Chapter 3 Through The Glass
THROUGH THE GLASS
ENYA
Itry not to look at the stretch of glass along the wall, hearing the faint, constant hum of something electrical behind it. I have watched enough crime shows and movies to know that the mirror in the room is two-way.
I suspect he’s on the other side, the man whose real name I probably don’t know. That makes me completely pathetic, doesn’t it? To be used so thoroughly—to have allowed it.
I have forced my body to relax. I’m sitting with my legs crossed, my hands resting on the table like I do this all the time—walk into interrogation rooms on a regular basis.
If he is on the other side of the mirror, I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me upset. He doesn’t get that, not after all that he’s taken.
“Ms. Cahill, I’m Special Agent Victor Ruiz,” a man introduces himself.
He’s dressed like one of those agents from Men in Black. He’s got a faint Latin accent. He’s nice-looking, handsome, like Nick. He smiles pleasantly.
I don’t buy what he’s selling.
“Which agency are you a special agent for, Agent Ruiz?” I ask coolly.
Agent Ruiz looks perturbed, but it only lasts a nanosecond. It’s understandable. He has more experience with interrogations than I do. I’m acting, he’s not.
“Does it matter?”
I give a careless shrug. “Maybe.”
He waits a moment and then says, “The NSA.”
“Ah,” I say casually, like it means something. He could be a special agent of crazy spies, and I’d say, “Ah,” like I know shit I don’t know. “And you’re part of the team that arrested Lowell?” I add the question to keep up my facade of relaxed boredom.
His eyes flash amusement.
So, he finds me funny?
Funny ha-ha or funny peculiar?
Who cares, Enya? Just get through this and get home so you can cry your eyes out…and then move on.
“Ms. Cahill,” Agent Ruiz speaks evenly, “for the record, can you confirm your full name and date of birth?”
“Enya Jane Cahill.” I rattle off my date of birth. My voice sounds distant to my own ears, foreign. I don’t speak like this, like I’m some high-powered bitch in a spy movie.
He makes a note on the tablet he’s carrying.
Does he have a checklist? Is he marking the checkbox against, ‘Gullible target knows her name and DOB’?
“You were in a romantic relationship with Nick Smith. Is that correct?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Define romantic.”
His lips almost twitch. “Were you dating this man?”
I consider asking him what he means by dating, then discard the thought. It would sound theatrical when what I want is to seem casual, detached, and unbothered.
“I was fucking him.” I proudly don’t stumble on the F word. I don’t swear much, but if I can’t do it today, which is a terrible day for me, when the hell else can I?
“For how long?”
Agent Ruiz doesn’t react. His face stays perfectly neutral—professional to the bone.
He’s like Nick, isn’t he? Men who only show emotions they’ve chosen in advance.
There is nothing authentic about Agent Ruiz. There was nothing authentic about Nick Smith, either.
Smith? I should’ve known a last name like that is just trouble.
But na?ve as I am, I thought, he’s a simple man, coming from a simple family in the south, hence the slight—and what I thought sexy—drawl.
His interest in art told me he didn’t care who my father was.
If there’s an award for world’s dumbest woman, I’d be nominated for sure… and I’d win it, too.
“Oh…I don’t know.” I look up at the ceiling. “Five-six months?”
One hundred and eighty-three days, four hours, and fifty-five minutes since we met, and Maggie came home to tell me he wasn’t who he said he was.
But who’s counting, yeah?
“And during that time, were you aware that Mr. Smith was operating under an alias?”
“Agent Ruiz, you use the strangest terms. Why would I care why and how Nick was operating? What I cared about was his dick, and that operated just fine.” I didn’t know I could be this snarky. But I am a woman scorned, so maybe my “snark” gene has been activated.
Agent Ruiz keeps writing, unbothered by my crudeness.
I’m not. My words leave a residue I can’t shake—a sharp, ugly sense of being exposed. This isn’t who I am. I want these clothes off, my skin scrubbed clean. I want my apartment, a blanket, and a version of myself that doesn’t remember how it felt to be wrapped up in Nick.
“Were you aware Nick Smith was employed by the National Security Agency or acting on behalf of a federal task force?”
“No.”
“When did you become aware of this?”
“When my sister told me yesterday.”
Agent Ruiz smiles. “Ms. Cahill, I want you to know that you’re not in trouble.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, that’s a damn relief.”
The smile disappears. “What was your relationship with Mr. Dave Lowell?”
“I didn’t have one.”
“You went on a couple of dates with him a few years ago.”
He knows because I told Nick. I close my eyes at that realization. Whatever I shared with Nick wasn’t private—he bared it all to his superiors and colleagues.
“Four years ago,” I can’t keep the bite out of my voice. “Yeah, I did.”
“And?”
I take a deep breath. My false bravado, my made-up bitchiness, all of it dissipating under the reality of the situation. “He told me he asked me out because my father suggested it, but he wasn’t interested in me.”
I got dumped by a sleazebag like Dave Lowell. That’s who I am. I forgot that for a while. If I hadn’t, I would’ve been suspicious of Nick, and I would’ve protected myself.
Even as I think that I know it’s not true.
I fell hard for Nick.
Dave was…convenient, and he asked me out. I didn’t have any feelings for him. When he said he found me boring and not D.C. material, I’d been hurt because they were hurtful words, but I wasn’t brokenhearted like I am now.
“Did your father talk to you about Mr. Lowell’s activities?”
A harsh laugh escapes me. “My father doesn’t talk to me at all, Agent Ruiz. He gives orders and expects them to be followed.”
My shoulders slump slightly. I can’t hold on to the pretense any longer.
I’m tired.
Broken.
Hurt.
“Why don’t I make this easy for you?” I say, licking my lips.
“I know nothing about what my father does. And you know this because you talked to my sister. I have a flower shop on 1709 R Street NW, and I live in the apartment above it. I inherited the building from my grandmother, on my mother’s side, and six years ago I started Lucille’s, my flower shop, named after her. ”
I pause because my throat hurts. Grandma Lucille would be disappointed in me for trusting so foolishly.
“I see my father, maybe, a couple of times a year, more in the past six months, because Nick asked me to say yes to his many invitations.” And like a chump, I just went ahead with it, believing him when he said, “Family is important, baby, you should try and patch things up with your father.”
Well, he obviously couldn’t say, “I need access to your father because I suspect he’s committing treason, so, say yes to the dinner party, baby.”
“Ms. Cahill,” Agent Ruiz says this kindly, “based on our review, we have no reason to believe you were aware of, or involved in, the investigation.”
“I was involved,” I reply bleakly, “I just didn’t know it.”
Agent Ruiz nods, his lips pursed.
The questions keep coming. I keep answering. And each one shaves me down until there’s less of me left to give.
I was a means to an end. All the men I’ve dated—though they’ve been very few—wanted access to my father, or they wanted to please him. Nick, I thought, was different, but he was more guilty than any of the others.
As the interview winds down, my head is all but lolling. I am emotionally and physically drained. There isn’t much juice left in the tank.
“Are we almost done?” I don’t think I plead but I’m not sure.
It has been three hours since I got in here. They’ve offered water and coffee, both of which I turned down. Now, I wish I hadn’t said no to the water.
“Yes, we are.” Agent Ruiz’s eyes flick toward the mirror for a nanosecond before landing back on me. “Just a few more questions.”
He goes through questions about Lowell, Maggie, and my father again and again. He doesn’t bring up Nick again at all.
“Thank you for your time, Ms. Cahill,” Agent Ruiz finally says.
I stand up on legs so unsteady that I need to hold on to the table for support.
“I advise you,” he adds, rising, “that the details of this investigation are classified. You are not permitted to discuss Mr. Smith’s role, identity, or the nature of this task force with anyone.”
“You have no authority over me, Agent Ruiz.”
“Ms. Cahill, this is not a hill you want to die on,” he warns.
“You know nothing about me, nor does your Agent Nick Smith. I have tolerated your questions, your invasion of my privacy—but I will not tolerate you dictating to me what and who I discuss my life with.” I straighten, mining strength from way deep inside of me.
“I’m not a special agent. I’m a boring florist.”
With that, I walk to the door and wait for him to open it.
The door opens from the outside, and a blonde woman in a black suit is holding onto the door handle. Her face is stoic, but her eyes are burning. She doesn’t like me.
Well, girlfriend, I don’t like you, either.
“Thank you for coming in, Ms. Cahill.” Agent Ruiz tucks his hands into his pants and looks almost sheepish. “We’ll have someone drive you home.”
“No thanks. I’d rather Uber…or walk,” I tell him, ready to push past the blonde.
On impulse, without thinking it through, I turn and look at Agent Ruiz. “I won’t be talking about him to anyone, not because of what you said, but because I’m ashamed of myself and don’t want to announce to the world how gullible I am.”
I draw some air and let it fill my lungs, nourishing me.
“Tell him that even though what he did is morally reprehensible, I forgive him.” I smile sadly. “And once I forgive myself for letting a man like him into my life, I won’t be thinking of him ever again.”
I doubt he cares what I have to say or how I feel about him—after all, I wasn’t even a real person to Nick, just a way to get into my father’s inner circle. Get invited to play golf with the boys, get into my father’s house, and get into his head.
I understand that, but why did he have to get into my bed, too?
Why couldn’t he have done this some other way?
If he had, I wouldn’t have to go through what I am now, because nothing has been harder than admitting that the man who made love to me tenderly, held me, told me to be strong and reach for my dreams, never cared about me.