“Are you ready?” Terry asked, climbing into the car.
Rachel nodded and opened the door for Blake, who climbed in and winced as he put weight on his wounded arm. As soon as he was inside, the engine grumbled to life. Blake pushed on the button and brought down the window. The steady breeze was gentle on his face.
“I’ll see you all at the station,” Robbie said, peering in. “Drive safe.”
But Blake didn’t hear any of that. His eyes were fixed on the ground in the distance, where blood had been cleaned up. The stain, however, had not yet been removed.
Rachel took his hand, twining her fingers between his, and then she rested her head on his shoulder. Blake understood that she needed to be cared for just as much as he did. Right now though, he just needed to wake from this horrible, beautiful, awful, heart-thumping dream, where his best friend was alive but his father was dead.
None of this is real, he told himself, but the touch of Rachel’s hand proved otherwise. The feel of the cool winter air also alerted his senses, as if to tell him that this wasn’t a dream and that he couldn’t wake up from it.
But his father had given his life for them all.
The Agency was just a dead organization now, and it was all thanks to that man. Despite the trials that his very employment had set for them, and all the grief that had come from having any involvement in their goals, Blake could have a life now. A life of truth, warmth, and love. And although it was true he’d never had the chance to say goodbye, he could always try to remind himself of this: Val Salinger would live on in his memory forever, as the man who had saved them all.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Robbie Parker waited at the foot of the drive, taking in the free air. It was a good scent; crisp leaves in fresh, cool breeze. It was the kind of moisture that gave the ground a warming scent, and it smelled fantastic.
He’d scrubbed up pretty well, too. For the first time in weeks, he’d been inside his own apartment, where he’d taken the time to shower, shave, and throw on a nice clean suit. It was, after all, a special occasion. After locking up, he’d rented a car and driven into the suburbs, and now here he was, trembling as he anxiously waited for them to emerge from the house.
“Daddy!” little Cassie Parker cried, dashing toward him with Sonia in tow. She leapt into his arms, and he held her close, tighter than he’d ever held anything.
“Hi there, little one. Are you ready to go home?”
Cassie nodded, her lips folded inward. It looked like she was trying not to cry.
“Are you?” Sonia asked.
It was yet to be talked about in further detail, but it’d been decided that Robbie and Sonia would give it another shot. Although his days with the LAPD were done (he never wanted anything to do with law enforcement ever again), he was still seeking work.
“I am.” Robbie grinned and took Sonia into his arms, where they stood hugging in a close triangle. “I really am.” And although he would miss Val Salinger, he could finally feel as though his duty was done. Now, there was only one thing on his mind, and that was making these two beautiful girls as happy as they could be.
“So,” he said, lowering Cassie into the car and strapping her in, “Disneyland, anyone?”
“He would’ve been proud of you, you know that?” Frank’s voice was grittier than ever, as if he badly needed a lozenge. Perhaps he was getting choked up at the idea of his friend passing, or maybe it was being on the other side of the bar for a change.
“You think so?” Blake sat with his shirt hanging out, recovering from the service. It’d been a cremation, and over four hundred people attended—including what remained of the LAPD. Most of them had to wait outside, but they did so in such beautiful silence.
Now, they were at the bar of the wake, sipping scotch and simply waiting.
“I do, pal. And I’m glad you didn’t snitch on me. Prison ain’t no place for a guy like me. You know? I mean… I owe you, thanks.”
Blake looked at him.
“But I am a little worked up that I’m out of a job now. Might have to apply for a job at McDonald’s.” Frank looked dead-eyed in front of him.
Blake thought he was being serious until he saw a smile creep onto the corner of his mouth. He pictured this man wearing the uniform, and Blake just had to laugh.
The door behind them opened, and a cool gust of air flushed in. Blake turned to see Rachel holding the door open and Jackie slowly edging through, her hair cut short and her hand on her stomach. It was a shame she hadn’t made it to the cremation, but at least she could be here for the wake. That was all that mattered.
As they took their seats at a table, and friends and ex-colleagues of his father passed by, stopping briefly to offer their condolences, Blake shot a look at Jackie. He wondered how he would begin his apologies for allowing her to get hurt in the first place.
Jackie shook her head at him. It was like she’d read his thoughts.
Rachel settled in next to him and put her hand on top of his. For a flicker of a second, their eyes met, and there was a spark of electricity. But then she looked away.
“I have something to tell you all,” Blake said, but it wasn’t the apology. Not yet. That would come later, when they were all ready for it. “When I was with… you know… with them, I was going through a file, and I saw something about Greg.”
Frank opened his mouth to speak, but then the confusion left his face.
“I shouldn’t have been looking in the first place—not really—but I just couldn’t help myself. Call it an accident if you like. Anyway, there was never any man named Greg. Or Daniel, or Harry.”
“What are you saying?” Jackie asked, but it looked as though she was beginning to understand. A brief glint of a smile hung on her lips, anticipating something exciting.
“I mean to say that Greg’s real name is…” Blake shook on the verge of laughter. “All this time, we were being chased by a man named Elmo Dow.”
Rachel slammed down her glass. Clang. “You’re joking?”
“I’m not. It was on his birth certif—” Blake started to laugh, the feeling rising up through his stomach and tears seeping from his eyes. The others joined him; first Rachel and then Jackie, all laughing hysterically. Frank remained silent—probably because he’d already known—but the smirk on his face was undeniable.
“No wonder he used different names,” Jackie said, cringing with pain as she reached to wipe her eye with a sleeve. The bartender brought over a tray of drinks; brandy, his father’s beverage of choice. Jackie lifted hers into the air. “Well, then, here’s to Val Salinger.”
Rachel raised hers.
Frank with his. “To Val Sa—”
“No,” Blake interrupted, earning an uncomfortable look from everyone around the table. “My father did his part, and he earned the toast. But I think he would have preferred we drink to something else.”
“Which is?” Frank urged.
“To making new friends and supporting each other in spite of our own circumstances. I’ve learned a lot over these past few weeks, but I believe in this the most; it’s never too late to right some wrongs. And I’m going to prove that to you all, starting from today.”
Rachel put her hand on his again. She raised her glass. “To new friends.”
To that, they all raised and clinked their glasses, and then they drank.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
One Year Later
The press was dying down, and things were returning to normal.
Blake agreed to return to work, as his ex-employer had decided that the company could use the moment in the spotlight, and they had. Rachel, however, had other plans.
They were at their final book signing in a crowded bookstore, where the lines got smaller each month. The deal they had struck with Phoenix Publishing had been substantial—enough to buy a decent house, at the very least. But they’d had to attend twelve book signings for this release—and here they were.
Their story was out there,
and soon it would be set in history.
“I know it’s been a long time.” The older lady stepped forward with her copy of Agents See to be signed by the pair of them. “But I just want you to know that I worship your father.”
Blake felt warmth flow through him. The memory of that man was now stronger than the bond they’d ever shared. “You knew him?”
“I never had that honor,” the lady said, taking her signed book and eyeing it to make sure everything looked right. “But I’ve read this book twice and followed all the news reports. What he did was wonderful.”
Blake knew it, too. “Thank you.”
After the lady left, the shopkeeper turned the open-close sign and bolted the door. “That’s it, then,” the bookseller said. She was a young girl—perhaps in her twenties with straight, brown hair and a small frame. “I’ll just give you a few minutes to pack up.”
“Thanks,” Rachel said, standing up.
But before she could get halfway to her feet, Blake shot up and helped her, holding her back straight with one hand and holding her hand with the other. “Steady now,” he said and protectively rested his hand on her bump. I swear to you, I will be a good father.
“I’m fine,” Rachel told him, smiling. “Honestly, I’m just glad to be done with all this.”
Blake grabbed her bag from the back of her chair, saving her the trouble of having to turn around. “Do you want to go home?”
Rachel looked beautiful under the dim bulb of the shop’s true crime section. It added a glow to her soft skin, her blonde hair, and her white smile. “Yes,” she said. “Let’s go home.”
Chapter Thirty
Jackie Lang, retired into the simple life of running an eBay shop, had received a number of emails on the matter. The first one, entitled Open in Private, she had thought was junk mail. It hadn’t been until she’d later returned to it that she saw the invitation.
There’d been a lot of phone calls too. Letters had persistently come through her door. Whoever it was, somebody had gone through a lot of trouble to ensure that she received the messages. She’d been getting them for months and hadn’t told a soul. Come to Paris, they all said, and nothing more. It was worrying really—she’d often stayed up at night, unable to sleep as the possibility that the Agency was alive in France circled her head. It was too dangerous to go, and her fear mostly kept her grounded.
But on one cool, crisp February morning, she’d stood looking out of her window at the trees, thinking, There must be something bigger out there. Something better. Even with the company of her golden retriever, life was dull here, and she’d been determined to make the change.
Only a few days later, she’d boarded the plan to France, and now here she was. It was past midnight, and the few passengers who left the aircraft with her were gone in a hurry. Jackie had never been to Paris before and wanted to take everything in. Not only that, but she could feel somebody watching her.
After a short train ride, she arrived at a near-empty station that gave off eerie, ghostly vibes in the late hour. Jackie ignored them and moved on, down the steps of the Gare du Nord and onto the street where the road led steeply toward the Seine. She was about to begin walking, to find her hotel, when she had the feeling again. Sometimes she just got that feeling, and it was as real now as it’d ever been. She spun on her heel and looked behind her.
At the top of the steps, a blinding streetlight played havoc on her eyes. It felt like it was burning her eyes as she strained to see. There was a blacked-out figure before it, and she would always remember thinking, Oh no, it’s an agent. There are still some left, and they’re coming to finish us off.
The figure came down toward her, and for half a second she thought it was going to pass her by. But it didn’t. As it came closer, she could see that it was a man—yes, the strong frame of a man in good shape, and he wasn’t just walking near her, but to her.
Jackie tensed up, wondering what to do with herself, as the man approached. His face glowed under the nearby light. He looked anxious, happy, and saddened at the same time, and she immediately associated it with the sensation of heartache.
“I knew it,” Jackie said. Her heart was pounding like crazy inside her chest.
“Thank you for coming,” the man said.
It was Val Salinger, and he looked healthier than ever.
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About the Author
Adam Nicholls has been creating stories since before he could legally drink. Inspired by the works of Stephen King, Karin Slaughter and Gillian Flynn, Adam starts writing each new book by asking himself how best to shock his readers.
In his non-writing life, Adam is a bibliophile and avid collector of anything made from paper (utility bills included). He loves hot showers, good wine and the sound of rain hitting the window. Whenever possible, he likes to get out and see the world, visiting one European city at a time in search of inspiration for his next great novel.
Get in touch:
www.adamnichollsauthor.com
[email protected]
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