The Takedown

Chapter 3

3

There’s a long, thin scar on his abdomen and a series of freckles by his left hip. He has a lean but sturdy body, like he’d be very skilled at lugging suitcases. Or perhaps bags of stolen goods, pinched in a heist. His hair’s short, wavy, so dark it’s bordering on black—and no, I definitely do not look down. That’s an invasion of privacy. Also, unhelpful to me. The FBI doesn’t have his... you know, his... lower region on file. What finally clicks everything into place is his posture. I recognize the way he’s positioned: at an angle, one shoulder slightly in front of the other, like he’s about to block a punch.

Nick! Nicholas Fraser.

That’s his name.

Everything in his file comes zipping back. Nick Fraser, twenty-eight years old, born in Ottawa to Canadian American parents. Dual citizen. Former bodyguard to Johnny “the Coffee Prince” Jones, now his head of security. No recorded criminal history, but a close friend of the Jones family. Recreational rower. Attended Northeastern for undergrad, where he met Johnny, his freshman roommate.

He also matches the partial description of a suspect in the Buffalo, New York, heist.

Good. I know how to play this now. I know the key actors and where I stand. Even if where I’m standing is in a puddle of water, thin beads of it slowly dripping down my face.

In a flash (literally, I guess), Nick grabs the fuzzy blue bath towel off the rack, wrapping it around his waist. It has happy little clouds on it. Like with the duck shower curtain, we’ve had the same towels since I was twelve.

“What...?” Nick asks me, searching for the words. Because what do you say to a stranger who’s just Jack-in-the-Box-ed you in the shower? At least I didn’t pop out and yell boo , but this is still egregious. Now that I’ve identified him, the horror of what I’ve just done is pinpricking my spine. Mistakes on the job aren’t a habit for me. Far from it.

I can navigate this, though. Dodge and swerve suspicion.

Deep breath, and—

“I am so sorry.” Covertly, I drop his razor by the soap dish. Probably won’t be needing that if he didn’t attack me straightaway. “I didn’t know that anyone was going to be...”

Nick raises a chunky eyebrow at me and asks in a slightly hoarse voice, “You didn’t know that anyone was going to be showering... in the shower?” There’s a hint of amusement in the corner of his mouth, and it almost sounds like he’s about to laugh. But his body language is ultra-tense. As it should be. If someone were hiding in my shower, I would probably punch them in the throat on instinct.

“Right,” I say, wiping wet hair from my face. I must look like a recently bathed dog, fur slicked down. In fact, that’s probably why Sweetie Pie went back downstairs. Nothing good happens in the bathtub. “I’m guessing you’re staying here? Let me just...” With as much grace as possible, I step out of the tub, my shoes squishing on the mat. My sweater is dripping. My black jeans are completely soaked. Time to play innocent. “I’m Sydney, by the way.”

Nick huffs out a solitary laugh. It’s warm, nonthreatening, and the smallest fragment of a smile breaks through. He has the kind of instantly likable face that might disarm other people. I don’t buy a single ounce of that charm.

“Yeah, I know who you are,” Nick says. The faintest trace of a Canadian accent breaks through his vowels. “What I don’t know is why you were waiting behind the shower curtain.”

My face gives away none of the truth. Instead, I press my lips together and wring out the ends of my hair into the tub. Water makes a plink , plink noise as it hits the drain. “This is super embarrassing, but I heard footsteps and there was no car in the driveway. I thought someone might’ve broken into the house, so I hid. When you came in, I realized you were actually taking a shower, and most burglars don’t pause to remove all their clothes...”

At this, Nick half cringes. Deep grooves form in the corners of his eyes. There’s something very approachable about them, something that tries to draw you in, which— Nope. No way in hell. I’ve seen his type before: those obnoxiously attractive men who think their good looks will give them a pass. “I’m Nick,” he says, not extending a hand. Because his right hand is firmly holding up his towel. “Johnny’s friend? I’m staying here for the holidays. Last-minute thing.”

“Not a burglar, then?” I ask, doubling down on the innocent persona. In my mind, though, I’m sending thought daggers at Gail. Gail! He’s staying here for Christmas? You didn’t brief me properly.

“God, no,” Nick says, head rearing back. I notice the thin, faded scar on the cleft of his chin—and that he must be a full six inches taller than me. Without a doubt, the Joneses brought him in as “the muscle.” Light glistens over the panes of his abdomen, which is—frankly—obscene.

He’s still talking, his voice bouncy. “Your grandma asked me to get a turkey pan from the attic while she was at the supermarket. Very nice person, by the way. Really sharp, too. But I’m sure you know that. Why am I telling you that? Anyway, I had my earbuds in. Got a little too into my audiobook. And then I’m in here, pulling open the curtain...”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.” Nick scratches his temple. “All right, so...”

“So I’ll leave!” I clap my hands once. It’s calculated. I need to look like I really am mortified, not just determined to get away from him. “Sorry! I’m terrible.”

Swinging open the bathroom door, I find Sweetie Pie on the other side, gazing at me knowingly. Never go in the tub , her eyes say to me. That is the first rule of tub life .

Now you tell me , I want to mouth back, grabbing my suitcase from beside the bed.

“Hey, Sydney?” comes Nick’s voice from the bathroom.

Jesus Christ, what? I swivel around, still soaking. My wet footprints imprint the carpet. Back to innocent. “Yeah?”

“It was... uh... interesting to meet you.”

“Oh,” I say, knowing all of this will be caught on film. I assume there’s video surveillance alongside the audio. Someone’s probably critiquing my performance. Better make it good. I smile. “You, too.”

Then, with a shake of his head, Nick closes the door.

—

Alone in my room, except for Sweetie Pie, I pitch my suitcase onto the desk and wipe a hand slowly down my face. That could’ve gone worse. I salvaged it. Didn’t locate any of the bugs, though. There’s probably one in here, hidden in my debate trophies. On my childhood dresser, they sit gleaming in a neat little row, next to a collection of porcelain dog figurines. Different sizes, different breeds. One of them has a chipped tail that’s been reglued half a dozen times. I have joint custody of the Doberman with Calla.

“This is going to be brutal, isn’t it?” I ask Sweetie Pie.

And she looks at me like, Yes, yes, whatever you say.

It should tell you something that my biggest confidant is a highly flatulent dog. She’s farting now. Probably from the cookie. I lovingly plug my nose and zip open my suitcase with one hand. No time to dry my hair, but at least I can change out of these wet clothes—and recalibrate my plans for the week. Now Nick’s here. Nick I’m-so-charming Fraser. Head of security. In my grandmother’s guest room.

My nose pinches at the thought of him.

I’d prepared for just a bodyguard. Marco, a thirty-six-year-old ex–Navy SEAL with a head tattoo. That was the file I’d memorized last night. Where is he? Is he still coming, too? More people in the house mean more uncertainty, more gazes to dodge when I’m trying to snag Johnny’s phone or sneak a peek in his suitcase. But I can easily adapt.

One slight fumble with Nick is fine.

It won’t happen again.

If anything, I can use him for information. Draw him closer like he was trying to draw me.

Slipping out of my sweater, I riffle through my old dresser drawer, pulling out something that’s fully approachable: a light blue sweatshirt with a frayed but presentable neckline. Bright yellow paint flecks the sleeves. My grandma owned a house-painting company for decades, and in my sophomore summer, the two of us recolored half the colonials on Perkins Cove. I yank on the sweatshirt. See! That’s cheery. Gives the illusion of vulnerability.

“Kitchen, Sweetie Pie?”

She tippity-taps, and I follow her downstairs, waiting for the back door to burst open. Waiting for Grandma Ruby. It’s going to be so strange seeing her in person again. I haven’t had much time to call her lately, and when she’s holding the iPhone for FaceTime, I get to see only the bottom third of her face. It’s more like ChinTime. Last month, I spent the entire ten-minute conversation speaking to a Sweetie-Pie-shaped couch cushion and couldn’t find it in my heart to tell her.

Clock ticking, I grab a gingerbread tree from the Tupperware box by the fridge and bite off the stump, chewing. Grandma Ruby definitely made these. She always puts extra ginger in the mix. I could eat about a hundred. In fact, I eat two in quick succession, wondering what’s taking her so long at the supermarket. Eventually, Nick makes his way down the stairs (I pick up on the tread of footsteps this time) and joins me in the kitchen.

We hold eye contact for a moment before he looks away sheepishly, and— Oh, screw you, Nicholas . I’m not falling for that. Based on my experience, sheepish and besties with a crime lord aren’t compatible descriptors. “I really am sorry,” I tell him, taking another bite of gingerbread and speaking through the corner of my mouth. “That will never happen again.”

Nick laughs through a wince. “Jesus, I hope not.” His Canadian accent slips out; that might be the only endearing thing about him. “I’d like to live past twenty-eight.”

“Scare you that badly, huh?”

“I like to think I’m a brave guy, but I might’ve seen my life pass before my eyes.”

“Do you... want a cookie?” I ask, knowing I’ve just said the same words to Sweetie Pie.

“Sure, thanks.” He takes one, turns the gingerbread tree over, and examines the icing, like he’s confused by the frosting pattern. It has white sprinkles and zigzags. “You know, I’m not great with silence. Whoever said there’s such a thing as comfortable silence is... well, they’ve never met me. So I was thinking, should we just start over and never mention what happened upstairs for the rest of our lives?”

Not great with silence? If he was a bodyguard, half of that job was spent in abject speechlessness. So either he was unsuited to his job, or he’s a flat-out liar. My money’s on liar. “Could we?” I ask, making sure it doesn’t sound like I hope you choke on your Christmas cookie .

Nick smiles in a way that tries to put me at ease. I don’t let it. “Nick,” he says, extending a hand. He has rough palms, like the coarse side of a sponge.

“Sydney,” I say, then add seriously, “I really didn’t see anything. You know. Back there.”

Nick runs a hand over his freshly shaved jaw, stopping by the freckle right above the corner of his pretty mouth. “I thought we just agreed not to mention it,” he teases.

I mime zipping my lips. “It’s done.”

“Good. Now, Calla said you weren’t coming home for the holidays.” Eyes full of energy, Nick pulls out a stool from under the countertop and sits, one hand under his chin. His just-about-black hair is damp from the shower, and he’s wearing a hunter-green sweatshirt that says christmas sweater in bold, white print. The sleeves are pushed up his forearms, which are a mix of muscular and lanky, and tanned like the rest of him. It all feels so disgustingly choreographed, like he’s used to playing the nice guy. Had a lot of practice there, Nicholas?

“This a big surprise, then?” he asks.

“ Huge surprise,” I say, snapping a limb off the gingerbread tree. “This Christmas is full of them.”

And... I despise this. Literally could not hate it more. Sitting here with him, in my grandmother’s kitchen, those family vacation magnets staring back at me from the fridge; they’re trying to lull me into a false sense of security. How can anything bad happen here? How did anything bad ever happen here? My middle school artwork is framed on the walls.

“For me, too,” Nick says, rapping his knuckles lightly on the countertop. When’s the last time he punched someone with those? “The surprises, I mean. I wasn’t planning on spending Christmas here. I thought I’d just take the week off, hunker down in my apartment, and tackle some books I’ve been meaning to read. Although thank you ,” he jumps in to add. “Your Grandma Ruby’s great. I just met her, and five minutes later, she’s already inviting me to next Christmas.”

Keep my grandma’s name out of your mouth , I think. Still, I force out a smile. “Yeah, that sounds like her.”

Nick leans in conspiratorially. His dark brown eyes fade into gold around the edges. “I feel like I can say this to you, now that your grandma’s not here, but I’m not really a big Christmas person.”

Another lie. With one eyebrow raised, I point to his christmas sweater sweatshirt.

“This?” Nick thumbs the cotton. “Airport purchase. Thought I’d try to blend in. Is it working?”

I nod, reluctantly playing along. “I think so. You have very good airport purchase control. I just bought a year’s worth of Toblerone.”

“Oh, you can never have enough Toblerone,” Nick says without missing a beat.

“Thank you.”

“Or those U-shaped neck pillows. Actually... I take that back. You can definitely have too many neck pillows.”

“Eight?” I ask, keeping my annoyance in check. “Twelve?”

“Six,” he says, “arbitrarily.”

I sniff out a laugh and urge myself to keep going. Maybe if I lay enough groundwork, I can gather some early intel before Johnny arrives. “You’re right about Grandma Ruby, by the way. She goes big for all the holidays. Fourth of July, Arbor Day. We have one of those giant animatronic Easter Bunnies for the front yard.”

Nick faux shudders.

Did he seriously just do that? What kind of game is he playing? “I’m sorry, did you shudder?”

“The Easter Bunny,” he says. “You said animatronic , but you also could’ve said demonic , and I would’ve heard it the same way.” He gestures to his muscular thighs, and I wish I could bleach them from my vision. “It has long legs! It’s pink!”

“So we’re not a Christmas fan, not an Easter fan. How are we feeling about Groundhog Day?”

“Love it,” Nick jokes annoyingly. “Punxsutawney Phil is a national treasure.”

“Arbor Day?”

“I’m Canadian. Can’t get enough of it. Let’s plant those trees.”

“To be fair,” I say, enduring the bit, “that bunny decoration does scare the shit out of the neighborhood kids. They egged our house three years in a row.”

Nick raises one of his thick, dark eyebrows. “Is that an Easter metaphor? Easter eggs?”

“I don’t think they’re that perceptive,” I admit. “Last year, for Halloween, Grandma Ruby said that one of them dressed as a loaf of bread with zero trace of humor. He was just really, really serious bread.”

“Mmm,” Nick says, pressing his lips together. “Sourdough, probably.”

It’s such a dad joke, and he looks almost embarrassed for making it. It pisses me off to my core that for a split second, I give a real chuckle. I want to slap myself. I quickly rein it in as Nick grins fully at me, like he’s surprised with this conversation. Who knew that shower girl could initiate such good bread banter? He goes on, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Hey, I just wanted to say up front, sorry if I’m cramping your style here. I’m sure spending the holidays with some random guy isn’t what you expected.” He’s looking sheepish again, full lips half twisted to the side, and Oh, come on . Stop pretending like you’re not on the naughty list. I’ve seen the surveillance footage; that suspect from the New York heist looks a hell of a lot like Nick, from the side.

“Nah,” I say, appeasing him. “It’s good that you’re here. More people for our holiday week games competition. How are you at Pictionary?”

“As a matter of fact,” Nick says, taking an extra-dramatic pause, “I am... terrible.”

“Charades?”

“Couldn’t be worse.”

“Perfect,” I say brightly, nudging his hand. The hand nudge is premeditated. Even though, as with the Grinch, I wouldn’t want to touch him with a thirty-nine-and-a-half-foot pole. “You can be on Calla’s team.”

At this, he chuckles and finally snaps off a piece of his cookie. By her dog bowls, Sweetie Pie pauses for a second before taking a drink, loudly sloshing; Nick offers her a silly “hellooo, hellooo” as I fiddle with the silver ring on my thumb, preparing to steer us in a different direction.

“So,” I ask, “what’s he like?”

“Who?” Nick asks, chewing his cookie.

“Johnny.” His name comes out casual, light. As if I’m talking about laundry. Or the weather. Then I give Nick a calculated bit of honesty. We’re taught to do this in the CIA: to open up a little when needed. To give our targets the impression that they know us. It usually doesn’t hurt this bad. “I didn’t even know he and Calla were together, much less getting married.”

Nick half chokes on the gingerbread, coughing up a few crumbs. “What? Really?”

“Really. Just found out.”

A long puff of air escapes Nick’s lips. He sits back on the stool, hands running up and down his dark jeans, like he’s trying to draw attention to his muscles. Gross. “I had no idea. So Calla didn’t...”

“Nothing,” I supply. “Not a word. Though, I’m not the easiest person to get in touch with.”

“Right,” he says. “You travel a lot, don’t you? With the Department of Education?”

“I do,” I say, a little surprised—and angry—that he knows this about me. Immediately, I ready myself for the well-rehearsed script. My cover story is that I’m an educational researcher based in Washington, DC. Whenever I have to leave the country to “survey an international school” or “attend a conference,” no one questions it. “Traveling’s a shit excuse, I know.”

Nick considers this with a perplexed look, then settles back into his easygoing confidence. “I could’ve sworn Calla said... Well, anyway, Johnny and I go way back. I don’t have any brothers, my family’s small, so he’s kind of it. We rowed together at Northwestern, did a lot of volunteer work together, too.”

This shouldn’t set my teeth on edge, but it does. I’ve seen evidence of this volunteer work—all the charities that the Jones family donates to. There are pictures of Johnny breaking ground at a new children’s hospital, of him petting puppies at the pound. If I had to guess, it’s part of the reason why Calla was attracted to him in the first place. And it’s a facade. The more volunteer work the Joneses do, the stronger their alibis become; the more people in South Boston jump to protect them.

I tilt my head to the side. “Johnny’s one of the good ones, huh?”

Nick stares at me oddly for a second, like he’s trying to work something out, before nodding earnestly. “Yeah, he is.”

Liar, liar, pants on fire. “What’s his family like?”

Maybe I’ve taken a step too far, too fast, because Nick leans even farther back. He is by no means a small man. I’m five foot nine, so he must be pushing six-three. He has a rower’s body. My eyes are clocking the strong build of his arms, the sinew and muscle beneath his sweatshirt. The fabric stretches tightly across his chest. And it happens naturally—the calculations. How I’d take him if things went south. Fist to the throat. Hurl him up against the wall. My body pinning his body.

“His family’s complicated,” Nick finally says, “to be honest.”

“Complicated how?” I push, feigning general, sisterly interest. If he didn’t call me on the last question, he won’t call me on this one.

“In a way that a lot of families are complicated.” Nick shrugs those powerful shoulders. “They’d do anything for each other, even if his dad and his grandpa used to butt heads over the family business.”

Ah, there it is. I sit back on my stool, mirroring Nick. Sometimes, the best way to interrogate someone is to fill the room with silence. Keep your lips zipped. Wait for the other person to talk. If Nick actually has a problem with silence, then he’s an interrogator’s dream.

“You’ve heard of Morning Kick?” he asks.

Who hasn’t? Morning Kick is a popular coffee chain in the Northeast, Midwest, and Southern California. They’re not quite a Dunkin’ Donuts rival, but over the past eight years, they’ve astronomically increased their market share and their customer base. I’ve had their espresso a few times—and I read all about them last night. What customers don’t know is that the owners of Morning Kick often serve their caffeine with a side of actual violence.

“That’s Johnny’s family’s brand,” Nick says, with ironic timing.

Unfortunately, before he can say another word, the garage door opens. I hear the tug-tug-tug of the motorized chain. My grandma is parking her car and is just about to trudge into the laundry room. The back door springs open, bells jingly on the knob, and she arrives in a cloud of fresh linen scent, plastic grocery bags dangling from her hands. It looks like she’s bought half the vegetable section; green onions poke out, rubbing against the sleeves of her L.L. Bean coat.

Or is that... Dad’s old L.L. Bean coat? Did she take it out of storage?

She sets down the bags in the laundry room, begins to step out of her snow boots—and spots me with a gasp. I’ve stood up from the kitchen stool. I’ve set down the battered remains of my cookie. And my throat is tickling at the sight of her: my grandma in her snow-dusted beanie and paint-speckled scarf, motionless in the laundry room doorway, a smile breaking over her face like sunlight.

I should’ve called her more. I should’ve come home more.

I should’ve tried harder.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” she cries out, breaking through the whispered hush. She’s fast: a puff of white hair and a red flash of cashmere. Her boots stamp snow across the tile as she drops the grocery bags and leaps for me, knifeless. I say knifeless because, if I didn’t know this woman, I’d think she was sent to assassinate me. She is perhaps a little too vocal for your run-of-the-mill hit person, but she’s also a spitfire: eighty-two years old, a former woodworker, and the first person to show me how to throw a punch. “It’s a valuable skill,” she told me and Calla one winter in our garage. “Take this seriously. Never tuck your thumb under the rest of your fingers, and get your whole body behind it.”

Now, I can barely get out a subtle “Surprise!” before her arms are wrapped around me, so tight. Her hair smells of kelp-and-jasmine shampoo, and this, too, tickles a long-buried emotion in my throat.

“Surprise,” I say again, and Grandma Ruby rocks me back and forth.

“Oh, Sydney Bean! This is a surprise. The most wonderful , wonderful surprise. It’s a Christmas miracle! I was decorating the top of my dresser just last night, and I found that little moose ornament you made me in elementary school—and I thought, what if Sydney were here? And now you are here. Just imagine that.”

I am. I’m imagining everything. I’m thinking about how I’d feel if I’d come home for Christmas on my own . Not like this. Not on command from some stranger named Gail. Inside my brain, there’s a big part of me that’s screaming, Liar! Liar! Sydney, you are a deceitful little liar.

“You look too thin,” Grandma Ruby says, pulling back. Her hands cup my cheeks, her grip surprisingly strong for her age. Throughout my childhood, she was the one to open the pickle jars.

“I’ve gained, like, fifteen pounds since you last saw me,” I reply through my squished face, and in the background, I can see Nick put a few fingers over his mouth to hide his smile. Ugh. Looks like he’s loving this big, happy family reunion. Or at least he’s pretending to. And it irks me, my two worlds clashing: job and family. When you’re a spy, you have to open up and share bits of your life strategically; but you are not, under any circumstances, open about everything .

For Nick to see me like this? With my grandma? It’s exposing. Damaging. My family knows the before Sydney; they’ve seen the soft underlayer.

Grandma Ruby releases me, grinning. True to her name, she’s wearing her signature ruby-colored broach; she never leaves the house without a splash of red—her power color. Like she’s dressed for Christmas year-round. “I feel like the luckiest grandmother alive,” she says, trademark spark in her eye, just as someone else walks through the door.

No, not just someone. Him.

Johnny Jones is traipsing out of the laundry room, a fistful of bright silver congratulations balloons in one fist. Did he buy the balloons himself, for himself? In the other hand, he’s balancing a store-bought cake with white buttercream frosting; a swirl icing on top decrees together forever . It’s a really domestic scene, let me tell you. So damn delightful. I don’t clench my fists; I’m supposed to be decking the halls, not Calla’s fiancé.

Together forever . Like hell they will be.

“Look who I found at the supermarket!” Grandma Ruby says, pointing to Johnny. Johnny, with his smug face and his stupid balloons and his eager, pleasant smile. He’s only slightly taller than me, but his frame crowds the doorway. Ice-blue eyes, tamed blond curls, and a white corded sweater, like he’s fresh out of a Ralph Lauren catalog. In fact, he could model for a Ralph Lauren catalog. All he needs is a yacht. And a polo pony. If you looked up WASP in the dictionary, you’d find his picture: extremely clean cut, with a plush blue scarf under an expensive winter jacket. It’s designer. How much did he pay for that? Eight hundred dollars? A thousand?

And where does he keep his cell phone?

I could swipe the phone, upload the tracking virus, and return it in under a minute flat.

“Is that Sydney ?” he says to me, as if he’s greeting a six-year-old. As if he’s playing Santa Claus in a Christmas pageant, and I’m the surprise guest that someone’s pulled onstage. He doesn’t wait for a cue. He simply waltzes over and throws his arms around me in a rather painful way, lifting me clear off the ground. We spin. It cracks my back. I hate him.

“It is so good to meet you,” he says. Somehow, his Boston accent is a lot thicker in person than it is in his audio files. You could spread it on bagels. In this alternate reality—where I’m not a CIA case officer, just a sister home for Christmas—I also don’t know who the hell he is. I play it like that.

“Okay, thank you, that’s enough,” I say lightly, grabbing on to the countertop.

“Wow,” Johnny says again when my boots touch the floor, stepping back to appraise me. His eyes really take their time. He swipes two hands down his clean, clean scarf, returning it to smooth perfection; he has the precise air of a Connecticut frat boy, mixed with a dash of mob. There’s a loudness about him, from the volume of his voice to the one-two punch of his spiced cologne. “I’ve heard so much about you!”

Matching his vocal volume, I give the customary reply of “Good things, I hope!” while inside I’m thinking, Can’t say the same about you, bucko. My brain actually inserts the word bucko . I have never used bucko in my life.

Why’d Calla have to pick him? What’s wrong with—I don’t know—your nice, standard veterinarian? Or a midwife. A midwife who reads to the blind.

“?’Course, ’course, all good things.” Johnny thwacks me on the shoulder, hard, as Sweetie Pie rushes in to greet him with a hearty sniff to his crotch. Her nose really digs into the khaki. She’s an intelligence operative, too, gathering all the scent information her snout can contain.

Bite , I think. Bite .

(She would never.)

“Well, aren’t you friendly,” Johnny says to Sweetie Pie.

“Oh, you betcha!” Grandma Ruby says, tapping her temple, right under the burst of white hair. “Smart as a whip, too. She watches CSI: Miami with me and always barks right before they discover the evidence. Don’t you, good girl?”

Johnny gives the appropriate chuckle at this, then switches his audience to Nick, calling to him from across the kitchen. Loud, loud, loud. “So good to see you, man! You get in early?” Johnny ventures over, dipping and dodging like a football player in practice—as if he’s about to tackle Nick instead of embrace him. They do a wide bro hug, throwing their arms out and slapping each other’s backs. “Marco’s just helping with the bags and then he’s off.”

Nick frowns into the hug. The expression looks almost unnatural on his face, but just seeing it—I feel like I know him a bit better. The underneath Nick. The angrier, dumb-muscle Nick he’s been hiding from me. “He’s not staying?”

Johnny shakes his head exaggeratedly. Every movement he makes is inflated, larger than life. “Nope, gave him the week off. It’s Christmas. You know he’s got a kid. Angela? You’ve met Angela! At church a few Sundays back. She’s got braces like Vinny’s kid. Vinny says you owe him a round of drinks when you get back to Boston, by the way, and you missed poker last week. Just a message! Don’t shoot the messenger. Anyway, we can manage without Marco. Calla’s just—”

Here. Calla’s here.

I see her and my stomach twists.

My sister is steadying herself, one hand on the washing machine, like I’m the Ghost of Christmas Past and she can’t quite believe I’m in the kitchen. She doesn’t seem to notice when she drops a bag of oranges, a few tumbling into the cleaning supplies. Her hair’s a little shorter than when I saw her last, chestnut brown and falling across her shoulders in carefully constructed curls. She’s wearing a pearly white headband and puffy snowman earrings.

Immediately, I’m sixteen years old again, my sister’s head on my shoulder, and we’re talking about Dad. Was he serious? Was he really not coming back? He’d sold his truck at a roadside car lot, taken all the camping supplies from Grandma Ruby’s house, and as far as we knew, he was somewhere on the Appalachian Trail. Just walking. Away from us. Being a dad was too much for him. Two teenage girls were too much for him. But it made me stronger, I think—for Calla. I told her that, with Grandma Ruby’s help, I’d watch out for us now. Don’t worry. Let me worry.

For years, it stayed like that. I barely let anyone else in below the surface, but Calla—my little sister—we joined soccer teams together and went to Bowdoin together and I kept my promise. Then, the CIA. Then, station houses and new aliases and schedules without a moment to catch my breath. And maybe... maybe I stopped knowing how to talk about my life with her—what details to bring up, what to keep hidden. Is it possible that, in the last three years, she’s learned to keep things from me, too?

“Hi,” I say with a shrug, almost like I’m apologizing. Will you forgive me for not being the sister I could’ve been?

“Oh my god ,” Calla says, bursting forward. It’s a very hug-centric evening. Except, this time, I go fully in, squeezing her with everything I’ve got. Her earrings tangle with my hair.

“I’ve missed you,” I say, telling myself not to get choked up.

And she responds in a whisper that makes my blood chill, “I need to talk to you immediately .”