scary for you.”
“That’s why I stayed at your place.”
“Oh wow, it all makes so much more sense now,” Cynthia says. “And now he’s dead?”
I nod. Something about her presence makes the pain not so acute anymore. I still feel it, but it’s no longer like a knife through my chest. Suddenly, I feel a little numb to it.
“And all this time, I was fearing him. Terrified of seeing him again,” I say calmly. “And now, all I want is just one more moment with him.”
Cynthia puts her arm around me, and we stay in bed for the rest of the day.
A couple of days later, things calm down a bit. The pain and the heartbreak aren’t as intense. It doesn’t mean that my world isn’t full of regrets of all the things that I should’ve done or could’ve done that night on the beach. It just means that I’m able to go back to work and cut flowers. I’m able to answer the phone and explain our services to customers. I’m able to arrange bouquets and even design a few new ones.
Being back in my shop puts me a little bit at ease. The splashes of greens and colors swaddle me as if I’m wrapped in a tight blanket. Everything’s going to be okay, eventually, they whisper to me. It might not be as you planned, it might be without Logan, but you will find love again.
Cynthia walks in with two coffees and a big smile. Her positivity has really played a big role in bringing me around these last few days. After I gained some control over my senses, I realized that I probably shouldn’t have told her about Logan working for the CIA, but Director Truman never did explicitly tell me that I’m supposed to keep his identity a secret. Besides, someone was supposed to contact me for a debrief over what happened, but no one has yet.
If they do contact me, then I’ll tell them that Cynthia knows, I decide, and that I didn’t think it was a big deal to tell her, because he’s dead.
The thought of Logan being dead sends shivers up my spine. Instead of breaking down, I bury my face in the daffodils that I’m holding in my hand and try to think of something else. Something more pleasant and not so hopeless.
The door to the shop opens.
“Well, hello, there!” the woman says. I can’t make out her face because she’s flooded with light from the outside, but I recognize that West Texas accent anywhere.
“Hi Dolly!” I say with a newfound pep. I’m not faking. I’m actually happy to see her.
Cynthia looks up as Dolly comes closer. She’s dressed in a white Chanel suit, which has undoubtedly been tailored to accentuate some of her most prominent features.
“Oh, wow, are you Dolly Monroe? The Dolly Monroe?”
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Dolly extends her right hand. Cynthia’s eyes focus for a second on a ten-carat diamond ring. I nudge her out of her trance.
&nbs
p; “It’s such a pleasure to meet you,” Cynthia says. Dolly smiles. “I’m not sure if you know, but I’m the one who got the gift certificate for your services for Avery.”
“Oh no, I had no idea. Well, isn’t that swell?” Dolly asks. “So, this is your shop? It’s very cozy in here.”
I smile. She’s being nice, but I know that cozy is just a euphemism for tiny. A bit too small, actually.
She walks around the shop as if she owns the place. Some people I’m sure find her arrogant and full of herself, but I love her confidence. I know that she’s coming from a good place.
“I love your designs,” she says, holding up one of my bouquets in front of her. “I wish the woman I hired to do my niece’s wedding had half the talent you have.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I really appreciate you saying that.”
“Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?” I ask. “We don’t make it here, but there’s a coffee shop right outside.”
“Oh no, there’s no need. I’m fine.”
She explores the shop a little more, carefully examining the flowers and the bouquets. I get the feeling that she isn’t just dropping by. I wait for her to talk about what actually brought her here.
“You have a beautiful place here, Avery,” Dolly finally says. “I’m going to get all of my flowers from you in the future.”
“Oh wow, thank you,” I say, but she continues before I even finish.
“But I’m also here to talk to you about something else.”
Here it goes. I take a deep breath. Logan.
“We are all wondering about Logan,” she says, carefully choosing each individual word.
“We?” I ask.
“Mainly, Liam, Kora and I. We haven’t heard from him for a while. Not since the wedding.”
I nod. I don’t know what to say.
“Have you heard from him? Kora said that you left the wedding without saying goodbye. Did something happen?”
Dolly’s face has an earnest, eager expression on her face. She isn’t accusing me of anything. She’s just interested in finding Logan.
“I thought he was just not staying in touch with me. But then Kora called and we realized that none of us have heard from him since the wedding. Not even Marilyn.”
“Who’s Marilyn?” Cynthia asks.
“His housekeeper.”
I nod. Take another deep breath. I had hoped that Director Truman would notify the family members, but I guess he didn’t bother. I don’t know what else to tell her, but the truth. I can’t just string her along, making her believe that everything’s fine when he’s really missing. And not just missing. Dead.
“I’m not sure if I should be telling you this,” I start. “But I think you deserve to know.”
I tell her everything.
Chapter 29 - Avery
Later that afternoon, after a very much distraught Dolly finally leaves, Cynthia also takes off. She has some errands to run and I’m left all alone to close up.
“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” Cynthia asks one last time. This is my first time alone here since I got back from Tulum. I nod, trying to be brave.
“I’m going to be fine.”
“I don’t believe you,” she says. “But fine. If this is what you want, then I’ll go.”
“This is what I want. Thanks.”
The shop is eerie at closing time. The buckets of flowers cast long shadows and make me feel uneasy. I’m not really afraid of anything. Logan is no longer after me. He’s not a murderer, after all. But still, I have a strange premonition that something bad is going to happen.
For a second, I think that maybe I should text Cynthia and ask her to come back. I did have a hard day. Telling Dolly the truth has been one of the hardest things yet. The expression on her face. The sadness. The tears. All these things made my own feelings so difficult to keep at bay. And then, there are the regrets. One really major one. Logan told me that he loved me. And I didn’t say it back. I was afraid. I wasn’t sure if I loved him, but now looking back, I know that I did. I still do.
No, I say to myself. It’s not a good idea to ask Cynthia to come back. Then she’ll never leave me alone again. I need to be able to be here on my own and now is as good of a time as ever to start this process.
I cash out the register, count the money and put it in the safe. I make a mental note to drop all the money off at the bank tomorrow morning before work. Don’t forget, I say to myself. I sweep the shop and toss away random pieces of paper that were left out on the counters. When I get home, I’m going to pour myself a big glass of wine, climb into bed and watch Netflix. I need a new show to binge-watch. I haven’t seen Mad Men yet, maybe that’s a good one to start with. Yes! That’s exactly what I’ll do.
Lost in my daydream of what’s going to happen this evening, I don’t hear the front door open. I continue to sweep all the leaves and stems into one pile in the middle of the shop. And then I feel a presence. Somewhere behind me. Shivers run down my spine, and my body gets covered in goosebumps. I know who it is without turning around.
“Hello Avery,” he says slowly. Be strong. Be strong, I say to myself over and over like a mantra.
“What are you doing here, Cal?” I ask in the most authoritative voice that I can conjure up.
“I came to see you. Have you heard my messages?”
He had called a few times in the last couple of days, but I put them out of my mind. I didn’t even listen to them.
“Yes,” I lie. “You can’t be here, Cal. The restraining order is still in effect.”
Slowly, I inch my way back to the counter. I try to think where I had left my gun. It must still be in my purse. I don’t think I’ve ever taken it out. But it’s still not loaded! And I’ve only tried to load it a couple of times. I’m not sure I could do it on the fly. There’s always bluffing. Truman believed you. And he’s a CIA agent. Cal will have to believe you. I just have to get to my purse.
“I know. I’m very sorry about that,” Cal whispers. Every inch that he gets closer to the front counter, Cal makes up by taking one big step closer to me.
“Where are you going Avery?” he asks, running his fingers over my arm. My skin feels like it turns into reptilian skin at his touch. I can’t stand it.
“Cal, you can’t be here,” I turn to face him, shrugging his hands off me. “You need to leave.”
“I don’t want to, Avery.”
I sense something different about him. He looks more menacing than before. Determined even. I smell alcohol on his breath. When I feel like I’m close enough, I reach for my purse, which is behind the counter. But it’s too far away. Cal puts his hands on both of my shoulders and pushes my arms around his neck.
“Let go of me!” I say and push him away. He wobbles away and then reaches into the front pocket of his jacket.
“It’s time that we stop playing games, Avery,” Cal says, pulling out a handgun. I freeze. My eyes focus on the size of the gun – it’s much bigger than mine. And I’m pretty certain that it’s loaded. My heart starts to beat a mile a minute. I take one deep breath after another, trying to calm myself down. Think, I say to myself.
“What do you want, Cal?” I ask. Think. Think. But nothing comes to mind.
“I want you to come with me,” he waves the gun toward the front door. I shake my head, no.
“Do you not see this gun, Avery?” Cal says louder. “Let’s go.”
I shake my head no, again. I remember what I heard a detective say on Dateline once. Never get into a car even if the perpetrator is waving a gun at you. It’s much harder for anyone to find you once you get into the car.
“If you’re going to shoot me, then you can do it here. I’m not going to get into any car with you.”
Cal narrows his eyes.
“Why do you have to make everything so difficult, Avery? Don’t you know that if you had just forgiven me for doing that and not gone to the cops everything would have been fine? But no, you have to be independent.
You want to know another word for an independent woman that’s much more applicable? Difficult. And you want to know another one? Bitch.”
My mind races as he babbles on, trying to come up with some sort of plan. I can grab the gun out of my purse and bluff him. But if he shoots me…I can’t very well shoot him back. I can try to make a run for it out of the front door, but he will most likely catch me. And I’ll be that much closer to his car. Then it hits me. I should dial 911 and hope that they can figure out what’s going on. In the meantime, I need to get him to continue talking. After I call 911, I can try to hit him with something.
“I’m not difficult, Cal. We just aren’t right for each other. Why can’t you see that?”
Questions always start him up on tirades, and this one is no different. As he goes into all the reasons as to why we are right for each other, I inch my way toward the back of the counter, reach into my purse and search around for my phone with my fingers. I turn it on. Slide off the lock screen. Click the button for making calls, which is in the lower left hand corner. Okay. Now, which one is the keypad? I try to remember what the screen looks like while maintaining eye contact with Cal so that he doesn’t get suspicious. The fourth one over, I decide and press it. With one click glance, I look at my phone and then back at him. Yes! I’m on the right screen. Now, all I have to do is dial the right numbers. There are three across and four down. I carefully count until I reach the number 9. I quickly click the number 1 twice. The green send button is at the bottom of the screen. I press it and wait.
Auctioned to Him Book 8 Page 61