by J. Kenner
That’s what I want. That’s what I’m imagining.
But I know it’s not real.
I spent too many years working the tough cases. I’ve seen too many horrors, and over the years my skin has gotten too thick. The optimism I clung to as a child has been chipped away, replaced by a dark reality where every happily ever after comes with a price.
And now I’m terrified that this is the price Mason and I are paying for our years of bliss.
From the speakers mounted above us, I hear a click as the bathroom door inside the room opens. Mason steps out, absolutely and completely nude. Seagrave immediately spins his chair around, as if to give Mason privacy, but I stay as I am, looking over Seagrave’s head at my husband, a slow burn of anger rising at the unfamiliar scars that now mar his beautiful skin.
I don’t know what happened to him, but if I ever find out who did that, I’ll kill them with my bare hands, I swear to God.
“Did they break any bones?” My voice is low, but even.
“His nose. His arm. Recent, but healed by the time we acquired him.”
“Acquired,” I repeat. Not rescued. Not recovered. Not exfiltrated. In other words, Seagrave still sees Mason as a risk.
I get that. I understand his reasoning and his fear. But he’s not right. He can’t be right, because that would be the final blow that absolutely destroys me.
“No head injuries,” he continues, his voice bland. “That’s not the cause of his memory loss.”
“I wasn’t even thinking about that. I was just—”
I sigh, overwhelmed by the sight of him and the situation. But no matter how horrible everything is, that is my husband in there. Mason. The dark hair that appears so thick and coarse, but is as soft as silk to my fingers. Those deep-set eyes that can steal my breath with a single glance. His rugged face highlighted by the slight, kissable cleft in his chin.
And his body. Tall and muscular and vibrant and mine.
We’ll get past this. Somehow, I’m going to get him back.
As if he can hear my thoughts, Mason turns and walks toward the mirror. Toward me. He stops in front of it, completely naked, his head tilted slightly down so that our eyes meet, though I know he can’t see me. My pulse kicks up, and I let my gaze roam over every delicious inch of him, soaking him up like candy.
“That’s Mason,” I whisper, my attention focused especially on the tribal band tattoo on his left arm. Mason doesn’t like rings—not since he saw his cousin’s finger get ripped off after the seventeen-year-old got his hand caught in construction equipment during a summer job. Instead of a ring to symbolize our marriage, he’d chosen to get a tattoo. I’d considered doing the same, but in the end, I’d gone with my platinum band.
I press my palm against the glass and sigh. “He may not realize it, but that’s definitely Mason.”
Seagrave’s back is still to the glass, so I can easily see the way his forehead creases as he studies me. “If you’re about to give me a run down on specific physical attributes, don’t bother. I’ve gotten a full report from the med team already.”
I smirk. “I definitely recognize every inch,” I say, choosing not to comment on the spider web of scars that make me want to weep. “But that wasn’t what I meant. I’m saying that he’s Mason. With Mason’s habits. His—I don’t know— programming.”
“Programming?”
I shake my head quickly. “I don’t mean he’s gone all Manchurian Candidate on us. I just mean that people develop certain patterns over a lifetime. He hasn’t forgotten those. Even if he’s forgotten where they came from. That has to be a good sign, right?”
“He walked naked into a room that he may well believe is private. So what? Tell me what exactly that means to you.”
“Defiance,” I say, grinning at my bare-naked husband still standing in front of the mirror, looking hard at us even though I know that all he sees is himself. “We both know he understands what that mirror is—don’t try to tell me you think otherwise. So that’s one clue. Here’s another—Mason never leaves the bathroom naked. He always wears a towel or dresses in the bathroom.”
That, in fact, is a quirk that I’ve always found unfortunate since the man has an incredible body. But he shared a room with his sister until he was fourteen and now the towel habit is deeply ingrained. He’s broken pattern only twice in our marriage—our wedding night and the night before he left on this mission. Mostly because I’d cajoled him into—and out of—the shower with me.
Not that I’m going to share those details with Seagrave.
“But he’s not Mason,” Seagrave says. “That’s the point. That’s why he’s breaking pattern. No towel. No old habits.”
“Maybe. Or maybe this is his way of flipping you the bird.”
I watch as Seagrave’s mouth curves into a frown. He spins the chair, then stares at Mason, who’s still standing in front of the mirror. “He knows we’re here. And so he’s purposely acting against instinct, knowing full well I’d be watching.”
At first, I think he’s mocking my theory. Then I realize he means it. “You agree with me.”
“That he knows we’re behind the mirror and that he is, as you say, flipping us off? Yes. I do.” Seagrave’s shoulders rise and fall. “But as to whether he’s in defiance of the habit of the towel, too … well, that I can’t be sure of.”
I shrug. “Fair enough,” I say. “It’s enough that I’m certain.”
I think about what he’s just said. “Why do you say he knows about the mirror?”
“We weren’t twiddling our thumbs in the days before I called you. We’ve been doing a series of tests and interviews. He recognized his Special Forces tattoo. He admits to a level of familiarity regarding intelligence work, though no specific assignments.”
“Familiarity,” I repeat. “Like habits. Behavior.”
“Yes.”
“So he knows he’s an agent. A spy.”
“Or that he was. But what we didn’t know—and what he couldn’t tell us—was if he’d been compromised.”
I feel the blood rush to my face. “Brainwashing. Triggers.” I think about my Manchurian Candidate quip and wish I’d said nothing. The idea that some enemy of the state or vile mobster brainwashed my husband to blow a gasket when he sees a particular pattern or hears a trigger phrase or verse … well, the possibility is too horrible to even think about.
“No,” Seagrave says gently. “He’s undergone hours of testing and interviews with Dr. Tam, and we’ve reached almost one hundred percent confidence that he hasn’t been compromised that way.”
I nod slowly. I trust the SOC’s staff psychiatrist, but in the intelligence world, nothing ever reaches one hundred percent certainty.
“I want to see him now,” I say simply.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea today.”
“You’ve run your tests. You’ve run your evaluations. You’ve had him for over four days. It’s time to open a window for him to his actual life.”
“I don’t disagree.”
For a moment, I’m confused. Then I exhale loudly. “Right. This isn’t about him. You think I can’t handle it. You think it’s going to break me if I walk into that room and he doesn’t know who I am.”
“Won’t it?”
“No,” I lie, but I can see on his face that he doesn’t believe me. I can’t get angry about that, though, since I’m not sure I believe it myself.
“I told you on the phone this was an informational visit only,” he continues.
“Please, Anderson,” I say, feeling a hot tear trace a path down my cheek. “I need this. I need to go in there. I need to see my husband.”
I watch his face. The way his shoulders dip slightly. Anderson Seagrave is a good man, and I know he’s only trying to protect me. But I’m done in. At this point, every moment I’m not in that room with Mason is hell. And when I see Seagrave nod, I know he’s finally realized that, too.
“All right, Denise,” he says. “You have ten
minutes.”
I start to protest, but he lifts a finger, reminding me that he’s the one calling the shots here.
“Ten minutes,” he repeats. “And there are a few conditions as well.”
4
I pause outside the door, trying to gather myself. I press my hand over my queasy stomach and try to will my nerves under control. I don’t completely succeed, but I’m also not willing to wait any longer. With a deep breath for courage, I reach out and rap on the door.
Almost immediately, Mason’s voice filters through the speaker system. “What the fuck, Seagrave? You know damn well I can’t let you in.”
I mentally kick myself, then tap in the code, wait for the locking mechanism to disengage, and push the door open. I step inside, then freeze when I see him, forcing myself not to whimper with the anguish that washes over me.
His back is to me, and I catch sight of the black band of his briefs peeking out from the waistband. He’s pulling on a shirt, and I watch as the muscles in his back ripple, the urge to touch him—to hold him—so powerful that it’s almost painful.
It had been hard enough to view this medieval nightmare of crisscrossing scars through the one-way glass. Now, the sight has completely broken me, and I have to fight the urge to sob on his behalf. I want to hold him close and soothe him, and I crave the caress of his breath against my ear as he whispers softly, promising me that we’ll get through this together.
Most of all, I want to release my fears and lose myself in the arms of the husband who loved me.
But that’s not the man I’m looking at.
Not anymore. Maybe not ever again…
Oh, God.
“Are you okay?”
I look up, only in that moment realizing that I’ve shifted my attention to the floor in an unconscious effort to hide my tear-filled eyes. I sniff and manage a wobbly smile. He’s looking at me with such tenderness and concern that I truly can’t wrap my head around the fact that this man doesn’t know me.
With a mental curse, I wipe it away. I’m better trained than this. But my reaction isn’t about work. It’s about my husband. It’s about Mason Walker. Who likes to jog with me on the beach at sunset and spend lazy summer mornings in bed sharing a carafe of coffee as we watch old film noir movies or big budget fantasy flicks.
But now they tell me he doesn’t remember any of that.
It’s bullshit. It has to be bullshit. Because despite the years of training. Despite having actually taken a bullet not once, but twice. Despite having some serious covert creds, I can’t wrap my head around the words Seagrave kept pounding into me. That the man on the other side of this room is going to look me straight in the eye and not have a clue who I am.
That can’t be right. He has to know me, because that’s the only version of reality that my fragile heart is willing to accept. Seagrave has to be wrong, and I take a step toward Mason, certain that any second now I’ll see the polite confusion on his face shift into loving relief.
He’ll whisper my name, his voice thick with tears, and then he’ll sprint across the room and pull me against him with such force that we’ll both fall to the ground, holding each other as we sob with relief and joy.
That, of course, doesn’t happen.
Instead, he grabs a box of tissues from the dresser and walks toward me, extending the container like a peace offering. I’m left handed, so when I reach for the tissue, my simple platinum wedding band gleams under the fluorescent lights.
I see his eyes dip to it before returning to my face. This is it, I think. This is the trigger that restores his memory.
“I’m going out on a limb and guessing that we know each other,” he says, shattering my hope. “Or knew. I’m still a little uncertain about which is more grammatically correct under the circumstances.” His mouth curves into an ironic smile and I laugh despite myself. Then I want to cry all over again, because Mason could always make me laugh with his stupid, random jokes.
A fresh tear trickles down my cheek, as if determined to completely eradicate that tiny bubble of levity, but I manage to hold the smile. “Yeah,” I say, as I study his face for any sign of recognition. “We know each other.”
“Present tense. I like it.” I watch his gaze flick over me. “You look like someone I want in my present and not just in my past.”
“Do I?” My voice is strangled, and it’s all I can do to get the question out without crying. “Do you have any idea who I am?” All I want in that moment is for him to throw me a bone. Some tiny hint of recognition. Some flash of reaction in those deep brown eyes I know so well.
But there’s nothing.
Nothing except a calm assessment, an apologetic shake of his head, and then the flat, emotionless gaze of a man trained to hide all expression. “I don’t. I’m sorry. But if we’re playing the elimination game, I can rule out Seagrave, Dr. Tam, and a few of the med techs.”
“That’s a start,” I say, trying to keep my voice light.
“After that, I’m at a loss. But maybe there are a few things I know.”
A flicker of hope tickles in my chest, like a tiny bird fluttering its wings. “What do you mean?”
“We must have been close.”
I nod, mute.
He grins, like a little boy who’s just won a cookie. As he moves to sit on the edge of the bed, he gestures for me to take the single chair by the small table, I do, grateful to sit.
“I’ve spent the last few days studying every inch of my face, and I don’t see a resemblance between us,” he says. “Which means we’re not relatives, right?”
“No,” I whisper. “No shared blood at all.” I swallow, then force a smile. “Is that all?”
“I’m just getting started.” His grin lights his face in a way that I hadn’t seen while watching through the window. That’s for me, I think. If nothing else, I’ve brought him a tiny hint of joy.
I relax a bit, returning the grin. “Enlighten me.”
“You’re married,” he says, as I realize that my thumb has been caressing my ring. “Which means you’re not my girlfriend.” His gaze skims over me, quick but thorough. Then he flashes a familiar half-smile, the one that makes his hidden dimple pop into view. “Of course, we could be having an affair…”
For a moment, the possibility hangs in the air, heavy with the memory of his body on top of mine, his eyes seeing straight into my soul. At least that’s what pops into my head. I have no idea what he’s thinking.
I really wish I did.
“Do you think we are?” I ask, pleased that my voice betrays no emotion. Thank God for government training. “Having an affair?”
He hesitates before answering, his eyes never leaving my face. “No.”
“Oh?” My voice stays level, reflecting none of my insecurities. Doesn’t he find me attractive? What happened to our connection? That spark that had flared the very first time we met? “Why not?”
His gaze dips to my ring finger. “Because I’m not the type of guy who sleeps with a married woman. And I doubt I was even when I knew my name. Plus, I know you aren’t the kind to cheat.”
“You know that?” I raise my brows. “How?”
“Your ring.”
At first I don’t understand. Then I realize that I’ve been fiddling with it constantly. Rubbing it with my thumb. Spinning it. Touching it in some way or another.
It’s not just a ring. It’s a symbol. It’s my way back to Mason.
And the irony is that the man sitting in front of me doesn’t even have a clue.
“A woman so completely focused on the symbol of her marriage wouldn’t cheat.”
I’m not sure I agree with that as a blanket statement, but he’s right about me. So I simply nod. “You still haven’t said how we know each other. You’ve said we’re close and we’re not sleeping together. So far, you’re two for two. But what about the rest?”
He holds up a finger. “I’m close with your husband, right?”
“Well, not anymore,�
�� I say, both deflecting the question and broadening his grin.
“You make a good point.” He leans forward, his elbows on his knees and his chin resting on two steepled fingers. It’s a completely classic Mason pose, and I have to work to hold my stiff smile in place.
“Was I close with your husband?”
I nod slowly. “That would be a fair statement.”
“Fair, but not entirely accurate?”
“Are we playing Twenty Questions now?”
He laughs, but the sound is hollow. “At the moment, my life is a game of Twenty Questions.”
I nod, conceding the point. “Correct. Fair, but not entirely accurate.”
“All right. That means he and I weren’t partners, were we?”
“No, you weren’t.”
“Which means that you and I were.”
I lurch back, my mouth opening in surprise. “How did you work that out?”
“So, I’m right. Good. If I was wrong I was going to have to rethink everything.”
“I’m serious,” I press. “How did you know?” Does he remember that part of our life? Is he seeing little flashes of our first few years together? I swallow, trying not to be too hopeful. But if he’s started to remember that, what else might he remember?
“I’ll trade you. Tell me my name, and I’ll tell you how.”
It would be so easy. All I have to do is spit it out.
Granted, the moment I do, agents will burst in through the door and drag me off to military prison. Probably. And even if that doesn’t happen, I’ll have completely destroyed Seagrave’s trust in me. Which isn’t something I can live with. I respect the man too much.
Not only that, but I’ve been trying to foster a working relationship between the SSA and Seagrave’s operation. Go against his direct orders and that will never happen. And Seagrave was crystal clear with his instructions—I can’t tell Mason his name. I can’t tell him our relationship. I can tell him that we worked in the field as partners. But that’s as far as I’m allowed to take it.