Chapter 11
Celia
M rs. Patterson’s key turns in the front door just as I’m putting away the book I’ve been pretending to read for the past hour.
Sariah immediately abandons her afternoon nap to greet her returning human with the enthusiasm of someone who’s been tragically neglected despite receiving constant attention and treats all day.
Perhaps she’s still rattled by that agent’s visit too.
“Celia, dear, we’re back,” Mrs. Patterson calls as she and her daughter Janine enter the living room. She’s moving more carefully than usual but looks remarkably well for someone who just had a procedure.
“How did everything go?” I stand to help with her purse and light jacket, grateful for the distraction from my own anxious thoughts.
“Perfectly routine, thank goodness. The doctor says I’m healing better than expected.” She settles into her favorite recliner with visible relief. “I hope Sariah wasn’t too much trouble.”
“She was an angel. We had a lovely day together.” I gesture toward the kitchen where the scent of baking still lingers in the air. “I made peanut butter cookies. I hope that’s all right.”
“You made cookies?” Janine looks up from where she’s been scratching behind Sariah’s ears. “Mom, you didn’t tell me your dog-sitter came with baking services.”
“Celia is a treasure,” Mrs. Patterson says with genuine warmth. “Always going above and beyond what anyone could reasonably expect.”
I deflect their gratitude, though the simple kindness of their appreciation makes my throat tighten unexpectedly.
After Agent Lang’s visit this morning, being around people who view me as someone trustworthy rather than a potential criminal feels like emotional shelter from a storm I don’t fully understand.
“I should head home and let you rest.” I gather my book and purse, eager to return to familiar surroundings where I can process the day’s events without having to maintain a cheerful facade.
“Wait, let me pay you for today.” Mrs. Patterson reaches for her purse, but I wave her off.
“Absolutely not. You just had surgery, and I enjoyed spending time with Sariah. Consider it a favor between neighbors.”
“At least take some cookies home with you.” She starts to rise from the chair, but Janine gently presses her back down.
“I’ll get them, Mom. You need to rest.” Janine disappears into the kitchen and returns with a plate wrapped in foil. “Thank you so much for helping today. It means everything to know Sariah wasn’t alone, and Mom has a caring neighbor.”
I accept the cookies and make my way toward the door, but Mrs. Patterson’s voice stops me before I can escape. “Celia, dear, are you feeling all right? You seem a bit rattled today.”
The observation startles me, though it shouldn’t. Mrs. Patterson taught elementary school for thirty years and raised four children. She’s developed an eye for recognizing when people are struggling to maintain composure, especially people who pride themselves on appearing capable and unflappable.
“Just tired,” I manage with what I hope passes for a reassuring smile. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”
She studies my face with the gentle persistence of someone who cares enough to push past polite deflection. “If you need anything at all, you know where to find me. Sometimes, it helps to talk through whatever’s keeping you awake.”
“Thank you. I’ll be fine, really.” I squeeze her hand briefly before heading for the door.
“Get some rest, and call if you need help with Sariah tomorrow.” The walk home takes less than five minutes, but by the time I reach my front door, the anxiety I’ve been suppressing all day crashes over me like a delayed wave.
Agent Lang’s visit this morning felt wrong in ways I can’t articulate, professional courtesy masking something harder and more threatening that made even Sariah react with unusual aggression.
My house feels too quiet when I enter, empty in a way that has nothing to do with the absence of guests and everything to do with the lingering fear that I’m being watched or targeted for reasons I don’t understand.
I place the cookies on the kitchen counter and try to focus on normal evening routines, but concentration proves impossible when every small sound makes me look toward the windows.
I make myself a light dinner and attempt to review job applications, scrolling through listings for marketing positions that might utilize my experience without requiring relocation to expensive cities I can’t afford, though my heart isn’t in marketing anymore.
I have a brief daydream of owning a charming little B&B somewhere, but the fantasy dissolves when Aleks is suddenly included, returning from fixing a leaking faucet and wanting a kiss…
I blink that away and end up checking locks repeatedly, closing curtains earlier than usual, and jumping at sounds that would normally pass unnoticed.
Agent Lang’s promise to return with more questions echoes in my memory, carrying inferences beyond professional duty into something more personal and threatening.
By nine o’clock, I’ve given up any pretense of productivity and settled into the living room with a cup of tea and another book I won’t actually read.
The house feels like a fortress under siege, with windows becoming potential entry points rather than sources of natural light, and doors transforming from conveniences into barriers that might or might not provide adequate protection.
At nine-thirty, aggressive knocking on my front door shatters what little peace I’ve managed to maintain.
It’s not the polite rap of someone making a social call or delivering a package, and certainly not a late-arrival, since I have no booking tonight, but sharp, demanding strikes that announce official business conducted with growing impatience.
I approach the door cautiously, checking the peephole to confirm what I already suspect.
Agent Marcus Lang stands on my porch, but something about his appearance has changed dramatically since this morning.
His suit looks rumpled and disheveled, his hair slightly mussed, and most importantly, the badge he displayed earlier is nowhere to be seen.
“Ms. Bourn, I need to speak with you. Open the door.” His tone carries none of the professional courtesy from our earlier encounter, replaced by something flatter and more commanding.
This isn’t a request disguised as official procedure.
It’s a demand backed by authority he expects me to recognize without question.
My gaze drops immediately to his gun in its holster, prominently displayed by the way his jacket is unbuttoned.
Fear makes my mouth dry, and I’m raspy when I say, “It’s late, Agent Lang. If you have official business, you can contact me through proper channels during business hours.”
“This is official business, and it can’t wait. Open the door now.”
I keep the chain lock engaged while turning the deadbolt, creating just enough space to speak with him directly while maintaining a barrier between us. What I see through the gap makes my stomach clench with fear that has nothing to do with federal credentials or legitimate investigation.
His eyes are different now, harder and more focused, like someone who’s decided that polite approaches have failed and more direct methods are required.
He’s standing closer to the door than professional courtesy would dictate, positioned to push inside the moment I provide enough space for entry, and his hand is on his pistol.
“I told you this morning that I don’t recognize the man in your photograph. I have nothing else to add to that statement.”
“You’re lying.” The accusation comes out sharp and certain, without the diplomatic phrasing that legitimate law enforcement uses when questioning civilian witnesses. “Yefrem Kulikov stayed in your house a week ago under the alias Aleks Sokolov. I need to search the premises.”
The name makes me blink, confirming the man I knew as Aleks was indeed someone else entirely.
More frightening than the revelation of his deception is the certainty in Lang’s voice, and the way he states facts about my guest as if he has detailed surveillance records rather than circumstantial evidence.
I square my shoulders. “I don’t know anyone named Yefrem Kulikov, and I already told you I don’t recognize your photograph. If you think someone left something in my house, you’ll need a search warrant to look for it.”
“I don’t need a warrant.” Lang’s hand moves to the door frame, fingers gripping the wood with obvious frustration. “He’s a Russian crime boss, Ms. Bourn. He uses people like you to hide evidence from federal investigations, and then he eliminates them when they become inconvenient witnesses.”
The words should terrify me more than they do, but something about his delivery feels rehearsed rather than genuine, like he’s telling me what he thinks will motivate cooperation rather than sharing actual intelligence about ongoing criminal activities.
“If that’s true, then you definitely need proper warrants and backup officers before conducting any search. I’m not comfortable with this conversation, and I’m going to close the door now.” I start to push it closed.
“Don’t.” His voice drops to something lower and more menacing, authority replaced by personal threat.
“You’re going to let me inside, and you’re going to show me exactly where Kulikov was.
He might have left critical evidence in your house, thinking this was an innocuous place to stash it.
If you don’t, this becomes much more difficult for both of us. ”
I start to close the door, but Lang’s foot shoots forward to block it, and he presses his shoulder against the frame with enough force to make the chain lock strain against its mounting. The professional facade disappears completely.
I let out a startled yelp, temporarily letting go of the door. “Get away from my door, or I’m calling the police.”