by Penny Reid
I sensed her thought processes were roughly similar to mine—another hunch—because her eyes were moving over me with speculation, her lips compressing. I was learning her mannerisms, and this expression seemed to indicate she was about to ask me to do something I might not like.
Actually, she never asked. Over the last week and a half, she just told me how it would be.
“Intel from the Black Demons and my information gathered at the G-Spot points to Razor Dennings as the murderer. Winston is second in command and the closest known associate to Dennings—aside from Dennings’s woman, Christine St. Claire. Roscoe is of interest to Winston. You’ll get close to him,” she said, right on schedule.
I knew precisely who she meant by him.
That pang of nostalgia was back, almost as overwhelming as it had been in the parking lot of my mother’s diner, but I was careful to make no outward sign of it.
“I will if I can.” It was a pragmatic response to a pragmatic suggestion.
“Why couldn’t you?” Her gaze moved over me again, as though assessing my physical suitability for the task. Then, as though deciding I wasn’t an ogre, she asked, “Is he a racist?”
“No,” I answered quickly. “Not at all. The Winstons were raised by their mother, Bethany. Bethany was a . . .” a good soul. “She wasn’t racist, not even a little.”
“Everyone is a little racist,” Nelson responded flatly, giving me a pointed look.
Lundqvist spoke around a bite of doughnut. “Hey!”
We both ignored him.
“You know what I mean,” I said, echoing the flat inflection of her words.
She shrugged, like she was shrugging off my statement. “Then what’s the problem? According to your statement last year”—she gestured to the laptop screen—“you two were friends in childhood.”
“Correct,” I said, even though inseparable was the word I would have used.
Her gaze sharpened, and she asked again, “What’s the problem?”
“There is no problem.” I was proud of myself for how unperturbed I sounded.
“You want to switch assignments?” she asked conversationally. “I’ll get close to the kid, you take my job at the G-Spot?”
Now, I was proud of myself for not grimacing, but I was also irritated with myself for the odd spike of antagonism pinging my chest and ringing in my ears.
My first thought was unlike me, and annoying. It was about Nelson getting close to Roscoe. Nelson with the long legs, and perfect body, and high cheekbones, and gorgeous tawny brown skin, and alluring smattering of freckles, and the long, shiny, perfectly behaved obsidian hair?
Oh. Hell. No.
See? Annoying. What was wrong with me?
I still blame the weird nostalgia inspired hug.
My first thought should have been about my fitness—or lack thereof—for her role.
I’d joined the bureau immediately after graduating with my masters. But I’d never wanted to be a case agent working in the field, and I’d definitely never wanted to be an undercover agent. I’d wanted to be a subject matter expert, working within a division, ideally in Washington, DC.
Guess what? Mission accomplished. I’d joined the research and development lab and I loved my work. I couldn’t wait to get back.
There was no way, no way, I would be able to take on Nelson’s role in this case. My cloth wasn’t cut that way, and she knew it.
Which is why she didn’t wait for an answer to her prior question before asking, “What is it? Do you need more training?”
I inhaled quietly, gathering composure with the breath, and reminding myself that I respected this human. I respected the hell out of Special Agent Hisako Nelson. Apparently, one of her favorite things to do was to remind me that I was the youngest and most inexperienced person on the squad. Her reminders never bothered me much because they were true.
I was the youngest and most inexperienced. Truth.
But she didn’t give me enough credit.
I knew these people. I’d grown up here. I understood the relationships. If she wanted to get technical about it, I’d also been involved in one capacity or another with investigations into MC activity in East Tennessee for much longer than she had.
Five years ago, neither the bureau nor the ATF had any local contacts that could consistently rendezvous with Sylvester without breaking his cover. They’d gone through twelve field agents in one year, a new liaison each month, and—from what I’d been told—he’d grown frustrated with the lack of a consistent contact and had given the ATF my name.
Why he’d thought of me, I could only guess. Isaac Sylvester was several years older and had been homeschooled by his parents even though his father had been the local high school principal at the time.
I’d been a senior in college when the ATF reached out, interning at the Virginia Department of Forensic Science. After numerous interviews and meetings with several of my professors at George Washington, they’d explained the situation.
All I had to do was visit my parents once a month, volunteer to work in my mom’s flagship diner location in my hometown, serve Sylvester coffee Sunday morning, collect his tip, and fly back home to Washington, DC Sunday night.
The tip money went to the ATF, I assumed it contained some sort of message, and I went back to college, or graduate school, or work—whichever was correct at the time. It was only supposed to be for two years. Two years became four and a half, and Sylvester had been on the precipice of extraction when the bodies began piling up.
I’d continued being his point of contact as per normal, but two months ago I’d been pulled out of my lab at the Counterterrorism and Forensic Science Research Unit, gone through a crash course repeat of my training for undercover work, and assigned to the case full time. Isaac Sylvester wanted me in town so he could pass on information whenever he needed. I hoped this meant we were close to finding the killer.
Or, I guess maybe killers.
“No. I don’t need more training,” I responded evenly, holding her dark eyes. “I know what I’m supposed to do.”
Nelson regarded me, her gaze flickering down and then up, and lifted her chin. “You’ll get close to him.”
“I will.”
“Whatever it takes.”
“Yes.”
She nodded, seemingly appeased, and glanced over at Lundqvist. He’d watched our exchange passively and was now working on his third doughnut.
“I know you’re not going to keep all those to yourself.” Nelson reached for the box and tugged it away from him. “Give them here.”
“Your mother is a genius, Payton,” Lundqvist said around a mouthful of chocolate coffee cake doughnut.
“I know.” I tried to muster a smile, but couldn’t. I didn’t like making promises I wasn’t sure I could keep, and getting close to Roscoe . . .
How am I going to do this? He won’t even look at me.
Lundqvist pointed to me with the hand holding the remainder of his third helping. “How come you’re not eight hundred pounds? I’d be eight hundred pounds.”
“Because I don’t have an endocrine disorder or other medical condition that causes weight gain, nor do I lack self-control.”
“See,” he gave me his lopsided grin, showing his gold tooth, his longish blond hair falling forward on his forehead. “That’s the difference. I have no self-control.”
Nelson snorted, rolling her eyes, and picked up the cherry-topped Boston cream pie doughnut from what remained of the original dozen.
We both knew Lundqvist’s statement wasn’t true. He was a weird guy, but this white dude seemed to have self-control in spades. I’d read his file, so I knew.
His parents were immigrants from Switzerland and had both died when he was young. He’d been placed in foster care, graduated from Annapolis, was a decorated navy officer, and received a law degree from Yale before joining the bureau ten years ago. Since joining, he’d worked mostly undercover assignments.
Why he wanted to act
like a fool, I had no idea. Maybe he had difficulty breaking character? Or maybe he thought he was breaking the tension between Nelson and me. Or maybe he was just weird.
My attention flickered to Hisako as she took a bite of her doughnut. She then set it down on a napkin. I watched her as she paused mid-chew, closing her eyes, breathing in through her nose, and showing less inhibition in that moment than I’d ever seen from her before. The woman looked close to orgasm.
“My God,” she said, gripping the table with both hands. “I think I’m going to cry.”
Now I did smile, but I quickly hid it before she opened her eyes.
“If I meet your mother, I’m going to ask her to marry me.” Lundqvist devoured the rest of the coffee cake doughnut and licked the tips of his fingers, his eyes on me. “It’s a cliché, but it’s true: the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. If you want to get close to the youngest Winston brother, maybe just bring him a dozen of these.”
* * *
I approached the front door as quietly as possible, careful to avoid the squeaky boards on the steps and porch. Just as quietly, I pushed my key into the lock, twisted it slowly, and slipped inside the house. I breathed out silently as soon as I’d closed and locked the door behind me.
But the foyer was dark, and that gave me pause. The foyer was never dark—ever, and definitely not at night—unless there was a reason for it.
My mother was awesome. I loved her dearly and respected her even more. She and my dad had been tough on us as kids, the good kind of tough, the kind of tough that came with high expectations. Her favorite thing to say to us had always been, “Why are you so anxious to build yourself a ceiling? Why don’t you build a rocket instead?”
She was amazing.
But—and you knew there was going to be a “but”—she was prone to dramas in order to get her point across. I’m not talking about loud dramas, with screaming and hollering. Oh no. These were much worse (and therefore better).
I’d never been on the receiving end of the dark-foyer-drama, which consisted of flipping on the light to the unnerving and immobile image of my mother suddenly there, in her bathrobe and glasses, a look of intense disapproval on her face.
She used to do this often to my sister Daniella, when Dani would try to sneak back into the house after a late night and a broken curfew. I’d avoided this fate by being an avid spectator of Dani’s adolescence. Since I was nine years younger than my sister, I watched, learned, and adjusted my behavior accordingly. As such, when I hit the curfew years, I always arrived home a half hour early.
Maybe it wasn’t fair, but I couldn’t help reflecting on my older sister’s life and experiences as a cautionary tale.
Case in point, Dani had fallen head over heels in love with a guy when she was in high school—like, crazy in love, disrespecting our parents in love, acting like a moody fool 24-7 in love. She ran away from home when I was eight and broken my parents’ hearts.
Basically, she’d let her feelings be her guide when she should have consulted Google Maps or a Sherpa.
When she returned after three months, all was forgiven. She’d been in her senior year, had been a straight-A student her entire high school career, and had already been accepted to Howard. Her teachers were sympathetic, just as forgiving as my parents, and allowed her to make up her course work so she could graduate with everyone else.
Dani went off to college and that was that, like it had never happened. Except, it had happened.
I’d been there, witnessing my parents’ heartache, their worry, their sleepless nights. They’d held me tighter, reluctant to drop me off at school, or play at anyone’s house. This didn’t change when Dani returned. Their trust—in my sister, in their children, in life—had been shattered. None of us were the same after.
But I’ve gotten way off track. Back to the dark-foyer-drama.
According to Dani, our mother would get more and more creative each time. One time, the last time as far as I knew, Dani flipped on the light, ready to face my mother. But she wasn’t there.
Dani turned to the entryway closet—which had a full-length mirror attached to the outside of the door—opened the door, put her bag away, closed the door and nearly had a heart attack. In the few short seconds it had taken Dani to put her bag away, my mother had soundlessly apparated to stand directly behind my sister.
It was one of my favorite stories, how Dani had screamed at the image of our mother standing behind her in the mirror. It woke up the entire house, but we had all laughed and laughed at the expense of my sister. If you knew my sister, this story was even funnier. No one laughed at Daniella Payton.
Except her family.
Hilarious.
Which was why I paused just inside the suspiciously dark foyer, holding my breath and listening to the house.
My mother was there. I couldn’t see her, but my hunch-senses were tingling. Bracing myself, I flipped on the foyer light. The entryway was empty. I waited, scanning the area. After a full minute, I walked quickly to the living room and flipped on that light as well, careful to keep looking behind me.
She was nowhere to be seen.
A shiver raced up my spine.
Dammit.
Attempting to keep my attention pointed in every direction, I walked backward into the entryway, pressing my back against the wall next to the closet door, and slipped off my shoes.
I didn’t think she would jump out. That wasn’t her way. She would just abruptly appear, lips pressed together in a stern line, eyebrows slightly raised, which was way worse (and therefore better).
I reached for the knob of the closet, my attention swiveling around the tidy space behind me as I opened the door, my heart pounding in my chest in anticipation of her inevitable appearance, and hurriedly faced the closet to—
“Simone.”
I screamed, jumping back, dropping my bag, and gripping my chest, because there was my mother.
Inside the closet!
Fuuuuuck . . . and drat.
I should have seen that coming.
“Oh, did I scare you?” she asked, sounding unperturbed, but her face communicated a different story.
She was pissed.
“Mom.” I laughed lightly, closing my eyes and telling my body to calm down. The aftereffects of having the shit scared out of me left my hands shaking and my heart on high alert.
She was quiet, so I opened my eyes, meeting her Spartan stare.
“Was that scary?” Holding my gaze, my mother stepped out of the closet, wearing her bathrobe and glasses and a silk scarf on her head.
“Here we go,” I whispered under my breath, still grinning. I couldn’t believe how good she got me. Man, I was impressed.
“So I guess maybe you can understand—just a little—how I felt, waiting for you to come home.”
I released an elongated breath, my gaze growing hooded as I glared at her in return. “I’m working here. I can’t always call and tell you where I am.”
“You can text if it’s going to be after midnight.”
“Not always.”
She examined me in that piercing way of hers, a way that sometimes had me convinced my mother could read minds. “But you could have tonight.”
I didn’t respond, because she was correct about tonight—see? Mind reader—but that wasn’t the point.
Dragging my feet as I closed the distance between us, I pulled her into a hug. “Can we please just let this drop? I’m exhausted.”
“So am I.” She wrapped her arms around me and squeezed me tight. “But I can’t sleep when I don’t know where my babies are.”
“Do you know where Dani is right now? Or Poe?” Poe was my brother Adolpho’s nickname; as a two-year-old I couldn’t say Adolpho, but I could say Poe.
She leaned away, giving me a flat look. “Don’t be smart with me. Neither Dani nor Poe are living in my house right now, and neither of them are determined to take crazy risks—”
“I work in a lab!” I grow
led, walking away.
“Then why are you here?” she called after me, following me into the kitchen. “There are no labs in Green Valley.”
“That you know of,” I corrected gently, trying to infuse my tone with humor. She did not smile.
I opened the fridge and—Oh, leftovers!—pulled out the leftovers dish, carefully lifting the aluminum foil so as not to tear it. There wasn’t much that irritated my mother more than perfectly good aluminum foil being ripped.
Cashew chicken and egg rolls.
Man, I loved being home.
“You make me crazy.” My mother mimed a strangling movement with her fingers, a rare display of frustration, and it made me smile.
I set the leftovers dish on the counter, giving my mother a kiss on her cheek as I stepped around her, heading for the sauce packet drawer. “I’m honestly not trying to drive you crazy.”
“Between you and your aunt Dolly, I’m going to sell the business and move to Tahiti.”
My grin was immediate. Mom had been making this threat for years.
“That sounds nice.” I dug around the packets, searching for duck sauce.
I had no idea why, but miniatures of foodstuffs made me happy. I especially enjoyed those fish-shaped mini pods of soy sauce with the red cap, tiny bottles of Tabasco, and miniature jars of seedless blackberry jam.
Blackberry jam was my favorite.
“Simone,” she said, and something about her tone, a particular rawness, had me looking up. Her eyes were a little glassy, like she was fighting tears. “Please be careful.”
I went to her and hugged her again, and again she held me tightly, more tightly than normal.
“It’s fine,” I tried to soothe, rubbing my hand down and then up her back.
“It’s not fine.” She leaned away, but held my upper arms and captured my gaze with hers. “When you said you were joining the FBI, your father and I didn’t say a word. You said you weren’t going to be an agent in the field, you said you were going to stay put in DC, work in an office or a lab, do research, stop terrorists using science, give support to folks in the field.”
“Yes.” I nodded patiently, because this was not the first time we’d had this conversation in the last ten days. “And that’s still the plan. They needed me here for a temporary assignment. I am only here for a short time.”