Spy Another Day Box Set: Three full-length novels: I, Spy; Spy for a Spy; and Tomorrow We Spy (Spy Another Day clean romantic suspense trilogy)

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Spy Another Day Box Set: Three full-length novels: I, Spy; Spy for a Spy; and Tomorrow We Spy (Spy Another Day clean romantic suspense trilogy) Page 45

by Jordan McCollum


  Jaywalking is too much of a gamble — not the risk of getting caught, but the risk of attracting notice. I follow my target (generic code name: RABBIT) from across the street until I reach the red hand/Don’t Walk signal at the next corner. Waiting for the light, I take care not to watch her too obviously, without taking my eyes off her. Most people can get away with watching the signal, browsing their phones or staring into space at a stoplight, and I pick door #3. Whatever gets me closer to bachelorette #1, who’s quickly becoming very eligible for payback.

  Finally the signal changes. I manage not to launch myself across the street, maintaining my purposeful pace. The RABBIT’s nearly a block ahead, but not walking as quickly as I am. How far before she reaches her car? Parking can be tough around here, but we’re far enough from my place that it’s starting to get a little ridiculous.

  Halfway through the next block, I’m close enough to see she’s on the phone. I close to eavesdropping range, then slow down like I’m thinking about something really important.

  “I’m sure she’ll get it,” the RABBIT says. Her voice is familiar, I realize with a jolt. Brand’s attacking me on a personal level. Recruiting someone I know. “No,” she continues, “I think she’ll understand.”

  A sheet of ice crystallizes in my stomach, brittle and sharp. They’re talking about me. They have to be. I have to find out who she is, figure out how Brand got to her, how anybody could hate me this much.

  The RABBIT reaches the corner and takes the right, bowed over her phone as she ends the call. My opportunity. I break character, break into a run, and break around the corner in time to grab her. In one flash of anger and heat, I shove her against the nearest building, my forearm pinning her shoulders in place. She screams and struggles against me. I push her harder, then whip out the brown paper packet and shove it at her. “What are you trying to —”

  And then the streetlight hits her face, and I see exactly how stupid I am.

  Abby. Her jaw falls, too, recognizing me at the same time. “Talia?”

  I drop her, drop back, drop the bravado. Once again, I’m scrambling for a cover. “Abby, you can’t go skulking around people’s apartments.”

  “I’m sorry. You weren’t home, so I thought I’d leave it for you. Sorry.”

  I glance down at the packet in my hands. The paper’s ripped beneath my fingers, showing a glimpse of white. I tear back the paper farther. White fabric. I survey Abby again.

  “Samples for your dress. Since I know you’re busy.”

  Oh, wow. I underestimated my stupidity. Here she is, trying to do something kind for me, and I attack her. No wonder I have so many friends.

  “Thanks, Abby. That’s really nice of you.” But . . . what she was saying on the phone — she met Brand two days ago. Suspicion creeps into my words. “Who were you talking to?”

  “Danny’s mom? Kathi?”

  “Right.”

  Her smile’s uneasy. I can hardly blame her. She’s still trying to be nice, though. “Is work getting to you still? Is it Vince?”

  For a split second, cold ripples shoot down my back — but then I remember. Brand didn’t get to her. I told her about him. “Yeah. That.”

  “We could look at the sketches now, if you want. Pick up some Timmy’s? BeaverTails?”

  A girl after my own heart (and sweet tooth). The possibilities are calling to me: I could have a break. I could have fried dough and maple syrup. I could have a few minutes to pretend my biggest concern is my wedding dress instead of staying alive.

  Even after how I treated her tonight, I could have a friend.

  Abby self-consciously rubs the back of her head where I slammed her into the stucco. Yes, the most unbelievable part of this whole sneaking around over satin scenario is that anyone would be nice to me after the fantastic friend I’ve been: standing her up, taking advantage of her sewing, throwing her against a wall.

  Because I thought Brand got to her. If he did, I don’t want to imagine what he’d do to her —

  My erratic manners aren’t the biggest reason it’s best for me to not have friends. Spies live and die by their secrets, and so do the people closest to them.

  I like Abby a lot, but she’s better off staying one step above an acquaintance.

  “I wish I could, but I have casework to catch up on tonight, or I’ll get it in the morning.”

  Abby winces for my sake. “Okay, just let me know what you like best. There are a couple pattern sketches in there. Nothing too fancy — I know you.”

  No. No, you don’t. But that’s how it’s supposed to be, and how it has to be. “Thanks,” I repeat, like that’d be enough to repay this gesture.

  “It’s nothing. Sorry to scare you.”

  “Sorry to beat you up.”

  She doesn’t quite laugh, one hand drifting up to the bruise on the back of her head again before she bids me goodbye and we go our separate ways.

  After my little chase, and knowing what I know about Samir and Brand, I don’t want to go back to my empty apartment to cower by myself. But right now, I can’t deny it’s safest for me to be utterly, completely alone.

  I devote the night to packing more of my stuff until I get a text from Danny: At least tell me if you’re still alive.

  I’m an idiot. How could I have not checked in? Texting from beyond the grave, I reply.

  Not funny. And he includes the period. Very. Serious.

  I type an apology, but another text comes in first: Would this be easier if I worked for DS&T?

  My heart crawls downward. The truth is yes, of course, some of this situation — some of my life — would be easier if we both worked for the Agency.

  This is one time I think Danny deserves a lie.

  The CIA may have all kinds of listening devices, and Brand could eavesdrop on my conversation, but Danny is more important than feeding my paranoia, so I hit the button to call him.

  “Am I interrupting anything?” I ask when he answers.

  “Please, please do.”

  I don’t even want to know what his mom’s making him sit through — please not the scrapbook — but I guess I see how he learned to be so patient with me.

  I’m not brave enough to broach the topic that made me call yet. Instead, I relate the story of stalking Abby framed in a less threatening light. We segue into small talk about her samples. Not that I’m much help; I know nothing about fabric or sewing, despite Abby’s handy labels.

  “So satin is smooth and shiny, and crepe de Chine is bumpier and . . . not shiny,” I explain. “Chiffon is kinda like a see-through version of crepe de Chine.”

  “Crêpe de . . . what?”

  I take a stab at the French pronunciation, moving the nasal part of the word into the vowel. “Crêpe de . . . shi-en?”

  “Spell it?”

  I do, and that seems to make it click for Danny. “Crêpe de Chine,” he corrects my pronunciation: more like sheen. “Chinese crepe.”

  I wrack my brain for the translation of my mispronunciation. “I said chien, huh?”

  “Yeah, and I was wondering why dog crepe was one of the options.”

  “Cute. No, just satin, crepe, chiffon, silk taffeta and charmeuse. If I weren’t looking at these, I’d have to ask if they were fabrics or desserts.”

  “You’d like them better as desserts, huh?”

  “Probably.” I fold them up and pull the sketches from the packet. If Abby drew these, she’s really good. And if she drew these, why’s she working at Fabricland? (Fabricland!) They all have the same silhouette we liked with different details and fabrics, if that’s what the notes in the corner mean. Now I just have to figure out which one is me.

  I thumb through the sketches, eliminating #2 (Too . . . flowy? I don’t know.) until Danny breaks in again. “Did you get to talk to Abby at all?”

  “Not really.”

  He pauses. “Hm.”

  I don’t like that.

  Danny presses on, delving into a work personnel problem. I think he�
��d actually be happy to take a demotion if it meant he didn’t have to manage people anymore. He usually figures out the best thing to do by talking through it, so I’m here as a sounding board. Not that I mind. The verbal equivalent of an SDR is the safest route if someone’s listening to our conversation.

  As if Danny hits the end of an invisible three-minute timer, he abruptly drops the topic of his job and the idiots there. “How was work today?” Either he’s been dating me too long, or he’s gotten way too good at that fake-innocent tone.

  “Stressful.” I close my eyes to the sketches. Is this how we’re going to talk about DS&T? We have to be careful on an open line any time we talk about work, but especially now.

  “Heard anything from Elliott?”

  “No.” I silently pray we can keep up the cover in case Brand’s listening somewhere. “He’s probably shook up. I think he knows Josh Lee.”

  “Who?”

  There’s no nice, non-suspicious way to say shut up this instant. I set aside the sketches. “That guy who was shot downtown yesterday? He works for the embassy, too.”

  “Uh . . . huh. How was your boss?” Danny won’t let it go.

  “Fine.” Suspiciously fine, or at least I hope Danny can read between the lines to hear the real answer.

  “So, any news?”

  None that I can share over the phone, thanks. “Nope.”

  Danny falls silent, and this time I know it. The fake innocence, the repeated questions, the little hesitations: this pause is really bad news. I brace for the topic of DS&T.

  But when he speaks, it’s even worse than I feared. “So were you ever going to tell me?”

  I sit up straighter at my table, searching around like I’ve got a life jacket stowed around here. “Tell you what?”

  “About your boss?”

  “What about him?” My stomach turns sour with dread.

  “He’s Brand.”

  The worst part — the worst part is how he says it. If he were mad, if he’d shout at me, if he’d accuse me, lose his temper, anything — I would know how to react.

  I have no defense against the pain in his voice.

  “Why would you tell me his name was Vince?”

  More stuff I shouldn’t share over the phone. I drop my volume and try to think of a neutral way to explain the operational name. “Because I have to. I wouldn’t even know his first name if I hadn’t known him back in DC — wait, how do you know this?”

  “Abby called. She’s worried sick, convinced you flipped out on her because he’s stalking you. She said you used to date. You’ve only got one ex-boyfriend at work, and he isn’t named Vince.”

  Suddenly I don’t feel so bad for banging her head into a wall. She wasn’t supposed to tell — but she didn’t know. Now Danny’s engineer brain has fit all the pieces together, including the things I’ve told him about Brand that I’ve never told anyone, above and beyond the little Abby knows. Not only the backstabbing at work and the psychopathic punishment he meted out for not putting out, but the stuff that even now I’m too spooked to repeat. Taunting, pinches. Middle of the night calls. “Accidentally” brushing against me. Threatening “gifts.”

  Uh, yeah, Danny should be deeply displeased. And not just with Brand. “Is there any reason you wouldn’t tell me?”

  “Of course. I —” All those good reasons, whatever they were, immediately abandon me. All I can think of is why I never once used Danny’s name in front of Brand. To protect Danny.

  Now I’m so glad I didn’t, even if Brand figured out who he was anyway, even if Brand might be listening now or reading a transcript of the conversation tomorrow. But that logic doesn’t work both ways.

  And Danny waits for an answer. An awesomely effective tactic to get the info you need, since this is one awkward silence I really want to fill.

  But I have no idea what to fill it with. No idea what to give him. No idea what I could do to explain. “Danny, I’m sorry.”

  “Are you covering for him?”

  I scoff. “Of course not.”

  I’m covering for me. And somehow, that’s worse.

  “Is this fun for you, lying to me?” The words are accusatory, but the tone’s a lot closer to heartbreakingly hurt.

  “That’s not fair —”

  He laughs without humor. “Not ‘fair’? You’re kidding, right?”

  “Of course not.”

  “And how’s it fair that I’m supposed to settle for whatever scraps you’re willing to throw me? Do you have to be so stingy with the truth?” Now the anger’s starting to come through. “Or are you pathologically incapable of thinking of anyone but yourself?”

  That blow hits hardest of all. Am I my mother?

  Danny sighs, away from the phone, like he’s trying to hide his annoyance (too late). He’s always been crazy patient with my job, even before he knew I was a spy, but there are limits to everything. Even Danny.

  “I’m sorry,” I try again, like the two weak little words are both a peace offering and a heat shield. “I’m trying — I’m trying to think of you. To protect you.”

  Another exasperated exhale. “Nice job.”

  The heat’s gone out of his anger, though the hurt hasn’t. And that cuts right through me.

  I’m trying to protect him. I am. But now I can’t remember how exactly my paranoia and keeping the truth from him was supposed to keep me safe — him safe. That was always the plan: keeping him in the dark about my job, keeping him away from danger, keeping up the façade. This is obviously not the first time the plan has utterly, miserably failed.

  I can imagine his expression: jaw set, mouth pressed into the bare outline of a frown, gaze conspicuously avoiding mine. I can’t make this better. Even the truth feels like a small consolation after keeping up the lie for so long.

  Danny breaks the tense silence. “Knew I should’ve decked the guy the first time I saw him.”

  The veneer of humor only lowers the tension a notch. Because he’s right. I had a good reason for keeping Brand away from Danny, and I have a better one now. Despite the promises I made to myself when we started dating, and despite finally telling him the truth about my job and my secrets, I’m still playing the Great Game with Danny.

  And I can’t pretend I was doing it all for Danny’s sake. Are you kidding? This is for me.

  “Next thing you’ll tell me you and Elliott dated, too.” Danny’s trying to be funny, though my sinking feeling says it’s going to backfire. Big time. We didn’t date — not even close — but this is hardly the time to tell —

  “Talia, why aren’t you saying anything?” His voice is filled with uneasy suspicion.

  “We didn’t date.” My rush to reassure him is too rushed.

  “But . . . ?”

  I smother a moan. “He kissed me. Once. Before we started dating.”

  “I thought you said you and Elliott didn’t date.”

  “I mean before you and I started dating. It was just a cover.” To me. But holding back even that sliver of the truth hurts, so I tell him that part, too. “It was nothing.”

  “If it was nothing, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Um, because it would upset you?”

  “But it’s the truth.” Once again, he has a point. Before I can begin to figure out how to make up for my mistakes, Danny groans. “Si je ne vais pas divertir elle, ma mère va piquer une crise.”

  He has to go entertain his mom, or she’ll . . . “Crise?”

  “Fit.”

  What do you want to bet that’s the bad kind? Neither of us has to stipulate that this discussion is far from over. Until I retire from the spy business, we might have this conversation every month about something I kept from him when I didn’t have to, another time I played the Game when I shouldn’t have.

  What if you can take the spy out of the CIA but you can’t take the CIA out of the spy?

  With these prospects, it’s a wonder Danny hasn’t asked for the ring back.

  “I love you.” I
hope that note of please, please love me back is all in my imagination.

  “I love you too.” And his tone is way too close to resignation.

  I stare at Danny’s smile on my phone’s screen until it goes dark. We never even talked about DS&T, and I still hurt the last person I wanted to alienate.

  What was I just thinking about being completely alone?

  I won’t let Brand win like that, stealing everyone I have. I. Will. Fight. I’ve started writing up “Will’s” activities, but that’s not enough. By the time I get to work Thursday, I have the full report — the real one — in the one place I can keep something that sensitive. My pocket.

  I don’t beat Brand in even this early, but he’s in his office, so I don’t have to face him. I fire up my email, trying to figure out the next step to take Brand down — until a message from Elliott catches my attention. Even if it’s just a status update, that’s the first thing I want to read.

  Released from hospital, reads the first line. I allow myself one silent sigh of relief, though that’s it for the personal message. The rest of the email is a link. I click. The CTV News Channel page takes forever to load. My shoulders tense every second, and my eyes flick between eyeing Brand’s closed door to make sure it stays that way and searching the screen to make sure there isn’t a video loading that’ll automatically begin playing (the minute Brand walks by, I’m sure).

  Finally, the page finishes and I can scroll past the oversized photo of police tape around a suburban rambler. The dateline is Falls Church, Virginia, and already the chills do a cha-cha down my spine. It’s a small town outside of DC, and yeah, they have crime like everywhere else. But this particular suburb happens to be fifteen minutes from Langley. And this particular crime happens to have made the world news.

  That doesn’t mean anything, right?

  Of course. Totally a coincidence. Sure. Like it’s a coincidence I couldn’t peel my eyeballs away from this article if I tried.

  But it’s not until I hit on the name of the victim that the time-for-total-freak-out switch flips in my brain: Ali Muhammad Wasti. Brother of Hassam-ud-Din Wasti, who allegedly holds family sacred.

 

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