by Toby Neal
“I can’t even imagine.” Marcella cupped Sophie’s good cheek. “But you know that you’re beautiful regardless. Are you sure you want to do this now?”
“Dr. Littleton said I can remove the bandages today, and that’s what I want to do. Let’s just get it over with.” Sophie could hear the steel in her own voice.
The two women walked into the bathroom, where the mirror Sophie had been avoiding was lit with a strong neon glare.
Marcella seated her on the toilet, and began to tug and lift at the bandages covering the right side of her face as Sophie watched Marcella’s face closely. Marcella gave nothing away. Her brown eyes were intent, her full mouth relaxed, holding the same expression she’d had when beginning to lift the bandages off. “Not bad,” Marcella said, looking over the area in question. “Seems like the skin graft took, thank the good Lord.”
Sophie stood up and walked to the sink. She turned her face to be able to see the surgery area. Her cheek on the injured side was twice as big. Her eye was sunk in a pouch of black and blue swelling. The skin graft was clearly visible, beginning in the middle of her cheekbone and extending up the side of her face into her hairline and around into her scalp. She’d already known the size of graft area, because she had a matching wound on her hip. “Where your bikini will hide it,” Littleton had said, with his gift for optimism.
A row of black stitches surrounded the graft, giving the area the look of a crude patchwork quilt. When Sophie looked closer, she could see how tiny the stitches were. They were almost too small to have been done by human hands.
Littleton was one of the best in his field, her father had said. There was no reconstructive surgery on the face that he hadn’t had extensive experience practicing. When the stitches were out, the wound’s distorted, horrible outline would be much less obvious—but the fact remained that the area was dented and dimpled, too.
“I look like a pirate,” Sophie said. “I look like…” She couldn’t find words.
“You look like a beautiful, brave woman who’s been shot in the face and surgically repaired by the best,” Marcella said. She burst into tears, covering her face with her hands.
“That doesn’t reassure me.” Sophie hugged her friend as Marcella pulled toilet paper off of the roll, dabbing her eyes and blowing her nose noisily. “I’m a freak.”
“You are not. I’m just so glad you’re alive. We all have to remember that, going forward. And that’s why I’m crying,” Marcella said. “Because I’m happy you’re still here, and you’re going to be good as new in no time.”
“People keep saying that to me.” Sophie turned back to her disturbing image in the mirror. She traced the outline of the skin graft’s stitching with a fingertip. “I won’t have hair here. I guess I’ll have to grow my hair out and find a way to cover up the bald spot.”
“You can’t get discouraged by this. Dr. Littleton said this was only the beginning of the repairs.”
Sophie shrugged. She couldn’t take her eyes off of the wasteland of her face. “Good thing I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“This won’t make a bit of difference to anyone who really cares about you,” Marcella snapped.
“You know who has been missing from this whole thing? Alika. It’s really over with him. If he cared about me at all, he would have visited me. He would have called.”
Marcella set a hand on her shoulder. “I did call him to tell him the news. He said he’d be praying for you.”
Tears prickled Sophie’s eyes for the first time.
Some part of her had still been hoping that with this crisis in her life, Alika would come, like she’d come for him when he was in need. But he hadn’t. At least Connor Remarkian had tried to see her. And Dunn would have moved right into the apartment if her father had let him. And even the Ghost… She had some memory of his voice, a sense that he had come to her when she was in that gray place, but no real memory of it.
The Ghost. She thought of their exchange of photos. What would he want with her now? Would their online game of attraction survive her mutilation? Maybe, since it seemed to be about a lot more than the physical. She couldn’t help a persistent feeling that somehow, the Ghost had something to do with waking her from the coma.
But right now the last thing she needed to worry about was some man’s opinion of her face.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Dunn was next to see Sophie’s scars besides her father a day later. Shock showed in the widening of his gunmetal eyes and the flare of his nostrils before he schooled his expression into an impassive mask. “Looking good, Sophie.”
She rolled her eyes “That’s the best you can do, Jake?”
“I don’t know what to say, damn it.” Dunn ducked his head, pushed a hand through hair still damp from a shower. Wearing a teal-colored polo shirt and chinos, he looked like someone her father would play golf with on the weekend. “I’m sure it’s going to get better.”
“I’m not that concerned about it, actually.” She opened the door further to let him in. “What did you come for?”
“I came to see you. And to tell you there have been some new developments in the case. Hello, Ambassador.” Francis Smithson, seated at the couch with the Wall Street Journal open, shook out his paper and stood.
“Nice to see you outside the hospital, Jake.” Her father had been the best possible company—warm and supportive, but leaving her alone whenever she wanted to retreat into her computer world or stare out the windows. Sophie wasn’t ready to go out in public and be seen, still hoping the lurid color and swelling of her face would go down. “I’ll give you two some privacy.”
The apartment was set up in such a way that each of their bedrooms had an office/work area, and her father disappeared into his large, formal bedroom, closing the door. Dunn sat on the couch across from her. His gaze flicked to her face, then back down to a file he had brought in.
Was this always going to be the way people looked at her in the future? Glances, side looks, not wanting to make eye contact or seem to stare, but also not wanting to look at her face, either?
After another week, she was getting a little more used to it. The stitches would be coming out in another day or so, and they would begin a round of laser treatments to reduce the raised, red ridging around the edges of the scar. She kept her hopes small, though—it was better to get used to being what she was now than to hope for more.
Dunn cleared his throat and opened the file on the coffee table. “Big breaking news. Sloane was spotted here on Oahu.”
Sophie’s eyes widened. “Where?”
“Airport. Preliminary identification points to Dougal Sloane.” Dunn pulled a grainy surveillance photo out of the folder. “Check this out.”
Sophie picked up the printout of a dark silhouetted face. “I can’t make out anything about this photo.”
“See this?” Dunn’s thick finger pointed to the ridge of light at the top of the head. “That’s a light reflecting off of a scalp. Height and build are also consistent with Sloane.”
“So how close is Hilo PD to picking him up?”
“That’s why I’m here.” Dunn gazed at her squarely at last—it was as if he’d had to work up to it, and the thought hollowed her belly. “I think we need you and your DAVID program to find him. Hilo PD has put an all-island warrant out on him, and his photo is circulating, but no one has seen him since he arrived, likely traveling under an alias. He seems to have a hideout here. Probably a Society of Light connection of some kind. Wish we were in on that investigation.”
Sophie settled deep into the love seat, curling her legs up onto the couch. “I can’t officially use DAVID while its possession is in contention with the FBI. And even if I found any information, how could I give it to the police? It would open the door for an appeal from Sloane later, if he were prosecuted. As it is, we can’t even make a case for those murdered women without the evidence being compromised.”
“You were using DAVID before. And, on an encouraging note
, the judge ruled the evidence admissible in the case against Jackson. The ruling was based on your work as a private contractor working for a client, with no directive from law enforcement. I brought your laptop back.” Dunn opened the case at his feet and lifted out Sophie’s familiar laptop. “You have more security on this laptop than I’ve run into in years.”
“You tried to get into my computer?”
Dunn shrugged, the dimple in his cheek flashing, his teeth white. “Of course.”
She took the laptop from him. “I don’t use wireless with this. I had security issues working from home last year, part of why I left the FBI. I don’t feel comfortable using this apartment as a base of operations for DAVID, especially with my father here. He is a diplomat, and has his own security concerns.”
Dunn nodded agreement. “Would never expect you to compromise your safety,” he said. It seemed like it was getting easier for him to look at her, and now he was staring.
She frowned. “Like what you see?”
“Sophie, you will always be a beautiful woman. Even if this is as good as they could do, you’d still be beautiful. The scars add character. They make you look even more interesting.” Dunn’s voice was pitched low and sincere. “Kind of badass, actually.”
Sophie stood, agitated. She rubbed her hands up and down her yoga pants and walked over to the tall glass windows framing the beautiful skyline view of downtown Honolulu. “I kind of liked being Mary Watson. I got to disappear as her whenever I wanted to. I’m not sure I know who Sophie Ang is anymore, and now I don’t even recognize her face.”
Dunn stood up and walked over to where she stood. He squeezed her shoulder gently. “I’ve always thought work was the best antidote to almost anything, and I think you need to get back to work, sooner rather than later. You’ll get more closure by finding Sloane than any therapy.”
Sophie looked up at him and smiled for the first time. “I never thought I would say this, but you’re not half bad as a therapist yourself.” He was standing too close, and his hand slid down her back. She broke away and walked back to the couch. “So what’s happening with the cult and the children?”
Dunn shrugged as he walked around to sit across from her, collecting his file. “Well, Jackson’s out of jail on huge bail, but his absence gave the children’s grandparents a chance to sue for custody, which is promising for them—they are currently with their grandparents, and as we know with custody cases, possession is nine-tenths of the law. Our client has cut us loose and closed our contract. She paid for us to find out what happened to those women, and we did. Now it’s up to the police to make their case.” He cleared his throat. “Speaking of Hilo PD. They really grilled me about who I saw when I took the shot to try to save you, and I had to admit I couldn’t positively identify Sloane.”
“So I’m the only eyewitness to what he did to me at the pit.” Sophie’s throat felt dry. “And to what he did to me when I was Mary Watson.” Being Dougal Sloane’s only living witness did not seem like a good thing.
“At the moment. According to Ohale, who called me yesterday, none of the cult members are admitting to seeing him the night you were shot—though they do admit he’s gone.”
“Don’t they think that’s a little suspicious? Who else would have shot me?” Sophie snapped.
“Of course. But info I have is through the cult’s attorney—you know how it is.”
“Unfortunately, I do. Well, thanks for bringing my laptop, but until I find a secure location to work, I won’t be able to use it.”
“You should consider what I said. About closure.” Dunn leaned forward, dangling his big hands between his knees. “You’re welcome back at the office whenever you’re ready.”
“I’m not ready.” Formless panic at the thought of leaving the apartment rose up to grab Sophie by the throat. She’d been plagued by nightmares and had trouble sleeping, and even taking Ginger out was difficult. “I may not be, for a while. Until after all my repair surgeries.”
“Bix told me to tell you to take all the time off you need. Our injury insurance will cover your leave, your health care. Security Solutions is keeping you on the payroll, but I wish it were more. Don’t let this injury put you on your ass in here, hiding from the world.”
“I’ll take that under advisement,” she said stiffly.
“Listen. I can tell by those circles under your eyes that you’re having trouble sleeping. If it’s any consolation, I am too. I went on many combat missions for the military, but retrieving your body from that pit and flying you back to Oahu—it did something to me, too.” Dunn’s gray gaze was intense. “I’m talking to Dr. Kinoshita about it…and the rest of my past. Please consider seeing her too.”
She wanted to scream. His trauma was only a shadow of hers, and Sloane was here on Oahu. “I think that’s enough of a visit for today, Jake.” Sophie stood, giving him no room for argument.
Dunn walked slowly to the door and turned back at the opening that she held ajar. “I’m not giving up on you. I meant what I said about that. Come back to work.”
“I’ll think about it.” She shut the door and leaned on it, closing her eyes just to breathe.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sophie settled a small straw cloche-style hat onto her head and smoothed the black fitted sheath dress she’d ordered online, along with a pair of kitten-heeled pumps. Makeup, except for lipstick, was a waste of time, but a cherry-sized green Tahitian pearl at her throat gave a nice focal point for people to look at other than her face.
She was dressed a whole lot like Audrey Hepburn today.
Dunn was right. This look felt like it might be her style, and she couldn’t look less like an FBI agent.
“You ready in there?” Her lawyer tapped lightly on the bathroom door. Smithers had called her two days ago to tell her that the FBI wanted a meeting, and that she was getting on the next plane to come over and attend with Sophie. “Not going isn’t an option. This could be them escalating the situation—or, better yet, dismissing it,” Smithers had said.
“Coming.” Sophie gave herself a spritz of gardenia body spray, and opened the door. “Ready as I’ll never be.”
“You’re getting pretty adept at those Americanisms.” Bettina Smithers wore a sleek red suit, gold winking at her ears and throat, contrasting nicely with her mocha skin. The lawyer looked every inch a competent professional—from somewhere other than Hawaii. “If you didn’t have that little bit of an accent, I’d think you were a local.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Sophie said. “It takes years to be a real kama’aina in Hawaii.” She walked past Smithers, practicing some calming breaths and drying her sweaty hands by slipping them into the slash pockets on either side of her hips. She retrieved her purse and slid on her sunglasses. “Let’s go.”
“Not so fast.” Francis Smithson got up from the desk in the corner and came to put his hands on her shoulders, kissing her cheek, careful to avoid her lipstick. “You look gorgeous.”
“You’re my daddy. Of course you’d say that.” Sophie blinked through tears she’d been fighting all day. The stitches had come out yesterday and she’d been fighting the depression, a blinding headache, and anxiety about going out of the apartment.
“I second that. You’re gorgeous. The scars add character, an element of mystery and danger,” Smithers said now, smiling. “They say, ‘no one better mess with me.’”
Sophie smiled. “And no one better. I have the best lawyer in LA by my side.”
“You sure you ladies don’t want me to come too? For moral support?” Her father seemed rather taken by Smithers, and clearly wouldn’t have minded a little more time with the stylish litigator.
“Not appropriate for this meeting, Frank, but perhaps you could meet us for a celebratory, or a consolation drink after, as the case may be?” Smithers raised elegant brows. Her father accepted with alacrity.
Sophie decided she would be coming straight home, and would leave the two of them to tha
t drink alone, whatever the outcome of today’s meeting.
Rising in the familiar elevator to the tenth floor of the FBI offices in the Prince Kuhio Building in downtown Honolulu felt like déjà vu—but like a life that had happened years ago. The New Agent Trainee at the check-in desk buzzed them into the locked hallway.
“I was keeping an eye out for you.” Marcella emerged from her office and gave Sophie a quick hug. “You’re in Conference Room A.”
“Oh good. Friendly interrogation room.” Sophie’s smile felt like a tic.
Marcella raised her brows, smoothed her chocolate hair back. “Waxman pushed for this meeting. We’ll talk later.” She ducked back into her office, and Sophie saw why—Special Agent in Charge Ben Waxman, her former supervisor and mentor, approached. Slim and dapper, the SAC was followed by his right hand man, Agent Gundersohn, a hulking Swede with a passion for detail.
“Ms. Ang.” It was strange not to have Waxman call her Special Agent. His steel-blue gaze flicked over Sophie, who kept her hat and sunglasses on. “It’s good to see you up and about. You were down for the count the last time I saw you, and we were all concerned. You’re looking terrific.” Waxman’s greeting sounded forced. Gundersohn said nothing, per usual.
He’d visited her in the hospital? She had no recollection of it.
“This is my attorney, Bettina Smithers,” Sophie said.
“Well, we have someone from Legal coming too, but it’s strictly a formality.” Waxman turned on a heel and led them past several offices and meeting rooms to Conference Room A.
“Strictly a formality?” Smithers preceded Sophie into the cozily decorated room with its homelike seating arrangement around a coffee table. “Except for the part about you suing Ms. Ang for ownership of her program, and sending two Internal Affairs agents to her door.”
“That investigation has ended, I’m happy to say.” Waxman sat on one of the armchairs and Gundersohn held down one end of the couch. That left the loveseat facing them for the two women.