by Sarah Noffke
“Well, if things check out and you do prove to be my DNA then we’re sending you to uni so you can learn to form a real sentence,” I say.
With a hostile force she ties her arms across her chest. “Why? Why do I have to go to school? You never went. Granddad said as much,” she says, all her words hot, her green eyes smoldering.
My gaze reflexively narrows at the mention of her calling my pops that and with such ease. “No, I didn’t go to uni, but I can speak in a manner that others easily understand. You cannot. I hardly know what you’re driveling on about half the time.”
“I can’t believe you!” she shouts. “After everything.”
“Just covering all my bases,” I say with a shrug. The mischievous grin I’m suppressing is begging to surface.
“Fuck you,” she says, jerking the chair out and slamming herself down. “I’ll do it just so you realize what a bloody git you are for questioning me.”
I nod, pulling out the syringe. “That’s right, give me what I want to show me I’m the idiot. Great plan,” I say and then withdraw an empty vial. “Now roll up that ridiculous huge sleeve so we can get this done.”
***
“I fucking hate you,” Adelaide says as she secures a bandage over the small prick.
I despise the sight of blood but I can manage the task of drawing it for clinical purposes. I snap the cap on the vial of crimson liquid before securing it in the leather pouch. “Well, then you must be my daughter because all girls hate their fathers. Just ask my dear sister, Lyza,” I say, and then realize I actually called Adelaide my daughter and didn’t vomit.
“Your pops says she’s unstable,” Adelaide says.
I raise an eyebrow at her, noticing how she’s changed the way she’s referring to Pops. “You know I don’t really doubt that you’re my blood,” I say, leaning back in my chair, casually pinning my hands behind my head.
“You don’t?” she says, giving me a practiced skeptical stare. “Then what’s with the blood test?”
I push up off the floor, leaning the chair on its back two legs. “Have you thought about what you’re going to do after you’re fully trained? You know, like what do you want to be when you grow up sort of thing?”
Adelaide blinks at me, and then a fear springs to her eyes. She’s used to hiding it but I’m used to spying it in others. “What do you mean? Like move out? Get my own place?” Her voice rises in pitch with each sentence.
I shake my head, still pinned in my hands. “No, I mean occupation wise,” I say.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she says, a little bit of relief filling her eyes. “So no, I guess I haven’t thought about it.”
“Well, I have,” I say, and this conversation suddenly makes me feel odd. Sentimental. It’s the strangest feeling I’ve ever harbored, like fish are swimming around in my gut.
“You have?” she asks, perplexed.
“I’m going to tell you something and firstly, I don’t want it going to your head. Secondly, I don’t want you reminding me of it ever again.” I pause, watching for her reaction, which she doesn’t give me, just remains frozen, waiting. “You know, I didn’t make the connection to the hostages in my case until you mentioned it, which was a full on shock to me.”
“Well, I am a fucking genius,” she says, her voice deep, impersonating mine.
I almost smile. “Your insights might have been helpful.”
“Might have been?”
I release my pressure on the floor and the chair tips forward back on all four legs. “Yes, you have good instincts. And therefore, I think you might make a good agent. Well, once the attitude is sufficiently whipped and beaten out of you.”
“Agent? That’s why you took my blood? You think I’d make a good agent for the Lucidites? Doing what you do?”
“Yes, for the Lucidites. But no, not doing what I do. You might qualify to work level one cases, but not for a while. Agents have a long training program they have to pass. Most don’t because I created it to weed out ninety-five percent of the losers who can’t hack an agent role. But if you pass, then one day you might find yourself working a level one case, maybe even a level two,” I say.
Something skirts across her face. I pause to study her. It takes me a long moment to realize I don’t know what it is in her expression that’s wrong, but there’s definitely something not right about it. Then she says, “I don’t want to be an agent.”
“What?” I say, leaning forward suddenly, my eyes low, staring at her. “How can you not want to be an agent? You thought it was so cool that I was one and worked for a secret agency. Why wouldn’t you also want to be cool like that?”
Adelaide shrugs. Diverts her eyes. “I just don’t,” she lies. It’s plain on her face, but she isn’t giving anything else away.
“What do you want to be, a bloody artist?” I say, throwing my hand in the direction of her artwork, which sits at the end of the table.
“No, I mean, maybe. I don’t know. I just don’t want to be an agent.” Her eyes still aren’t on me, but the lie is so evident on her face and in her words. I’m a master at reading people and spotting their deceits.
“Yes, you do,” I say through clenched teeth.
“No, I don’t,” she says. “Don’t try to push your profession on me. I may be your daughter but that doesn’t mean I have to go into the family business.”
“Adelaide, do you realize how difficult it is to be elected for a position as an agent?” I say, stunned that we’re even having this argument. I honestly thought that she’d be thrilled. Zero hesitation. “Agents are hand selected. Few make it through training. Hell, few pass the blood test that says that you’re fit and genetically stable enough to even enter the training. But I hand selected those agents for twenty years and I suspect you’ll pass. Why wouldn’t you want that?”
“I just don’t!” she says, bolting to a standing position, knocking over the chair behind her.
I’m about to scold her for probably scratching my mahogany chair when a knock sounds at the door.
“Go the fuck away!” I yell, my eyes on Adelaide, who is shaking with sudden anger. She can’t be angrier than me. She should be thanking me. The girl should be on the verge of having her first happy emotion, but instead she’s shaking her head at me and regarding me with tense eyes.
The door at my back opens and the gait that I know so well click-clacks across the floor. And then I smell that familiar perfume. When she halts three feet from me I say, “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Adelaide’s eyes are on Dahlia. Dahlia’s eyes are probably on my back.
“Apparently interrupting a family feud, by the sounds of it. I could hear you two in the hallway,” Dahlia says.
“And if you had any manners you would have stayed the fuck out of my flat and not interrupted. You know how much I love to fight,” I say.
“Well, I do apologize for barging in, but we need to talk,” Dahlia says.
I turn and look at the woman who all too well knows she has a force over me. “What do you want?” I say, not making eye contact. Still I notice her run those intense blue eyes over me.
“Are you all right? I saw the news. That was you, wasn’t it?” Dahlia says.
“No, it wasn’t me. I didn’t kill that CEO, or put those shareholders in a coma,” I say.
“No, I meant that you stopped it. You did, didn’t you?” Dahlia says.
“Yes,” I say, turning back to Adelaide. “Looks like I get the pleasure of fighting with two people today. We will finish this later. Go to your room. Dahlia and I are going to berate each other for a half hour. Then it’s your turn.”
“Don’t go anywhere,” Dahlia says, stepping forward beside Adelaide and me, creating an uneven triangle. “I want to say something to both of you.” Dahlia then looks at me. “And Ren, we aren’t going to fight. That’s not why I came here today.”
“Well, then I’m uninterested in talking to you,” I s
ay, crossing my arms in front of my chest a bit childishly.
“Ren, I came to apologize,” Dahlia says plainly, her hand on her hip.
“Oh fuck, how can this day get any worse?” I say.
She brandishes a smile at me and then looks at Adelaide. “Fine, then I’ll start with you. Maybe your father will soften up then.”
Adelaide regards Dahlia with a menacing stare. It’s a good one, cold and hard and the perfect degree of intimidation. “What do you want to say to me?”
“That I haven’t been fair to you or Ren. I kicked him out because of all of these recent events,” she says, all composure. “And I realize that I communicated that I didn’t approve of you in his life. I was being selfish. But you see, Ren and I have a sordid past and our relationship has been a hard thing for me to accept. I’m afraid…” And just then Dahlia’s voice breaks. It’s an odd thing for her to do. “I’m afraid he’s going to hurt me again.”
“Dahlia, this is not her business,” I say, cutting in.
She turns and looks at me, that old pain in her eyes “No, it’s not. But it’s my business and I want to share it with Adelaide so she understands why I acted the way I did.” She then returns those soulful eyes to Adelaide. “When you showed up in Ren’s life, I realized that the dynamics were going to shift dramatically and it scared me. It made me think that again I’d been deceived to think Ren and I had a chance. I’m the most selfish person you’ll ever meet, Adelaide, and I didn’t want to share him. Not only that but I wanted to punish him for making a mistake so long ago.”
“I’m not a mistake,” Adelaide says, her eyes murderous.
“No, you’re not,” Dahlia says, not deterred. “From everything I’ve seen, you’re an incredible young woman with many of the characteristics that I love and cherish in your father.”
“Dahlia…” I say, wanting this unbelievable circus act to end and then also needing it to continue. I can’t hear any more and I simultaneously want to slow down this moment. To bottle it. Keep it preserved in my memory forever.
“I’m not done yet,” she says to me, her eyes on Adelaide. “I’m sorry for how I treated you and for how my actions might have made you feel.”
Adelaide’s expression shifts from one of quiet anger to one of soft composure. Then she simply nods her acceptance.
Dahlia turns and looks at me and I know I should run right now. I should teleport to Morocco. Leave my life behind. Start a new one. One where I’m neither happy nor sad but complacent nonetheless. One where this woman can’t chisel past the barriers around my heart and make me want her. Need her.
“I’m sorry, Ren,” Dahlia says, and there’s a raw emotion in her words. “I’m incredibly sorry for how I acted. I was unfair to Adelaide and a complete bitch to you. I shouldn’t have kicked you out or voiced disapproval about you working level five cases. I understand if you don’t want me back, but I will never ever stop trying. Even if this time you relocate to the Institute I will hunt you down. I won’t stop until you take me back, because my life without you in it makes zero sense.” And when she stops I’m instantly regretful that she isn’t still speaking, singing words I’m so incredibly grateful to hear from her.
I lift my eyes to the ceiling, apathy written on my face. “Go away,” I say plainly.
“What!” And it’s Adelaide who voices her disbelief of my response. “Are you out of your bloody mind?”
I look at my daughter, a slight bit of my delight shining through. “Abso-bloody-lutely,” I say.
“Don’t worry, Adelaide,” Dahlia says. “He’ll cave. He’s my soul mate and can’t deny it.”
Adelaide turns and heads for her room. “I’m going to pack.”
“Why? Are you moving out?” I say.
“No,” Dahlia says. “She’s smart and knows she’s moving in with me.”
“Exactly,” Adelaide sings, shutting her door. Giving us privacy.
Dahlia then steps forward. “I want you to move back in with me. And Adelaide as well, because I know that she belongs with you. You two have a lot to learn about each other. You have a lot to teach her. And I suspect she has a lot to teach you. And you, Ren, belong with me.” And then Dahlia is directly in front of me, her eyes staring at me, her hand reaching for mine. None of her thoughts pour into my head from the embrace. I don’t pull away. I can’t even fake a hateful retort. Without Dahlia I was the Sahara, stretched in a maze of lost possibilities. And I know who I am with her. I’m the man I want to be, the one who is proud to be a monster.
“I love you, Ren Lewis. Take me back. I deserve you, and you know it. And you deserve me. Don’t fight me on this,” Dahlia says.
“You kicked me out,” I say, reminding her how hard she pushed me away.
“I know. I’m sorry, but I had to.”
“You put me through hell,” I say.
“Need I remind you that we aren’t even on that. Three months of abandoning you doesn’t even hold a candle to the eighteen years that you abandoned me,” she says.
“Oh, who is counting?” I say, pulling her hand up and placing it around my lower back. I didn’t know I was going to do that until I did, like I didn’t have a choice but to grab her, pull her closer to me.
“I’m really sorry. This has been hell on me too,” she says, sliding her other hand up my chest and around my neck.
I breathe her in. “You realize that you’ll have to be punished for this.”
“I do,” she says, a delicious smile on her mouth. “My body is ready.”
I lean in, knowing that there was never a reality where I didn’t do this, seal this reunion with a kiss. I would always take Dahlia back. Always. There is nothing this woman could do to me that I wouldn’t forgive her for. When she expects me to caress my lips across hers I bite down on her mouth, soft but with a force that still pinches. And then I cover her lips with mine, pulling her to me with a force that speaks of my need for her, my undying, unyielding need.
Chapter Thirty
The bodyguard falls after only ten seconds of staring at the silver pocket watch I swung back and forth. Stupid people take less time and effort to hypnotize. They also look straight at an approaching stranger when he says, “Hey, watch this.” Idiots. The same trick worked on the guards in the outer corridor. Stupid people really make my job too easy. I wished they’d stop breeding, but fat chance that will happen. They’re fucking bunny rabbits.
The handle clinks when I push the door open, causing Congressman Ted to bristle with frustration, but he doesn’t look up.
“I told you no disturbances,” he says, his brow wrinkled and his eyes on his computer screen to the side of his desk. The man has red blotches down his cheek and neck. Probably due to stress. He doesn’t have the knack of aging gracefully like me; his thinning brown hair is laced with wirier grays.
“And I don’t take my orders from you,” I say, taking my position squarely in front of his desk, my feet shoulder width apart, my arms crossed in front of me.
Ted whips his head up and his expression quickly shifts from surprise to disbelief, then to fear.
Perfect.
His eyes dart behind me. “Ren!” he chokes out.
“I see you know who I am,” I say, watching his eyes study the guard on the ground behind me, just on the other side of the door. “How did you…? Was that you? You did that?” he says, pointing, his arm already shaking.
“It’s really not important,” I say, drawing in a slow relaxing breath. “Now we are going to play a game. If you win, you live. Otherwise you can guess what happens if you lose,” I say.
“The Lucidites don’t kill people,” he says, almost stutters. He doesn’t look confident at all anymore, not like he was when he was giving the keynote address at the convention in San Francisco.
“And I see you’re also acquainted with who I work with,” I say.
“I know a great deal and none of it can I tell you. But you’ll find out soon enough. I
’m sure of it,” he says.
“I want to know now!” I say, not caring that my voice booms through the hallway at my back. “And you’re right, the Lucidites don’t kill people. But sometimes we fail to intervene, to stop a suicide.”
Ted’s eyes meet where mine are resting, on a sharp brass letter opener sitting on his desk. It has his initials engraved on the handle. T.S.
“You wouldn’t,” he says, his gaze shifting back and forth between me and the would-be death instrument lying on top of a stack of letters.
“No, like I said, I wouldn’t kill you, but I won’t stop you from relieving the world of your arrogant presence,” I say and then point to the letter opener, which is probably not sharp enough to slit his throat, but stabbed at the right angle into his neck would do the job. “Pick that up,” I say.
His gray eyes widen with disbelief as his hand covered in age spots reaches for the weapon. He’s not intending the movement and yet he can’t stop it. I wait until it’s firmly locked in his hand, which vibrates like a car engine.
“Now let’s play, shall we?” I say in a sing-song voice.
“Ren, I can’t tell you anything. She’ll kill me,” he says.
I could just make him give me the information but that’s an exceedingly boring strategy. Not only that, but doing that will only make Ted feel defeated after I leave. I want him to shake with fear for the rest of his life. I want him to resign from his cushy political position. I want him to retreat to a rusty cabin in Montana in fear that one day I’ll show back up to finish him off. It is this kind of planning that makes me a master of strategy.
“Now, why don’t you start by telling me who she is? Vivian, or as I’m calling her, Medusa,” I say.
“She’s not ready for you to know that. That’s mostly what she’s mentioned anyway,” he says, his voice a rush.
“I think that letter opener would look better closer to your neck. Go ahead and do that now,” I say, putting a force behind the words that can’t be ignored. Or resisted. The whites of his eyes spread as his trembling hand drags through the air until the dagger-like device is clean up to his chicken neck.