Chapter 15 Wyatt
Wyatt
Nikita meets me at the door with her usual disdain, weaving between my legs just long enough to trip me before stalking toward her food bowl.
“Nice to see you too,” I mutter, dropping my keys on the counter.
I open a can of the expensive stuff—the salmon paté she only gets when I’m about to leave for more than a day. She knows what it means. Her tail flicks once in acknowledgment before she deigns to eat.
I should call Nina. Tell her about the reassignment before she hears it from McIntyre tomorrow. But that conversation—explaining why I’m coming to LA, what it means for us, for the space she asked for—that’s not a call I can make without my thoughts in order.
Mason first. Update the LA task lead about the reassignment. Tell my closest friend I’m moving to his city.
I dial Mason. He picks up on the second ring.
“Wyatt. What’s up?”
“Hey. I’m being reassigned to LA. Flying out next week.”
Saying it out loud makes it real. A week to pack up my life, hand off my cases, and prepare to walk into whatever mess the three of us are creating. A week to figure out how to be near Nina without crowding her, how to work with Chris without letting our history combust.
“No shit? That’s great, man. Though I’m guessing this is about the operation?”
“Yeah. They’re elevating it to priority status after today’s sessions.”
“Nina did that well, huh?” His voice carries a knowing edge. “You told her yet?”
I lean back against the counter, watching Nikita methodically clean her whiskers. “Not yet.”
A pause. “That’s going to be an interesting conversation.”
“Tell me about it.” I exhale, running a hand through my hair. “And it gets better. Chris is already there.”
“What?” I hear him relay this to the side: “Chris is in LA.”
Callie’s voice erupts in the background: “That little shit didn’t call me!”
“Callie says hi,” Mason says dryly. “When did Chris show up?”
“Today. Took over the Petrov handling without authorization. Showed up at Nina’s office.”
“Jesus.” The line goes quiet for a moment. “So Chris just shows up without telling anyone?”
“Apparently.”
I can picture Mason’s expression—that careful assessment he does when he’s reading a situation. “You okay with all this? I mean, really okay? Because last I heard, Nina needed distance after you two ended things, and now you’re about to land in her backyard.”
“I don’t have much choice. The job is the job.”
“Bullshit. The job is never just the job when feelings are involved.” His voice softens slightly. “Look, I was there when you met her. I watched you fall hard. And I was there when it fell apart after Chris came back. This is going to be complicated as hell.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“I’m serious, Wyatt. Nina’s been through a lot. You’ve been through a lot. And now Chris is in the mix too, which… Just be careful.”
My throat tightens. Mason’s one of the few people who saw what losing Nina did to me. “Any advice?”
“Be honest with her. And with yourself about why you’re really going.” He takes a breath. “Also, maybe give her a heads up before you just show up. She deserves that much.”
I can’t argue with that. “I’m calling her after this.”
“Good man.” Mason’s tone shifts, becomes more practical. “Listen, where are they putting you up?”
“They mentioned Agency housing.”
“Fuck that. We’ve got a loft over the garage. It’s furnished, private entrance, better coffee maker than anything the Agency would give you.”
The offer catches me off guard. “Mason, I don’t want to impose—”
“You’re not. It’s empty anyway. Plus Callie will be thrilled to have you close by. Wednesday’s barbecue night—come by after you get in.”
I hear Callie’s voice in the background, something about making sure I know I’m expected.
“Tell her I’ll be there,” I say, the knot in my chest loosening slightly. At least I’ll have friends nearby.
“Perfect. Bring beer if you want anything better than Modelo.”
“Copy that.”
“See you Wednesday.”
He hangs up without fanfare, and I appreciate the simplicity of it. No questions about why the sudden move, no probing about what’s really going on. Just practical support from someone who gets that sometimes the job moves you around.
Wednesday barbecue. At least that’s something concrete to look forward to, even if the thought of all of us in the same space makes my head spin.
My phone buzzes. A text from Nina, sent twenty minutes ago.
NINA: Just wanted you to know—Chris is in LA. Showed up at my office today.
WYATT: I know. I heard the whole thing on today’s session recordings.
The typing indicator appears, then disappears. Then appears again. Nothing comes through for almost a minute.
NINA: Right. I didn’t realize you’d have access to everything.
WYATT: I’m sorry. I thought you knew.
NINA: It’s okay. It makes sense, all things considered.
WYATT: Actually, there’s something else. I’m being reassigned to LA. Was just about to call you to tell you.
The typing indicator appears again, then stops. Then my phone rings.
“Wyatt.” Her voice is careful, controlled.
“Hey. Listen, there’s more. You’ll be getting a call in the morning about it, but Dawson agreed to let me tell you first.” I pause. “Are you somewhere we can talk freely?”
“Hold on.” I hear movement, a door opening and closing. “I’m on the back patio of the residential side now. Normal security cameras but no mics.”
“They’re elevating the operation to priority status. Moving you from consultant to embedded specialist. Your first session today—you got Flores and Amador to open up in ways nobody expected. The brass is impressed.”
She’s silent for a beat, then says, “What does that mean, exactly? Are they expecting me to push harder? Start using those ridiculous prompts they made me memorize? Because I won’t compromise the therapeutic relationship just to—”
“Nina, slow down.” I can hear the edge creeping into her voice. “It’s not about changing your approach. It’s about them taking this seriously enough to commit real resources.”
“What kind of resources?”
“Full operational support. Round-the-clock surveillance, dedicated intelligence teams standing by, expanded security protocols. And they’re sending me to LA for DEA support on the operation.”
“So more ears listening?”
“More protection,” I correct. “More people watching your back. More analysts ready to act on anything actionable that comes through. They’re not asking you to do anything differently—they’re just making sure you have everything you need to do it safely.”
“I see.” Her voice is steady, but I can hear her processing. “How long have you known?”
“I just found out tonight. After listening to your session recordings.”
She exhales slowly. “Good. Because I spent weeks memorizing their ‘suggested conversation starters’ and they were all terrible. ‘How do you process feelings of betrayal?’ ‘What does loyalty mean in your operational context?’ Like I’m conducting an exit interview instead of therapy.”
I almost smile. “I take it you don’t plan to use any of them.”
“Not if I can help it. They opened up because I treated them like human beings, not intelligence assets.” Her voice softens slightly. “Sorry. I know you’re not the one making these decisions.”
“Nina, about Chris showing up—”
“He said he’s handling Tatiana Petrov now. Some last-minute assignment change.” Her voice gets quieter. “But that wasn’t really why he came.”
“What did he want?”
“I don’t know. To see me, I think. We couldn’t exactly have the conversation we needed to have... It’s complicated, Wyatt. All of this is complicated.”
There’s a strain in her voice that goes deeper than just Chris showing up unexpectedly. Something fragile underneath the controlled professionalism.
“I know.” I pause, remembering her earlier text. “Nina, you said we needed to talk. Is everything okay?”
A longer silence. “It’s not... it’s not about Chris specifically. It’s about all of us. What happened that night.” Her voice gets quieter. “But I can’t do this over the phone. It’s too much.”
My chest tightens. Whatever she needs to tell me, it’s big enough that she can’t say it while there’s three states between us.
“Okay.” I don’t push. I’ve learned that much about her—when Nina needs space to process, pushing only makes her retreat further. “We’ll figure it out when I get there. Speaking of which, Mason invited me to dinner next Wednesday night.”
“Oh?” Her voice shifts to mild amusement. “Callie invited me.”
“Did they talk to each other first, or is this just how they operate?”
A small laugh escapes her. “Probably both.” She’s quiet for another moment and I can picture her calculating her next words. Then she says, “I invited Chris. I’m not sure if he’ll show up.”
Of course she did. Of course all three of us are going to end up at the same dinner table.
I think about telling her. About Chris showing up at her apartment in Denver, desperate and unraveling. How afterward he couldn’t even look at me, just dressed in the dark and disappeared before dawn like shame was chasing him.
But what would telling her accomplish?
“I should let you go,” she says finally.
“Nina?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for calling.”
“See you next week, Wyatt.”
I set the phone down and look at Nikita, who’s watching me with judgmental yellow eyes.
“Don’t start,” I tell her.
I should call Chris. Warn him I’m coming. My thumb hovers over his contact, but I already know how it would go—silence, or worse, that tactical coldness he hides behind when he’s pretending Denver didn’t happen.
I set the phone down without calling.
Next week’s going to come whether I’m ready or not. I look around my apartment, mentally cataloging what needs to happen before I leave. Reports to file. Cases to hand off. My good suits are at the cleaners. At least I have time to do this right.
Nikita jumps onto the coffee table, settling into a loaf position where she can watch me without seeming interested.
“I’m not packing tonight,” I tell her. “We have a week.”
She slow-blinks at me—the closest thing to approval I’ll get.
LA next week. Nina next week. Probably Chris, too, lurking somewhere in the operational periphery.
The anticipation sits in my chest like a live wire, somewhere between anxiety and excitement. An electric awareness that everything’s about to shift again.
Nikita purrs, a low rumble that sounds almost like encouragement.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Here we go.”