Chapter Forty-Nine
We need to talk, but the blood pouring from his shoulder means he needs medical attention first and foremost. The ride in the van is tense, silent. I’d pepper him with questions, but he’s holding his breath in pain.
What feels like an hour later, we end up in an apartment building overlooking the River Walk.
On the way here, I got a text from who I assume is Victoria: It seems he’s headed back home; I’m tracking him.
I hope you saved your husband in time. I’ll make sure he doesn’t bother you…
at least for a while. I take that to mean Ian is not going to make a second attempt on my husband today.
But tomorrow? Who knows.
“Well, hello, Brian.” The woman who answers my knock at her apartment door must be seventy, short and stooped, white hair tied up in a bun, her voice a little creaky.
“Didn’t expect to see you today. Come on in.
Let’s see what ails you.” She waves a hand, walks away from the door like she has utter confidence we’ll follow at her heels.
Her space is bright but cluttered—colorful canvases splashed across the walls, no two pieces of furniture alike.
If I weren’t focused on keeping Brian alive—albeit, temporarily—I might find it claustrophobia inducing.
But she leads us through a narrow hall, past many closed doors, to a room at the back with a small adjustable bed and bare walls—far more sterile than the front of the apartment.
“Strip and have a seat.” Her voice is commanding—that of someone who knows they will be obeyed.
My eyes skim her form—elephant pants, a loose-knit tank top.
Gold jewelry. No bulges belying weapons.
A quick scan of the room tells me she must be a doctor, a nurse practitioner—someone who does medicine.
Cabinets that might house antiques in any other home contain oxygen masks, rows of IV catheters, a package that says chest tube, and more.
“Concierge medicine.” Her voice is clear, sharp, drawing my attention back to her. She watches me with hard eyes—perhaps wondering if I inflicted the injury on Brian. “That’s what I do. Keep it quiet, though. I lost my license a decade ago.”
“I was actually thinking I should ask you for your card,” I say.
She smiles and notably does not provide me with one.
She turns to Brian, who’s removed the suit jacket we draped over his shoulders to keep from attracting attention.
Dripping blood tends to do that. “Heavens to Betsy, Brian, what mess did you get yourself into this time? No, don’t answer that.
It’s a rhetorical question. Is the bullet still in there?
Goodness, let me find the lidocaine. Oh, and ketamine.
Here, let’s start with some pain relief. ”
And without missing a beat, she stabs him in the arm with a needle.
To Brian’s credit, he barely winces. The white shirt he left the airport in is in shreds, soaked with nearly dried blood.
His chest is smeared red, and he looks like someone else entirely—someone like me.
Or maybe it’s my perception—like I’m seeing his true self for the first time.
It’s fascinating, and I watch him like a hawk, not wanting to miss even the smallest detail.
She pores through her cabinets, snaps her fingers, and exits the room—gone to retrieve something, no doubt.
On the car ride here, Brian was so beside himself in pain, there was no energy for chatter. But now, with whatever she gave him on board, his breathing eases. His face goes slack, like for the first time since he was shot, he can relax.
“So.” I stand from where I perched on the edge of a seventies-style green armchair tucked in the corner.
He levels his gaze my way, eyes a little wide, pupils dilated. He takes me in like he’s sizing me up, trying to figure me out. “So,” he replies.
I cross the room, wondering how this is the same man who a mere week and a half ago suggested we have another baby.
“You’re not a management consultant.”
The ghost of a smile crosses his mouth. “And you’re not an events planner.”
I tilt my head, shrug. “I plan certain events.” Like deaths.
“You know Ian.”
I give him a patient smile, shake my head, and lie by omission. “I was there to save you. Ian had you.” Minimizing my relationship with him. Spinning it to the positive. Not actually saying yes or no.
Brian exhales heavily, winces, his right hand crossing to press against his left shoulder, near the wound. “Right. Save me by shooting at me.”
“That was a misunderstanding,” I say. “So. Let’s talk?”
He nods. “I’ll go first.”
My heart pounds so hard I can hear it—can he?—wanting to know the truth. Because if he is hurting people, I will finish the job. I don’t want to, but I promised Gran. I promised myself. Despite what I am, I will be a decent human being.
“Honesty,” he murmurs, like he’s testing the word. Experimenting with how it feels in his mouth. “I work undercover for the FBI.”
Brian glances up at me from where he sits on the corner of the cot, looking for a response. But I have my poker face on because, inside, my brain is calculating.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
FBI. A.k.a., the enemy of people like me.
“Okay,” I say, because he seems to expect me to say something.
“This is not the first time a professional killer has tried to—” He waves the hand of his good arm.
“You know. Kill me. It’s the first time one has nearly succeeded though.
And that guy—” His mouth stays open a second longer, like he has more to say about Ian.
But then he snaps it shut, shakes his head.
That guy what?
“Anyway, I couldn’t tell you.” He looks up, meets my gaze. “It would have put you in danger. And I’d kept it a secret so long already. It felt worse saying something than saying nothing.”
“So you were in the FBI when we met?”
He nods. “Yes.”
“Your real name isn’t Brian Davis.”
I let that fact settle between us. Watch as his face goes from surprised to stoic, like he’s trying to not react.
Like he’s going to deny it. But then he squeezes his eyes shut and sighs.
“The real Brian Davis died. A year before you and I met, I was stalked. Nearly killed. They’re still out there somewhere, and it was safer for me to—” He shrugs.
“Become someone new. New name, new location, new life.”
Maybe I’m a cover for him as much as he’s been a cover for me.
The doctor walks back in at that moment and we both lapse into silence, but this conversation is far from over.
I retreat to my ugly green chair, half of me relieved—he’s not trafficking people.
He’s not a horrible person. The other half of me sits on the verge of panic, an emotion nearly alien to me.
I squeeze my fists, try to ignore the pressure in my chest.
The fucking FBI.
The same people who, if they had their way, would imprison me for the rest of my life. Or worse.
My mind wanders to Ian. He must have known Brian’s real identity, who he works for. In fact, if the situation were reversed, I’d wonder if Brian already knew the truth about who I really am. Maybe Ian was trying to protect me.
And who put a hit on Brian, the FBI agent? Well, come to think of it, it could have been anyone. If he goes after people like me—and it sounds like he does—any and all of us would want him dead.
I force myself to breathe slowly, to not bolt from this room and gather the girls, go into hiding.
More than anything, I was afraid to let my monster out.
To lose Brian, this foundation of family that keeps me balanced and grounded and whole.
But this might be worse. This might be the end.
And now he knows about me. He knows I can track down a killer, that I have a gun tucked into a holster at the back of my yoga tights, that I have my own secrets.
The question is, how will he judge me when I tell him my truth?
His earlier words echo: You’re like him. Like Ian.
Maybe he already knows.