The Betrayed

by David Hosp

  The phone rang, and she rose and crossed the room. “Hello?” she said.

  “Amanda? It’s Sydney.”

  “Sydney? Where are you?” Hearing her aunt’s voice made things bearable at least.

  “I’m down at the police station.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s hard to explain. Is my mother there?”

  “No. She went out, and she said she’d be back later tonight.”

  Amanda could hear the sigh from Sydney through the phone line. “I need you to give her a message. I’m not going to be back there tonight. I’ll stop by to explain everything tomorrow when I get a chance, okay?”

  Amanda’s spirits crashed. “You’re not coming back?” She felt more alone than ever.

  “I’m coming back, Amanda. You need to know that I’m coming back. Just not tonight. There are a lot of things that I’m dealing with right now, but I promise I won’t leave you. Can you hang on?”

  Amanda steeled herself. “I think so.” Something in Sydney’s voice gave her strength, and the knowledge that she wouldn’t be alone forever was comforting. “Sydney?”

  “Yes?”

  “Does this have something to do with my mother’s murder?” She held her breath as she waited for the reply.

  “Yes,” Sydney said after a brief pause. “Yes, it does.”

  She considered that for a moment. “Promise me two things?”

  “Anything.”

  “Promise me you’ll find out why all this happened. And promise me you’ll come back safe.”

  Chapter Forty-nine

  SYDNEY FELT NUMB as she hung up the phone. Amanda’s courage made her feel helpless. With nothing to go on, how could she possibly keep her promise to sort all this out? As for her promise to stay safe—well, she didn’t even want to think about that.

  “Everything okay at home?” Jack asked.

  “Fine,” she said. She looked back and forth between Cassian and Train. “Really, it’s fine. Obviously with all my family’s been through, particularly my niece, it would be better if I was there, that’s all.”

  “We’ll make sure to have someone drive by the house every so often throughout the night, just to make sure everything’s quiet there,” Train reassured her.

  “Thank you, I’d appreciate that.”

  “No problem,” Train said. “Let me go talk to the desk sergeant and set that up.” He left the room, closing the door behind him.

  Sydney sat down and put her head in her hands. She looked up at Cassian. “So, what now?” she asked.

  “Now we’ll set you up with protection for the evening. Make sure that you’re safe.”

  “How does that work?”

  “You can probably stay with Detective Train. That may be the easiest thing to do. We could also assign a uniformed officer, if that’d make you feel more comfortable.”

  “Jack,” she said biting her lip, “I have a favor to ask.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Can I stay with you?”

  z

  “Again?” Salvage’s client’s voice crackled with rage and disbelief. “She got away from you again?”

  “It was unavoidable,” he replied, though it sounded weak even to him.

  “I’d hope so.” Salvage said nothing in response to the wicked sarcasm; better to get through the conversation with as little acrimony as possible. “I’m beginning to wonder whether your reputation isn’t overplayed.”

  “I understand,” Salvage seethed. “If you have someone else in mind who’s willing to perform the services I provide, I’ll be happy to turn the matter over to them.”

  “You are the beneficiary of a striking lack of competition in this area,” the client conceded. “But that’s no excuse for sloppy and incompetent work. She’s a twenty-seven-year-old student, for goodness’ sakes. How hard can it be?”

  “Does that mean I still have a job?”

  Salvage could hear the anger in the short breaths coming through the line. “Yes, I intend to retain you. Do you intend on finishing the job?”

  “There was never any question of that.”

  “Good.” There was a pause on the line. “You understand what’s at stake, I trust?”

  “I do.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. But just in case there’s any doubt, you should know that if this issue goes any further, you’re finished.”

  Salvage thought that over. “You’ve already paid half. That’s not refundable.”

  There was a laugh on the other end of the line. “I’m not talking about your money, Mr. Salvage. I have friends who are powerful enough to find you wherever you go. If this gets any worse, you’ll never live to enjoy a penny that you’ve been paid. Do you understand? You’ll spend your money in hell.”

  Salvage’s blood turned cold and he took the flask he’d been saving for a celebratory drink once his mission was complete out of his pocket. He looked at it warily for a moment, and then gave in at last, swigging it quickly to put some warmth back into his body. He cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said. “I understand perfectly.”

  Chapter Fifty

  CASSIAN OPENED THE DOOR to his apartment, reaching in and turning on the lights before stepping back and holding the door open for Sydney.

  She walked in slowly, absorbing the place as she panned around the entry hallway and living room. The apartment was located just off Dupont Circle, northwest of the White House, bordering on the fashionable Foggy Bottom area near the George Washington University campus. There was a time when the neighborhood was predominantly gay, and as such had been considered beyond the pale of the best areas of the city. Some once thought it dangerous, even. But as homosexuality lost its taboo among the cultured elite, the brownstone neighborhood had been invaded by young urban professionals and upper-government transients on temporary assignment to Washington, looking for convenient, hip places to call home.

  The floors were hardwood, broken only in a few places by small area rugs, and the furniture was simple but clean and tasteful. A few pictures of those who had permanence in Jack’s life—parents, brother, a few friends—peeked out from built-in cabinetry, and artistic black-and-white photographs dotted the walls.

  “Nice place,” Sydney commented as she walked into the living room.

  “Works for me,” Jack replied. “There are two bedrooms. I use one as an office, but there’s a pullout couch. I can stay in there.” He needed to get straight on the sleeping arrangements. He waited for her acknowledgment, but she said nothing. “I’m sorry about all this,” he continued. “I know it’s a huge inconvenience.” “Inconvenience” struck him as an unfortunate choice of words, and he wanted to kick himself for it.

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “Three years.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “Like I said, it works for me.”

  “It’s nicer than I would have expected.” Now it was her turn to look embarrassed at her choice of words. “I mean ...I didn’t mean . . . it seems expensive to me for a . . .” She paused, clearly realizing that she was only digging the hole deeper.

  “Cop?” He rescued her with an understanding smile. “My parents passed away a little while back. I got a little bit of money. Nothing like . . .”

  “Like me?” She returned his smile, and the tension in the air seemed to disperse somewhat, like white smoke in a breeze, leaving only its scent. After completing another three-sixty around the living room, she looked at him and nodded. “It suits you.” She let her shoulder bag drop to the floor.

  “Shitty day?” Jack commented.

  She nodded again. “Shitty day. Shitty couple of weeks.”

  He was unsure what to say. He finally decided to keep it functional. “I’m gonna make some dinner. You want some? Or I can order something for you to be delivered?”

  “What are you having?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. Depends on what I can find here that’s edible.”

  “Edible, hu
h? Sounds delicious.”

  “Like I said, I can order something in for you.”

  She shook her head. “That’s all right. I’ll take my chances on edible.”

  “A little food will probably make you feel better.”

  “Food and a shower,” she agreed.

  He was already bending down in front of the open refrigerator, looking for anything that might be worth putting over heat. “Bathroom’s down the hall,” he said. “It’s all yours if you want it.”

  He could feel her looking at him as he rummaged through the kitchen, and he wondered what she was thinking. The silence dragged on forever and there was a part of him that wanted to turn around; to see her looking at him; to catch a glimpse of her expression in the hope that it might betray a hint of the attraction he felt for her. It wasn’t an option, though, he told himself.

  Eventually he heard her pick up her bag. “I’ll be out in a few minutes,” she said.

  “Okay,” he replied. “Take your time.”

  There was another brief pause; another moment of temptation; and then he heard her pad on down the hallway toward the bathroom.

  z

  “Where’d you learn to cook?” She was sitting at the kitchen table, glass of wine in front of her.

  She’d stood in the shower for over ten minutes, letting the streams of warm water pelt her neck and shoulders as she leaned against the wall; feeling them run down over her as they split off into different directions, running down her arms and back and chest; dripping off her elbows and fingers, and washing over every part of her. For a while she thought that maybe, if she stayed in long enough, the water might wash away the past, and all of the pain, and leave her new. It wasn’t to be, though, and eventually she turned off the shower and stepped out of the tub, drying herself off.

  When she walked out of the bathroom, the aroma from the kitchen swept through her, and she realized suddenly how hungry she was. Nothing had ever smelled as good to her as whatever Jack was cheffing up in his comfortable little apartment. She’d gone to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of white wine that was on one of the shelves. Catching a look from him, she felt defensive. “If any day deserves a drink, I think today is the one.”

  “Did I say anything?” he said, holding his hands high. “You can sit there and do tequila shots as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Wine will do fine, thank you. You want some?”

  He shook his head. “I’m okay for the moment.”

  Now she was comfortably deposited in the wooden armchair at his kitchen table. “My parents were older than most,” Jack explained in answer to her question about his culinary prowess. “My mom was nearly forty when I came along, and my dad was into his fifties.”

  “Bet you were a surprise, huh?”

  “You could say that.” He was working a pan with a spatula, a plume of thin smoke rising with each flip of his wrist. “It wasn’t bad. My brother was seven years older than me, and he helped raise me. We had a lot of independence, so we learned to fend for ourselves pretty early.”

  “That’s the brother who’s a cop also?” She noticed him flinch as he turned quickly. “You told me that being a cop was a family thing and mentioned your brother,” she explained quickly. He turned back to the stove.

  “He was a cop first,” Jack said, concentrating on the cooking. “I followed him into it.”

  She picked up a picture on the shelf in the kitchen; a man who looked remarkably like Jack, only older, stared out at her from a typical suburban setting. He was laughing, the kind of full, open, consuming laugh that had an infectious feel to it, even through the picture. “Your brother, I presume?”

  Jack looked up and moved behind her, looking at the picture. “Yes,” he said, taking the picture from her and holding it up in his hands for a long moment before replacing it on the shelf.

  “I think I’d like to meet him,” she commented. “Get the truth on what you were really like growing up.”

  “Maybe someday,” he replied. His voice didn’t invite further inquiry, though, so she decided not to pry.

  She turned her attention to the pan on the stove. “What are we having, exactly?”

  “I’m not sure it’s anything ‘exactly,’ but it approximates fried rice.”

  “Fried rice?” Sydney was skeptical. “That doesn’t smell like any fried rice I’ve ever had.”

  “Like I said, it approximates fried rice. There wasn’t a whole lot in the fridge that would have made a meal on its own, but there were plenty of things that looked good enough to toss in a pan with some rice and some spices. You’ll have to trust me on this.”

  “I do. It smells great.”

  “The secret is to fry up everything separately first, so it retains its own flavor. Then combine it at the last minute so that each flavor seeps out just a little bit into the dish as a whole.”

  “Sounds . . . edible.”

  “Like I said, you’re gonna have to trust me.”

  She didn’t say anything for a moment. “I do,” she said at last. She wondered if the broader meaning would be lost on him, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t sure she’d ever trusted anyone the way she trusted him at this moment. Maybe it was just the stress of the past few days, but he had somehow made it through her defenses, and it felt good to her.

  He turned and looked at her, and for a moment she thought she saw some acknowledgment in his eyes. Then it was gone.

  Chapter Fifty-one

  SHE SEEMED TO LIKE the meal, he thought. Then again, he wasn’t sure when she had last eaten anything of substance, and his cooking might have benefited in her estimation from borderline starvation.

  The conversation had grown stunted between them, cut off at the knees by a growing tingle neither of them chose to acknowledge openly. He felt so sure there was something between them—something on which they both knew they couldn’t act, but which neither of them could ignore.

  Train had made it painfully clear to him that he wouldn’t tolerate anything unprofessional between them when he reluctantly agreed to allow Cassian to act as her bodyguard. “No fuckups,” Train had warned him. “Everyone’s gonna be watching this closely.” Jack had reassured him and promised to avoid any hint of impropriety. More than that, he was unwilling to risk the trust that Sydney had in him. If he ever tried anything and he was wrong about how she was feeling, he would shatter what little confidence she had left in the world. As a result, the tension continued to build.

  “We talked to Leighton,” he said at last, breaking an extended silence, and hoping to stem the pace at which the wall

  between them seemed to be growing.

  “Sorry?”

  “Liz’s ex. I wasn’t sure I ever mentioned that we talked to him. After we spoke and you told us about what happened between them—what he did to her—Train and I went out to see him.”

  “And?”

  “Didn’t like him.”

  She stared at her fried rice. “Hope that’s an understatement.”

  “I’m not sure he was exactly trying to impress us.” He watched her as she looked down at her food. It seemed as though the full weight of her ordeal was finally settling onto her, and he wanted desperately to comfort her. He knew that he was walking close to a dangerous line, though, and so he decided instead to press forward with the conversation as the only means of keeping a connection.

  “He made an interesting comment,” he said, searching for something to say. She looked up at him expectantly. “He asked us whether your mother had sent us.”

  She frowned. “Why did he ask that?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. I was wondering if you had any thoughts.”

  She was no longer eating; just pushing the small portion that was left on her plate in a circle with her fork. She followed the path of the rice with her eyes, the furrows deepening in her brow. Then she looked at him again. “I don’t know. My mother and Leighton were close to each other when he married my sister. I think he was exac
tly the kind of man my mother thought would be perfect for our family. They obviously haven’t been close since . . . since the divorce, and it would surprise me if they’ve even talked in the last few years. I can’t think of any reason why he might think my mother would send someone to him.” She sat back in her chair and sipped her

  wine.

  “Nothing comes to mind?”

  She sighed. “Nothing. Who knows how his mind works? He’s the kind of man who marries for money. The kind of man who rapes his wife. That’s someone I can’t pretend to understand at all.”

  “Me neither.”

  She took another sip of her wine, a gulp really. “That was one of the best things about living on my own in California.”

  “What was?”

  “The anonymity of it. No one knowing who I was or what I was worth. I never had to worry whether someone was interested in me because of my money or because of my family or because of what they thought I could do for them. I was just a normal person living off what I made myself.”

  “Do you worry about that still?”

  “What?”

  “The money. The way it affects the people around you?”

  “Like I said, I haven’t had to in a while.” She brushed the hair out of her face. “But yes, I do. Wouldn’t you?”

  Jack shrugged. “Don’t know. I’ve never had to think about it.”

  Sydney turned and looked out the window, her sights focusing on something on the street. Cassian followed her gaze and saw a young couple walking hand in hand on the sidewalk across the way. In the dark, their features were obscured, but they were leaning into each other slightly as they ambled along, in a posture of mutual dependence.

  Sydney turned back to him. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  She looked out the window again, and it seemed as if she was trying to formulate the question in her own mind. After a moment, she turned back to him and took a deep breath. “Is it . . .” she began, but then got stuck, letting the air out of her lungs in a long sigh. She started again. “I mean, do you . . .” She shook her head and laughed. Jack thought it was the saddest laugh he’d ever heard, and when she looked back up, there were tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said.