Rose-Colored Glasses

by Megan Fatheree

  Contents

  Rose-Colored Glasses

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  A Letter from the Author:

  Rose-Colored Glasses

  By Megan Fatheree

  Rose-Colored Glasses

  Copyright © 2014 by Megan Fatheree. All rights reserved.

  This title also available as a print book from lulu.com

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other – except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the Author.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  Printed in the United States of America

  This book is dedicated to my little sister, Abbie. Her patience while I was finishing this book is greatly appreciated, and her enthusiasm for my writing is truly a Godsend.

  ONE

  Rosie Callahan could hear the frantic motions of her boyfriend, Martin, before she even reached the door to the fourth-story apartment. This was worse than normal. This sounded serious.

  Martin Sinclair was a censor for the American government. His entire job was marking out confidential people, places, and things in confidential documents. Under the Freedom of Information Act, files had to be available for public view, but the government took out anything restricted enough to risk national security. Martin was one of the few people who would ever see those documents as a whole.

  Taking her key out of her pocket, she pulled her curly brown hair behind her head and unlocked the door. It stuck on the chain as she tried to push it open. Rolling her eyes, she beat on the door.

  “Martin!” she cried. “Unlock this door!”

  She heard him shushing her from inside, and he raced to unlock the door. He yanked her inside and hurriedly locked the door behind her.

  Rosie rubbed her arm where he had gripped her.

  “Are your things packed?” Martin asked.

  Rosie nodded. “You said we were going back to the states. You promised.”

  “You are. You are.” He raced into the dining room and began flipping through papers.

  Surprised, Rosie stepped toward him with determination. This had never been part of the plan. “What do you mean I am? You promised to come with, Martin.” She was hurt. Martin never broke his promises.

  “Do you have the tickets?”

  She shook her head, her hair flying in all directions. “No. What tickets?”

  He rummaged around in a few drawers and finally grabbed something. He ran to her room and brought out the one large carry-on she had packed the night before. He shoved something in her hand. It was soft and smooth and felt a lot like paper.

  Rosie looked down and read the entire ticket. “Why the train, Martin?”

  “They’ll look at the airports and bus terminals,” he said quickly. “There are four tickets. One for each of us from Toronto to Windsor and then Detroit to Bangor. I’ll join you at the station.” He pushed a passport into her hand and she looked at it.

  “Martin, this isn’t my name,” she said. She held up the passport, which was under the name Amy Smithton.

  “I know.” There was suddenly a loud banging at the door, with voices, and Martin panicked.

  Rosie looked back at the door, startled, and lowered her voice. “Martin, who is that?”

  Nothing like this had ever happened to her. She was unsure what to do. She was unsure what was going on. Why were things suddenly taking a strange turn?

  “Oh no,” he said quietly. “Oh no, they’re here.”

  “Who, Martin?” she asked.

  “They came for me,” he said yet again. “Rosie, I need you to look at these.” He grabbed a few pieces of paper from the table.

  “No, Martin,” Rosie said, beginning to cry. “I can’t. They’re confidential. You told me never to read those documents.”

  He grabbed her chin. His eyes searched her face, their compassion and heartbreak tore at Rosie's heart. “Rosie, look at them. I’m begging you.”

  Against her better judgment, Rosie watched as Martin slowly scanned each page in front of her before throwing it into the fire. Finally, he kissed her on the lips, hard, and put her large carry-on on her shoulder.

  Rosie hoisted the strap over her head until it was lying across her chest.

  “Go, Rosie,” Martin insisted. “Out the fire escape.”

  She nodded and raced to the kitchen window. Behind her, she could hear the door break in and Martin screaming for mercy. The tears began to build up as she quickly descended the fire escape and stepped onto the busy Toronto sidewalk.

  Suddenly, she heard something akin to bottle rockets go off in the apartment complex. She turned to stare back at the window. There was no mistaking what that had been. With the tears nearly blinding her, she took off at a run. There was no going back now.

  TWO

  Quinn Wesley tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he drove down the busy street. His head bobbed to the music that was coming from the radio.

  “Go, Johnny, go, go

  Johnny be good”

  The song blared from his stereo. Granted, it wasn’t what he normally listened to, but it was nice. Pulling his brown aviator glasses from his eyes, he glanced at his clock. This rush-hour traffic was not helping one bit. He was supposed to be in a meeting with his boss in three minutes. Obviously, that wasn’t going to happen. He would have to call the office. He pulled out his secure smart phone.

  His boss’ secretary picked up on the second ring. “Hello, you have reached the Cavendish Integral Algorithms offices. This is Mr. Lorrander’s line.”

  Cavendish Integral Algorithms was a well-known math-genius-for-hire business. They hired many young men and women from both Harvard and Yale, as well as many other colleges both known and not known. Quinn had been hired as what Cavendish called a “public relations consultant”.

  He forced a smile into his voice. “Hi, Margot. This is Quinn. Please tell the boss that I am running late due to traffic. Should be there in about ten minutes.”

  “Of course, Mr. Wesley. We’ll be expecting you. That simple theorem assignment still needs your attention.”

  He smiled. Of course it did. “Of course, Margot. I’ll be in shortly.” He hung up and set the phone on the seat.

  Just seconds later, his phone began to trill. He answered, expecting it to be Cavendish. It wasn’t.

  “Y'ello.” Quinn yawned after he said it. Something about the word yellow made him yawn.

  “Hey, Quinn. Do you have time for a lunch or dinner meeting?” asked his older brother, Nate Wesley. Nate worked for the FBI as a field agent.

  Quinn tossed the option in his head and checked the clock again. “You know, I have a meeting with my boss, which means my whole day is pretty booked up. Sorry.”

  Nate sighed. “It’s okay. I can ask you this without a face-to-face.”

  “Ask me what?” Quinn was somewhat confused. Nate didn’t keep secrets. He began to worry about what his brother was about to ask. He hoped it was nothing too serious.

  “It’s just…you were
n’t here. I thought it might be awkward.”

  “Cut to the chase, bro.” He leaned back in his seat as traffic pulled forward.

  “I’m engaged. Which means I need a best man. You’re my brother.” Nate stopped talking and sighed heavily.

  Quinn immediately saw what Nate was getting at. “So, you want me at your wedding as your best man. Am I reading this correctly?”

  “Well, you know. It would…yes. Yes, that’s exactly what I’m asking.”

  “Sure. After all, what are brothers for?” Quinn paused, considering another option. “Actually, what are FBI partners for? What will Sam say about this?” Quinn had to admit, the idea of being on Sam Kent's bad side did not hold any appeal for him. Quinn wasn't scared of many people, but if one person in the world frightened him, it was Sam Kent.

  “That he would rather walk down the aisle with Emily than be my best man.”

  “Wait! Sam’s engaged too?” Quinn was now thoroughly confused. Either he was misunderstanding what Nate had just said entirely, or he was really out of the loop.

  “No. Of course not. Emily is one of Jewel’s bridesmaids. Not the…whatchamacallit. Honoree or something. Sam wants to escort her. He turned me down for a girl!”

  “Story of a man’s life, Nate.” Quinn pulled to the entrance of Cavendish and presented his ID. The guard waved him through.

  “I know, it’s just depressing. I have to go.”

  “Me, too. I’m at work.”

  “Really?” asked a very interested Nate. “Because I don’t recall you ever telling me where you work. Where do you work, Quinn?”

  Quinn winced. He couldn’t believe he had made that mistake. He should have known that Nate would be on top of that bit of information like a cat to a laser beam. “I…I can’t hear you. You’re breaking up. Okay, yeah, goodbye.” He clicked the end button and dropped his phone like a hot potato.

  After taking a good ten seconds to catch his breath, he picked the phone back up and placed it in his pocket. His boss was never going to hear about that conversation. Nor was anyone else in the world. Ever.

  After two security checks, an ID check and a retinal scan, Quinn was allowed into the inner offices of Cavendish Integral Algorithms. It didn’t take him long to gain access to Margot’s office.

  “Did I make it in ten?” he asked.

  She smiled as he tossed her his aviators. “Eight fifty-two.” She looked over his casual outfit of a dark t-shirt and khaki cargo pants and shook her head.

  Quinn knew what she was thinking, but he never had been one to get dressed up for a meeting. With Quinn, what you saw was what you got. Sure, he liked the suits and the expensive clothes, but at that moment he would rather be comfortable.

  He ignored Margot's gaze and responded to his record time. “Yes!” He raised his fist in the air. “Rush hour traffic to boot!”

  “Mr. Lorrander is waiting,” Margot sing-songed. She placed Quinn’s sunglasses on her desk and went back to her work.

  Quinn straightened his clothes and hair before Margot buzzed him into Mr. Lorrander’s office. He walked through the door and took a stance beside a very comfortable-looking chair.

  A short, thin man with a balding head sat behind a mahogany desk, reading a file. He glanced up at Quinn and smiled. He motioned to the chair.

  Quinn gratefully sat and placed his folded hands in his lap.

  “You’re late,” Mr. Lorrander said with just a hint of a smile.

  Instead of trying to explain his lateness, Quinn just took the brunt of it. “Yes, sir. I’m terribly sorry. I have no excuse for my tardiness.”

  Mr. Lorrander smiled for real. “See, that’s what I like about you. You don’t come in here trying to explain yourself away. You just take what’s coming. Margot told me about the traffic. You’re off the hook.”

  Quinn smiled and glanced around the now-familiar room. Deep blue curtains with silver lining accented the classic wood furnishings. Over all, it was a nice room, but Quinn had seen better. The Hilton penthouse, for example. That was a good one.

  “Sir,” Quinn said after several minutes of silence, “you called me in here to talk?”

  Mr. Lorrander glanced up at Quinn briefly. “What of it?”

  “I just find it useless to sit here and try to intimidate each other with silence when we know who will win. Besides, you’re already the boss and whatever you’re going to say isn’t likely to change.”

  Mr. Lorrander laughed again and closed the file in front of him. “Mr. Wesley,” he said seriously, “how many assignments have you completed for us?”

  Quinn looked at the ceiling as he counted. “Well, since I came to work here six months ago, I count…fifteen.”

  “And how many have we found completed satisfactorily?”

  Quinn smiled, pride surging. “Fifteen.”

  “Precisely why I called for you to take over this assignment for us.” He pulled a file from a drawer and slid it across the desk to Quinn.

  Quinn looked at its contents briefly and tapped his finger on a certain line of text. “Sir, what do you want me to do with this?”

  “We heard about his death just a half hour ago, so we haven't had time to put much of a plan into action. Assess and re-assess the situation. I want all variables accounted for. Your flight leaves in five minutes. Report back regularly.”

  Quinn nodded and closed the folder. “I’ll continue reading on my way. Should I pack a bag or something?” He stood and began to back toward the door.

  Mr. Lorrander waved a hand. “Margot completed that for you. And Mr. Wesley?”

  Quinn stopped in his tracks and turned to face his boss again. “Yes, Mr. Lorrander?”

  “Don’t forget those enviable brown aviator sunglasses on your way out.”

  Quinn smiled and closed the office door behind him.

  Margot already stood on the other side, arms outstretched. In one hand she held a light brown leather tote, and in the other she held his sunglasses. “You can take Mr. Lorrander’s private elevator to the roof. No one else needs to know he’s sending you off again. They may get jealous.”

  Quinn took his things from her and kissed her on the cheek. “Margot, you’re a lifesaver.” He climbed into a small glass elevator and allowed it to carry him up two stories to the roof.

  There, waiting on a very small runway, was Mr. Lorrander’s personal helicopter. The pilot stood nearby.

  “You Wesley?” he asked.

  Quinn nodded. He had seen this pilot around, but he hadn't really given him much thought. It was never too late to make new friends. “More commonly known by my first name, Quinn.” He handed the man the tote, and the pilot stowed it in the very back of the helicopter.

  “Okay. I’m Rigg. And, yes, that’s my first name. Hop in. Shouldn’t take more than an hour or two to get there.”

  Quinn climbed into the helicopter and fastened a seemingly dilapidated seatbelt. Honestly, the seatbelt did nothing to put him at ease. It seemed more broken than not, and probably wouldn't hold in the event of a crash.

  Quinn threw up a silent prayer for protection as he and Rigg made their way north.

  Rosie pulled her bag closer to her and stuffed the passport and ticket in on top. The tears were still flowing freely down her cheeks. She couldn’t believe that Martin was dead. She was sure he was dead. There was no other explanation for those sounds. They had to be gunshots.

  Her train didn’t leave for another five hours. It must have been the only one still not fully booked, because surely Martin wouldn’t have purposely put her in harm’s way. Surely he would have put her on the soonest train available.

  She quickly pushed some hair behind her ear and tried to stop the tears. Sitting there crying was going to draw attention to her. She couldn’t have that. She wanted to call someone, anyone, and tell them what had happened, but she couldn’t. Not until she was safe again. And she most certainly wasn’t safe here.

  Rosie stood and walked into the bathroom. Some cold water should
shock her out of this. She hoped.

  After touching up her makeup, she opened the door and started back into the terminal. Only, something wasn’t right. There were men walking through the terminal. None of their faces really registered in Rosie's traumatized mind. Each one seemed to have a determined scowl and each was examining anyone who kept their head down or sat by themselves.

  Rosie somehow knew they were looking for her. Thinking quickly, she pulled her hair up, put a hat over it, and sat down next to a woman with twins.

  “Do you need help watching them?” Rosie asked, forcing a smile. Helping children had never been a hard thing for her. She and kids had always gotten along fantastically.

  The woman, with decidedly European features, smiled back at her. “Of course. They are so much trouble sometimes!” She stared down at the babies adoringly. “I can always use a friend.”

  The men walked by them without a second glance. Rosie breathed deeply, knowing she was safe…for now.

  True to his word, Rigg somehow had Quinn to Toronto, Canada in a few short hours. Quinn thanked him and took off in a taxi to the address in the folder.

  The apartment complex was huge, but thankfully Quinn knew where he was going. He took the elevator up four stories and then found apartment 412. It was at the end of a hallway, and police tape covered the door. There were still policemen inside.

  Quinn stood at the door and took in what he could see. A chalk outline was in the center of the room, a pool of blood trailing off from where its head lay. There were papers strewn everywhere, and Quinn could see the black lines of a censor’s marker. That would make sense, seeing as how this guy was a censor. To divine much more, he would need to be inside the apartment.

  “Excuse me,” said someone from just inside the door.

  Quinn spotted the tall, blonde man and smiled. Hopefully this went over well. “Yes?”

  “I’m afraid this is a crime scene and I’m going to need you to move along.” The man nodded toward the hallway, silently entreating Quinn to leave immediately.