by Penny Reid
Something about the tone of her voice grabbed my attention, like the question was an official one, and I chanced a quick glance at her.
“Why’re you so interested in Darrell Winston?”
How she knew where to find me at Hawk’s Field, the first topic of conversation that night had been my father, too.
“Hey, I have some questions.”
Sighing, I asked, “Such as?”
“So, what’s going on with your dad?”
I started, staring forward and frowning at her subject choice. “My dad?”
“Darrell.”
“Yes. I know who my father is.” I ground my teeth.
“Do you want to talk about your dad at all?” Simone sounded like she was choosing her words carefully. “I mean, it looks like he came out of nowhere last week. You didn’t seem happy to see him.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Has he tried to make contact with you? Since last week?”
How she’d shown up just as Catfish and Twilight had come to take me, forcing them to take her as well. The disarming moves she used while we’d been trapped in the room. The tracker she’d placed on my truck, the one I’d never found.
Of course. Of course. How could I have been so blind? Why else would she track me down, follow me around town, suddenly interested?
She wasn’t interested. She didn’t want to know me. She needed me, used me to get to my father. She used me to talk to him, to make contact with him, and now to help him, because she needed the information he had.
Something within me cracked open, fire and ice spilling out of my chest and to the floor. I couldn’t breathe. To breathe was to live, and the pain . . . the pain.
Urgency in my father’s voice brought me back to the present, and I battled my mind, forcing the tsunami of disordered, cutting thoughts and bruising memories back. I had to get out of here. I had to get away, from both of them.
“We got to hurry. You want my information? You want the murders to stop? You take me in now. Once Roscoe has made his donation and everything is set for my treatment, I’ll hand Razor Dennings and all his accomplices—because, I guarantee you, there are a lot more than you know—over to the FBI on a goddamn silver platter.”
“I’m sorry, Roscoe,” she said under her breath, her eyes darting to me and then away. What I saw there sobered my mind, shame quickly eclipsed by inflexible determination.
Simone didn’t hesitate this time. Apparently, she didn’t require even a second to think. She reached under the front of her dress and withdrew several items, like a magician pulling rabbits out of a hat, tossing something in my direction.
I caught it. Handcuffs.
Disoriented, I staggered to the side three steps as she backed away, out of his reach, and pointed her gun at my father. Peripherally, I was aware of people gasping, staring, gaping at us. I ignored them.
“FBI,” she shouted firmly, all grit and intensity and focus, standing there like Lady Justice in her pink dress, calla lily fascinator, and matching stiletto heels. Simone’s shoulders bunched, her arms bent at the elbows. She put him in her sights, her face a mask of rigidity, the barrel pointed directly at his chest. A black wallet in her other hand, showing it to Darrell and anyone else nearby, she proclaimed, “Darrell Winston, you are under arrest.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“It's so hard to forget pain, but it's even harder to remember sweetness. We have no scar to show for happiness. We learn so little from peace.”
Chuck Palahniuk, Diary
*Simone*
Telling the story didn’t get easier. If anything, it became more cumbersome each time, with Roscoe’s part a leaden albatross around my neck.
I’d told it five times since bringing Darrell into the Western Kentucky FBI field office. First to Agent Lehey, the field office’s Special Agent In Charge (SAIC), along with her deputy. Both, I discovered, had been briefed about our operation at Churchill Downs at some point prior to the Derby. As well, Lehey was intimately familiar with the case since three of the victims were found in her jurisdiction last July.
Next, I recounted the tale for Agent Nelson over the phone on her way back to Louisville. After Nelson, I repeated the story to our SAIC down in Knoxville, and once more for his deputy.
And now I was repeating it again to Nelson and SAIC Lehey. Sitting in a small office, still wearing my pink dress and thigh holsters while sipping stale coffee, I spoke into a recorder. It was the middle of the night. My awesome hat was presumably in the locker room along with my shoes.
“It was at this point that Officer Parkland with Louisville PD brought us here.” I finished my latest retelling, rubbing my forehead.
“Why didn’t you call us?” Lehey asked, watching me closely. “Why not have us pick you up? Why rely on Louisville PD?”
She’d already asked me this question—as had her deputy—the first time I told the story.
“For a number of reasons.” I repeated my original answer tiredly, glancing at Nelson, “First, I didn’t know if your office had been briefed.”
“Payton wasn’t part of the apprehension team for Dennings,” Nelson said from her spot next to me; she’d arrived at the field office over five hours ago, but had just been allowed to sit with me recently. “I can confirm that she had no knowledge of the information trail between our offices.”
Lehey nodded and motioned for me to continue.
“Second, I didn’t want to wait for clearance and a car since Winston had mentioned that a number of his associates were present at Churchill Downs. Any delay felt dangerous and it had been communicated to me by Nelson that Winston was a high-profile asset. Louisville PD was already cooperating. As soon as I gave them Winston’s warrant number, they offered the car, which was already on site. They asked me only to wait for reinforcements to arrive, which they estimated would take less than five minutes. This proved to be true.”
“So, timeliness was the main issue.”
“Expediency, urgency,” I clarified. “Yes.”
“What about the son? Roscoe Winston?” Lehey asked. “Why didn’t you detain him as well? Why rely on the Louisville PD?”
My gaze flickered to Nelson again and I sucked in a slow breath as a buffer against the agonizing spikes of pain radiating outward from my chest, cinching my throat tighter and tighter. I rubbed my sternum against the stabbing throb.
The way he’d looked at me, like I’d betrayed him, like he didn’t want to know me . . . God. I’d never forget it. Even when Roscoe had ignored me in high school he’d never looked at me like that.
He’s never going to forgive you.
I hadn’t seen him yet, but I knew Roscoe was here, being held in another office most likely. Lehey had told me hours ago that he’d been picked up by the Louisville PD, that he was safe.
I began again, repeating myself from earlier, “At Churchill Downs, once it was clear to me that the crowd around us wasn’t going to panic, I instructed Roscoe to cuff his father. Again, I was acutely aware of Winston’s threats about his associates and I didn’t want one of them coming at us from a blind spot.”
I didn’t need some MC recruit trying to be a hero for the Iron Wraiths’ vice president and endangering more than just me and Roscoe. I had one hundred and fifty thousand citizens to worry about.
I considered myself proficient and capable, but I doubted even Nelson would have been able to simultaneously cuff Winston and cover all threats.
“Roscoe did as I instructed.” His face like stone, his eyes like granite. “After, he stepped back and effectively disappeared.”
“What do you mean he disappeared?” Lehey asked.
“He faded into the gathering crowd, allowed it to swallow him. I couldn’t find him and I needed to move.”
“So you asked Louisville PD to step in?”
“Yes. As I’ve said, as soon as the asset was secured, and we were waiting for transport, I’d attempted to reach Roscoe Winston on my phone.” I texted Roscoe. He ha
dn’t answered. I’d called. He hadn’t picked up. “Running out of options, I gave his description and picture to the Louisville PD, indicated that he was a person of interest.”
“And they stopped him outside the Clubhouse Gate?”
I shrugged, forcing calm in my voice while willing the excruciating twisting of my heart to stop. “I can’t confirm that. You know better than I do what happened to Roscoe. The last time I saw him—as I’ve said—he was cuffing his father.”
Lehey nodded thoughtfully, her eyes flicking over my dress. “What is your relationship with Roscoe Winston?”
My chin wobbled because, quite abruptly, I felt all the sad.
All the sad.
All of it.
I wouldn’t freaking cry. I wouldn’t. Simone Payton doesn’t cry at work. Simone Payton gets shit done. Apparently, Simone Payton also talks and thinks about herself in the third person when she has all the sad.
But I digress.
Gathering a deep breath, I held it within my lungs, waiting for them to stretch and expand and relax. They didn’t, so I breathed out. I didn’t feel better, I felt more numb. But at least I could speak.
“Roscoe Winston and I were childhood friends and recently we’ve become romantically involved,” I said, sounding like a robot.
“I see.” Lehey’s eyes slid to Nelson. “Did you know about this?”
“Yes. I did,” Nelson responded flatly.
“And you approved?”
I studied Nelson’s profile as she glared at Lehey. “She got him to agree to help his shit-bag father, didn’t she? Of course I approved.”
Lehey’s mouth twitched, but she quickly tucked her chin to her chest. A second later she cleared her throat and gave me her eyes again. “Payton, prior to your arrest of his father, did Roscoe know you were with the bureau?”
I shook my head, embracing the numbness in favor of crippling sadness, because the way he looked at me was eternally etched on my brain and would forever give me all the sad.
“No,” I said, my voice hollow. “He appeared to be completely blindsided.”
Unless I was imagining things, Lehey’s gaze softened and she looked a smidge—just a smidge—sympathetic.
But then the smidge of sympathy was gone in a flash and she was back to business, giving Nelson a brief head nod.
“We’re finished here, unless you have additional questions.”
My senior agent stared at Lehey for a long moment, and Lehey stared back. Clearly, they were communicating silently, but since I had no way of knowing what passed between them, I concentrated on keeping it together.
All I needed to do was force Roscoe to talk to me, forgive me, and trust me again. Simple, right?
Right?
It’s the end, Simone. He is never going to forgive you. Let a Sherpa be your guide, not feelings.
“There is one issue,” Nelson began haltingly, pulling me out of my depressing reflections, her eyes still on Lehey. After a brief pause, she turned in her chair and studied me. “Simone,” she said, surprising me with the use of my first name, “tell me about Roscoe’s memory.”
My eyebrows pulled together. “His memory?”
Crossing her legs, Nelson folded her hands on her lap. “You’ve known him a long time.”
“I’ve known him his whole life,” I corrected her, but then had to amend my statement. “Well, actually, I knew him until we were sixteen. But he—”
Lehey cut in, “Have you ever noticed anything unusual about Roscoe’s memory?”
I shook my head, about to say, No, but stopped myself. That wasn’t precisely true. “I guess, I mean, when I think about it, Roscoe has always been really good at remembering conversations.”
“Can you give us an example?” Nelson seemed acutely interested.
I thought back to Hawk’s Field over a month ago and countless times during our childhood. “He can repeat, word for word, a list of questions he’s been asked. Or even . . .” I blinked, and was startled to discover that, when I really considered the matter, Roscoe did have an exemplary memory.
“Even?” Lehey pushed.
“Uh.” I cleared my throat. “I- I can’t- I mean, yes. He has an excellent memory. He has repeated conversations back to me, word for word, that occurred years ago.” I covered my mouth with shaking fingers, a hot wave of the confusion that follows a sudden—and obvious—realization rushing over me.
“I have a really good memory,” he said, like it was a matter of fact and not nonsense.
And then I questioned him further, but I couldn’t quite remember what was discussed, something about not believing his memory was why he’d stayed a virgin.
Ah, yes! I told him it didn’t make sense.
“It does make sense, if you think about it,” he said, his gaze focused on some spot beyond me. He stared silently for a moment, obviously lost to his own reflections.
I gave him a few seconds, and then I interrupted again, asking him more about his memory, about how good it was. . . I think . . . or something like that.
But then, when he looked at me, I was struck once again by how soulful his eyes were. And then I was struck by how achingly handsome he was. And then I was struck by how awesome it was that he’d chosen me as his deflowering partner. If I could have high-fived myself without it looking like applause, I would have.
“Really, really good,” he answered.
But I’d already forgotten the question.
“Simone.” Nelson was speaking again, bringing me back to the present. “Roscoe told us that he recognized several men at the Derby who were placing bets.”
“Okay.” I nodded dumbly, trying to follow the conversation.
Nelson’s eyebrows pulled together as she studied me. “He said he recognized the men from meeting them just once. When he was a child.”
“Okay,” I said again, still struggling.
Nelson and Lehey shared another look.
“That shouldn’t be possible.” Lehey pointed out the obvious. “It’s not normal for someone to remember a face or a name after meeting the person just once in passing at five years old. It certainly isn’t normal for someone to recall—word for word—a conversation years later.”
My throat was dry, so I swallowed. “That sounds about right for Roscoe,” I croaked, overwhelmed by my failure to recognize the unusual nature of Roscoe’s memorization skills prior to right now. I mean, I knew he had a good memory, but I’d never really thought about it. It was just part of him, like the color of his eyes, or the shape of his nose, or the way he became squeamish about putting worms on fishing hooks.
That was just Roscoe.
“Really?” Nelson’s question was higher pitched than normal, her tone laced with disbelief. “Simone, that’s- that’s crazy. I’ve heard of super-recognizers—the bureau has a whole fleet of them—but you’re talking about someone memorizing conversations as well as faces encountered just once. That would mean he has a situational photographic memory. Do you know how rare that is?”
I felt a little sick to my stomach, because she was right. What other explanation could there be? I’d known him my whole life. How could something so obvious have escaped my notice?
Maybe because you’ve known him your whole life . . . ?
Endeavoring to recall my best childhood memory with Roscoe, I realized a few small parts were vivid—flashes of images, a sense of feeling—but overall it was fuzzy, an impression rather than a scene. I then attempted to bring forth our worst shared memory, one involving his father, and a sense of dread slithered up my spine, cold and clammy and paralyzing.
If he remembered those men today with such precision after meeting them just once as a child, what else did he remember?
Perhaps more importantly, how clearly did he remember it?
* * *
It was past 1:00 AM when I finally saw Roscoe. He was asleep on a couch in the break room, his coat hanging on the back of a nearby chair, his pink tie tossed over it. My chest squeezed
my heart at the sight of him, like my rib cage was trying to give the organ an aggressive hug.
So many feelings.
But strangely, the strongest and loudest ones weren’t about me, my worry that he’d never forgive me, my fear that we were over. The most powerful of my feelings were about him. Worry for him. Fear for him.
“I have a really good memory.”
I shivered.
What would that be like? To remember everything?
Studying his long form, how his legs dangled off the couch, I thought about how awkward his height must be for him at times. Airline travel was likely a killer, entering rooms with a low ceiling, or sleeping on strange sofas. However, instead of deciding that he was too tall, I decided that the world was too small.
Roscoe was perfect, just as he was. I hoped he knew that.
He stirred in his sleep. The unexpected movement spurred me forward and I placed a hand on his shoulder, lowering to my haunches at the side of the sofa and giving him a gentle squeeze.
“Roscoe,” I whispered, moving my hand to cup his face, the short hairs of his beard tickling my palm. “Roscoe,” my love, “it’s time to go.”
His eyelids blinked open, his gaze hazy at first, but then sharpening almost at once upon recognizing me. He flinched, sitting up and moving away from my touch, glancing around the room as he pushed his fingers into his hair.
My heart cried out at his withdrawal, protesting the distance he placed between us. But I told my heart to chill the fuck out.
If he didn’t trust me, so be it. I wouldn’t blame him.
But, dammit, he would forgive me. If I could forgive him for ghosting me ten years ago, he could and would forgive me for doing my job as an undercover agent. He’d see the reason-Sherpa, consult factual Google Maps, and we’d get through this. Guided by logic.
Obviously, he’d never forget about it, but he would forgive me.
“What time is it?” he asked, his voice full of sleep.
I sat next to him on the sofa, careful to maintain the distance between us. “It’s past one.”