Warner 19
Warner
“You can let me out on Main, Noah,” I say, releasing the call button.
“Yes, sir,” he says, his voice projecting smoothly through the speakers.
I sit back in my seat, my head settling against the leather headrest. Glimmers of afternoon light occasionally penetrate the heavily tinted windows, casting prismatic shapes across the bulletproof glass divider between myself and Noah.
Morbid streaks of blood gleam along the seat near the far window, nearly indistinct against the black interior.
By the time the medics retrieved Rosabelle from the car, the towel she’d held to her face was more red than white. She’d lost so much blood I was surprised she hadn’t fainted.
The memory causes my stress levels to rise.
I flatten my hands against my slate-colored trousers, the texture of the heavy wool gently abrading my palms. My wedding ring winks at me like a beacon in the darkness.
I stare at it, my hands stilling.
There’s so much on my mind I’m running out of hours in the day to think about it all.
Slowly, I release a breath.
My pager buzzes.
I haven’t decided yet what to do about Rosabelle.
It’s clear James was right about her, at least to some degree; but now that I’d actually welcome his insight, I can’t use him as a resource.
Worse, I have to keep everything from him—which is proving harder to achieve than expected.
I need to have a serious talk with Rosabelle, but there was no opportunity for more than a few heated words on our way to the hospital.
In fact, it was an effort not to lose my temper.
I’d glanced warily at the glass divider, knowing it did little to mute sound, before turning to her in suppressed outrage. “What do you mean you let him hit you?”
Rosabelle had stared back at me, one eye swollen shut, bruises blooming across most of her face.
Her nose wouldn’t stop bleeding. Her lip was badly split.
Her mouth didn’t look right overall. Blood was smeared toward her hairline and I could almost make out the impression of knuckles against her pale skin.
How she managed to form a sentence with a broken jaw, I have no idea.
“I had to,” she said.
“He is our prisoner,” I forced out. “There’s no scenario in which that’s true.”
She shifted against the seat, her good eye blinking slowly. “I needed him to trust me.”
I struggled to generate sympathy.
She’d demanded to be left alone with him. She’d somehow known he would hit her, and she’d let him do it. She’d orchestrated her own injuries.
She’d lied to me.
“This was not the plan,” I said, glancing again at the divider. I lowered my voice. “This is not what we discussed. You said you were going to leverage your relationship with him in order to mine him for information—”
“Like I said.” A trail of blood snaked toward her mouth, breaking against her lips as she spoke. She lifted the bloodied towel to her face, her right hand trembling so badly she only managed to streak the blood across her cheek. “I needed him to trust me.”
“There are other ways to accomplish that goal,” I snapped.
She looked away from me. “You don’t understand.”
“I understand,” I said angrily, “that your imagination lacks inspiration—”
The car goes over a speed bump, jolting me back into my body. I close my eyes a moment, trying to clear my head—trying to enjoy these last beats of stillness as the car rolls through the remaining security checkpoints.
Noah is driving me back into The Waffle.
I’d intentionally taken Rosabelle to a medical site off campus.
Enough soldiers are now familiar with her distinctive features that she might be recognized at the military hospitals in The Waffle.
And while I realize it’s impossible to stem the tide of gossip, I’m trying to buy myself some time.
Rosabelle has only been out of recovery for two days, and already she’s been readmitted, this time for critical facial trauma.
I take a deep breath.
On top of all the problems we’re currently facing, the last thing I need to deal with is another emotional meltdown. The tension in James has already risen to volcanic heights. If he finds out what happened to her—
I look up, startled, by a sudden flare of tenderness from Noah.
It’s the fourth occurrence in the past hour, and it certainly has nothing to do with me. Noah isn’t distracted, exactly, but today his otherwise steady interior state has been occasionally intercut by atypical flashes of emotion. I assume he’s navigating messages from his family.
If Ella were here, she’d ask Noah about his day.
She’d inquire about his wife, remembering the names of his children and grandchildren as if they were members of her own family.
Some days I’ll spend hours being shuttled across the city by Noah, and rarely, if ever, am I possessed by a desire to speak to him beyond the general niceties required of a civilized society.
There’s nothing wrong with Noah. In fact, I like Noah.
I simply can’t tolerate any more psychic input.
I’m starved for silence.
I flex my hands, curling my fingers into fists. My gaze falls to my wedding band again.
My pager buzzes.
For many years I’d worn a different ring on my left hand, one given to me by my late mother, one that evoked a lifetime of tragic memories.
She’d given it to me as a reminder to guard my heart with my life, to protect myself from my own father.
It was a strange relief to take it off and store it somewhere safe; like setting down a sword I thought I’d have to carry forever.
But this one—
Ten years later and it still does something to me to feel the weight of this ring against my skin, to sight it on my hand. Never as a child did I imagine I’d one day be allowed to experience joy.
My pager buzzes again.
Of course, right now I’m still battling anger.
I grant myself another thirty seconds before I check the notifications, turning my tired eyes toward the heavily tinted glass.
There’s comfort in this muted darkness, scenes and figures blurring as we move through another checkpoint.
I’m vaguely aware of Noah rolling down his window to speak with security. Sounds recede into background noise.
I’m too deep in my own head.
I haven’t been able to get an emotional reading on Rosabelle since the night she was admitted to the hospital, when she’d emanated an unprecedented, chaotic terror.
Since then, she’s been functionally dead.
She’s consistently cold; generally silent.
She’s held up her end of the bargain, answering my questions about Klaus, the Ark, and the spies embedded in our midst; but she issues no emotion on the subject, and she rarely initiates the conversation.
I don’t know what her true intentions are—or ever have been—toward my brother.
I feel, in some ways, like I’ve gone blind.
Absently, I draw a hand down the dark green wool of my cable-knit sweater, reading the raised texture before pushing up the sleeves out of habit.
I sit back against the leather seat.
I’ve spent so many years relying on my ability to sense emotion that it’s possible I’ve lost my way.
I’m not used to being wrong about people.
I’m not used to feeling this frustrated.
Trying to understand Rosabelle is like searching the ocean for rainwater.
I can’t seem to reach for something I know is there.
I frown, turning things over in my mind.
How, then, does James seem to understand her?
How could he intuit the nature of Rosabelle’s relationship with Sebastian without a shred of evidence or information?
We know virtually nothing about the young man in question, and she possesses all the skills necessary to kill an aggressor.
It never once occurred to me that I should be concerned for her welfare by leaving her alone with him.
But then, I don’t know much about her life on the island.
As far as I’m aware, neither does James.
My frown deepens.
My pager buzzes.
I register movement beyond the car and look up without making sense of it; I hear voices without processing the details.
I’m still unfocused.
There’s something about James that seems to deactivate Rosabelle; there’s been proof enough of that.
But even if I were willing to believe she feels a degree of genuine affection for my brother, I don’t believe for a moment that she’s trying to protect him.
There’s no evidence to support this particular delusion.
Sebastian’s arrival on the mainland activated a fear in her I’ve yet to fully understand, but it’s clear enough to me that she’s acting in her own self-interest.
For what, I don’t yet know.
My pager buzzes again. And again.
I finally unearth the annoyance from my pocket with a long-suffering sigh, automatically screening for messages I consider most urgent at the moment.
Hi! Can we talk to Rosabelle now?
I know you’re really busy and everything!
It’s about Leon
Do you remember Leon?
“Pulling up to Main, sir,” says Noah.
Confirming that James picked up the new pager
Yes, sir, we’ve killed the old line. Your contacts have been updated to reflect the change
No information yet on how this breach occurred
Tracing in progress for the anonymous threats issued
Yes, sir, she’s been safely admitted
We’ll do everything we can to get her discharged before the end of the night, but her injuries are severe
Yes, sir, we did our best to make sure she wasn’t seen coming into recovery
ALERT: CENTRAL COMMS TEMPORARILY OFFLINE FOR
SERVICE INTERPERSONAL COMMS STILL FUNCTIONAL
DEFER TO YOUR COMMANDING OFFICERS FOR URGENT UPDATES
REPORT SUSPICIOUS MESSAGES OR TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES IMMEDIATELY
Yes, sir. The cyberattacks struck deeper than originally expected, but our teams are working nonstop
We estimate we’ll need at least another day to undo all the damage
I glance out the window, my hands flexing as we come to a stop at the curb.
I try to clear my head as Noah puts the car in park, the soft thrum of the electric motor quieting to silence.
There’s a metal click as he unfastens his seat belt, and I tuck my pager away, dozens of messages still unread.
Noah pops open the driver side door, and as he exits the car I turn to the center console, unlatching the hidden interior compartment.
Inside is a neatly wrapped pink package, tied with a silky ribbon.
There’s a bright tag affixed to this ribbon, with an inscription I hadn’t noticed until now.
It reads:
To Poppy, Love Warner
A wry, reluctant smile tugs at my lips.
Ella.
I glance up to see Noah rounding the hood of the car, buttoning his suit jacket as he approaches from the sidewalk.
He’s a broad man, imposing, and still built like a tank despite being nearly twice my age.
A brisk breeze pushes into the car interior as he opens my door, and Noah takes a step back as I exit the vehicle, standing sentinel as I emerge into the cold sunlight, briefly blinded by the glare.
The roar of an airplane drones up above.
Noah evinces no reaction as I take a moment to shrug into my coat, his stoic face impassive behind his dark sunglasses. His expression doesn’t change even as he clocks the pink parcel I collect from the seat a moment later. I know this, because I sense his surprise.
Then his concern.
What I like most about Noah is that he doesn’t miss anything.
Right now, as he processes a beat of worry, I realize he’s upset with himself for having missed a detail.
He didn’t see me bring the parcel into the car early this morning, and it bothers him that he didn’t notice. He likes to notice things.
In this case, he wasn’t supposed to notice.
Noah closes the car door behind me, then ducks his head. “I’ll be nearby, sir.”
“Don’t worry,” I say, turning to face him. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”
Noah looks up, the tension in his shoulders releasing. I feel his confusion before I hand him the pink parcel, and he receives it with a flare of shock.
“Ignore the tag,” I tell him. “I had nothing to do with this.”
Today is Noah’s granddaughter’s birthday.
Allegedly, she’s turning three.
Apparently, her name is Poppy.
Noah looks the gift over, his normally severe countenance softening. He touches the handwritten tag, his mouth twitching into a smile as he reads the inscription. He runs a hand down his trim, silver beard. Then takes off his sunglasses.
His brown eyes are bright.
“Tell your wife I said thank you, sir,” Noah says to me.
“I will.”
There’s a weighted beat. His fondness dims to concern, which is distorted by grief, then cut by a pang of guilt. I know he’s worried about Ella, and I’m relieved he doesn’t express the sentiment out loud.
I’m in no state to discuss it.
I have a single, essential errand to run before I can head back down to HQ, and I can’t afford any more emotional detours.
Noah averts his eyes. “I won’t be far,” he says, putting his sunglasses back on.
I nod, turning to go. Then pause.
“There’s blood on the back seat,” I tell him. “Again.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll take care of it, sir.”