Chapter 11 Nina
Nina
Lucia has already scanned the office twice this morning. She’s halfway through her third pass when she glances up from the crawlspace beneath the desk.
“Still no ghosts,” she says. “Unless you count the one you’re about to talk to.”
She grins—sharp and satisfied—then flicks her inspection wand off.
I don’t ask what she means. I already know.
Everything in this room is clean and controlled. There is a ceiling mic in the track lighting and micro-cameras flush with the trim.
Behind the office walls, someone is always listening.
And I’m still doing this my way.
Lucia hands me the panel remote. “Last sweep’s logged. If you need me, the red button’s still in your desk drawer. Secondary trigger’s in the hallway light switch plate.”
She taps the panel once. “Residential wing’s clean. You’re only hot in here.”
One zone for truth, one for rest. That was the deal.
I walk her to the door. There’s nothing more to say and no reason to linger. She’s done her job, and we both know what comes next. But she pauses in the frame before she leaves.
“Don’t let them put on a show,” she says.
I raise an eyebrow. “I’ve done this before. Maybe not with men of their caliber, but you’d be surprised how many DEA agents are cut from the same cloth as the men they hunt.”
“Then you’ve got this,” she says.
And then she’s gone.
I smooth the hem of my blouse. Somewhere beyond the walls, a system I don’t control is already running. The room is live. The recording started the moment I walked in, maybe before.
I know exactly where the cameras are. I helped Lucia place them.
The books arrived yesterday. Three boxes, packed with Wyatt’s meticulous care—each spine wrapped in tissue, heavier volumes cushioned with bubble wrap.
My name in his careful handwriting across every label.
Office / Personal. Not Nina’s Books or Misc.
Just the quiet acknowledgment that some things matter beyond function.
I unpacked them myself. Couldn’t let Darius or Lucia touch them, couldn’t explain why my throat went tight when I opened the first box and found The Body Keeps the Score nestled against my battered copy of Gift from the Sea.
Books I’d referenced in a dozen sessions, passages I’d quoted when clients needed language for things that lived too deep for words.
Now they sit between the CIA’s sterile references—Behavioral Analysis in High-Stress Populations, Trauma-Informed Interviewing Techniques—like seeds planted in concrete.
My weathered copy of The Left Hand of Darkness leaning against a pristine DSM-5.
Adrienne Rich’s Of Woman Born tucked between compliance manuals.
Small rebellions that no one will notice but me.
Wyatt couldn’t have known what it would mean. Having pieces of myself in this curated space. Proof that I existed before this room, this assignment, this careful facade of competence.
But he did know. The man who noticed when I needed space before I asked for it, who packed my entire apartment like he was handling archaeology.
I sit in my chair. Breathe in. Hold. Release.
My body still doesn’t feel like mine, not completely. The ache is dulled now, but it’s still there, tucked under the skin. I’ve showered. Slept. Eaten. But the weight of it—the memory of the bathroom floor, of Callie’s voice pulling me back—is still stitched into my spine.
But I know what to do with this body in this room. I know what I’m here for.
I need this to be real. I need to remember what it feels like to help someone. I need to know I can still be useful. Still be trusted. Still be whole.
The intercom buzzes once.
“Your ten o’clock is here,” Darius says.
I stand, smooth my skirt.
I cross the room and open the door before they have the chance to linger. My mind is already on the first ten seconds: tone, posture, eye contact.
“Mr. Flores. Mr. Amador. Come in.”
Their security detail stays in the hallway—two men flanking the door, broad and still. They don’t follow their principals inside.
I know who is who from the photos. Vicente steps in first—darker hair, darker skin, clean-shaven with a playful expression that almost distracts from how quickly he assesses the space.
His gaze sweeps past the bookshelves, lingers on the tall east-facing windows where morning light spills warm across the rug, the jacaranda swaying outside.
He moves like someone used to being welcomed, like charm is his natural currency.
But there’s something measured behind it. A coiled readiness.
Arturo follows. He’s broader through the chest and shoulders, with salt-and-pepper hair and a trimmed goatee that sharpens rather than softens his features.
His eyes are hazel—light-catching, unreadable.
They give his face an edge that makes you keep looking, even when you know better. He doesn’t smile. His expression holds.
Together, they read like contrast and design. Vicente sleek and velvet-edged, Arturo all gravity and watchfulness. One to pull focus. The other to make sure you don’t mistake stillness for safety.
I gesture toward the seating area. “Please, wherever you’re comfortable.”
Vicente moves toward the sofa like it’s his, one fluid step after another, no pause, no scan for alternatives. He claims the left cushion without looking to Arturo, crosses one leg and settles in.
Arturo doesn’t sit right away. He scans the room—the sealed windows, the door they came through, the deep blue sofa and armchairs.
His eyes move along the trim, the track lighting.
Looking for the cameras. Then he follows Vicente’s lead and sits, but keeps his feet planted wide and his hands resting on his knees. Ready to stand, if needed.
Vicente leans back like he’s settling into an interview. Arturo doesn’t lean back at all.
They don’t speak to each other or share any overt signal. But the choreography is there. Practiced. Intentional.
I just watch. Everything I need to know starts here.
I close the door behind them, then return to my chair. I don’t pick up my tablet yet.
“We have fifty minutes together,” I say. “I’ll let you know when we’re approaching the end of our time. Today is about getting acquainted—understanding how you work together, what your goals are for these sessions. There’s no pressure to dive deep into anything that feels too personal right away.”
I pause, letting that settle.
“Any questions before we start?”
Neither speaks, so I continue.
“All right then.”
I wait.
Vicente is the first to shift.
“So,” he says, flashing just enough of a smile to soften the tension he knows is there. “How does this work? We lie down, tell you our dreams, and you tell us we’re both repressing our feelings about our mothers?”
I let the corner of my mouth lift, barely. “Only if you want to talk about your mothers.”
“I don’t,” Arturo says, his voice low and final.
Vicente tilts his head, studying me. Testing.
“I assume we’re being recorded,” he says.
“Yes,” I answer. “As outlined in the consent form.”
The form says our sessions may be recorded and may be reviewed for operational continuity. Passive phrasing. Intentional. It doesn’t mention that the feed goes straight to Langley. It doesn’t say I memorized the CIA’s list of suggested prompts and shredded the hard copy.
It also doesn’t say I won’t use them. Just that I’ll wait until they give me something real.
“No mirrors,” he notes, glancing around. “No two-way glass.”
“No need.”
Arturo exhales through his nose. Not quite a laugh.
“I’m not here to trap either of you,” I say. “You’ve both agreed to these sessions. I’m not law enforcement. I’m not the CIA. I’m not your enemy.”
“Who are you then?” Vicente asks. Less playful now. Still polite.
“I’m someone who listens,” I say. “And someone who understands what power does to a relationship.”
Both men look at me now, more attentive than skeptical.
Good. We can work with attention.
“I’m not going to ask you to define your relationship,” I say. “Not yet.”
Vicente leans back just slightly, his expression unreadable. Arturo doesn’t move at all.
“What I would like is to talk about the shape of your days,” I continue. “What structure looks like now. Who wakes up first. Who chooses dinner. Who gets quiet when they’re angry.”
“Your file said therapist, not profiler,” Vicente says.
“My license says both.”
That earns me a flicker of a smile. I don’t return it.
“I’m not interested in the fiction of normalcy,” I add. “You live in a house full of history. Children. Lovers. Staff. Visitors. Power doesn’t leave a relationship untouched. Neither does grief. Or surveillance. Or betrayal.”
Arturo’s eyes narrow, not in challenge but consideration. Vicente doesn’t drop his gaze, but he’s not smirking now either. They’re recalibrating. Adjusting to the fact that this isn’t a debrief, that I intend to make them do the work, and that I know enough to find some of their cracks.
I give them a few seconds to absorb it, then press forward.
“Tell me about your mornings.”
Vicente raises an eyebrow. “Mornings?”
“Yes. Walk me through it.”
“Arturo makes the coffee,” Vicente says after a beat. “Black. Strong enough to dissolve a spoon.”
“I don’t like waiting for caffeine,” Arturo says, voice low but not entirely dry. There’s a hint of warning beneath the surface—habit, not hostility.
Vicente shoots him a sideways glance, amused. “He’s territorial about the machine. No one else is allowed to touch it.”
Arturo shifts slightly, his hand brushing his knee. “I don’t like explaining myself twice.”
It isn’t sharp. Just matter-of-fact. Like he’s used to being obeyed.
I nod, filing that away. “Territory. Structure. Predictability. All of those are useful.”
Vicente watches me closely. “You’re not asking about the deal. Or the arrangement. Or the chain of command.”
“I’m asking about you,” I say. “That’s the assignment.”
Arturo leans back for the first time, just slightly. “They don’t just want intel, do they? They want psychological profiling. Stability metrics.”
“They want insight into how you function. I can only provide that if I see you as you are.”
“Meaning what?” Vicente asks. Less deflection this time.
“Meaning I want to know who picks the music. Who leaves dishes in the sink. Who disappears when things get hard.”
“Neither of us,” Arturo says. Instantly. Followed by, “Not anymore.”
That answer came fast. Clean. The kind of response most men this powerful would bury beneath dominance or bravado—if it were spontaneous. I file it. Too early to know if it’s progress or polish.
I glance at Vicente. He nods, slow and certain. No hesitation. No need to elaborate.
I pick up my tablet and jot a single line.
One of them names the wound. The other acknowledges it.
When I look up again, they’re both still watching me. Waiting.
Good.
I wait for more. When neither elaborates, I lean forward slightly. “That’s significant. Most people spend years avoiding that kind of vulnerability.”
Arturo glances toward Vicente, then back to me. “We ran out of time for pretending.”
A longer silence follows. I let it stretch. There’s something bigger here—loss, grief, maybe regret—but now isn’t the time to excavate it. This session is about taking the shape of them, not digging too deep until they’re ready to open up on their own.
“I’d like to understand your household,” I say. “From what I know, it’s multigenerational. There are children, staff, other family members.”
Arturo nods. “Celeste is my daughter. She’s thirty now, but she’s never left home. Her partners moved in a few years ago.”
Vicente’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “She’s mine too.”
The words hang in the air between them. Not sharp, but weighted. Arturo doesn’t argue, just gives a slow nod.
“Ours,” he corrects quietly.
Vicente’s posture eases fraction by fraction. “Leo works for Arturo. Maddox is ex-military. The three of them are... committed.”
There’s something careful in how he says it. Not discomfort exactly, but awareness. Like he’s describing something that matters more than the words can carry.
“It works,” Arturo adds, and there’s a note of wonder there. “They make it work.”
I watch the interplay between them. Vicente’s correction, Arturo’s acceptance. Smooth. Almost too smooth—like they’ve had this conversation before and found their way through it. Or rehearsed it.
“So you live in an intergenerational household,” I say. “With chosen and blood family. Staff. Multiple partners. History. And you two, rebuilding something after decades apart.”
Neither man contradicts me.
“It sounds complicated.”
Vicente exhales. “It is.”
“But less complicated than it used to be,” Arturo says. “When we were enemies.”
Vicente’s expression goes still. “We were good at that. For thirty years.”
“Too good,” Arturo agrees, and there’s weight in those words. Old pain, carefully contained.
Another glance between them.
I watch the exchange, the weight of those thirty years settling in the room. Enemies who are now sitting side by side, discussing coffee routines. It’s more intimacy than some couples achieve in a lifetime.
“You move around each other very naturally now,” I observe. “There’s a rhythm between you. How did you find your way to this dynamic?”
Arturo answers first. “Celeste.”
Vicente’s mouth quirks slightly. “She has a way of cutting through bullshit.”
“She told us we were idiots,” Arturo says bluntly. “That we were both going to die bitter and alone because we were too proud to admit we’d been wrong.”
“Were you? Wrong?”
They exchange a look. This one longer than the others.
“We were both wrong,” Vicente says finally. “And we were both right. But after thirty years, it didn’t matter anymore.”
I nod, making a note. The simplicity of it surprises me—how something so destructive can sometimes be resolved not through grand gestures but through exhaustion. Through someone else’s clarity cutting through decades of calcified hurt.
Though “resolved” might be generous. They’re saying the right things, but there’s a choreography to it—the way Arturo anchors a thought and Vicente rounds it out, the way neither interrupts but neither truly surprises the other either. It could be intimacy, or it could be rehearsal.
“How long have you been back together?”
Arturo glances at Vicente. “Five months.”
“Is it different this time?”
They don’t look at each other. Vicente’s eyes stay fixed on mine when he says, “You tell me, Dr. Palmer. When someone comes back into your life after a long absence—someone you thought you’d lost—is it ever the same as before?”