Chapter 9 #2
She can’t, can she? And gazing up at her, looking down on me, I realize I could never leave her. She wouldn’t be safe.
She believes there’s too much good in the world, when I know otherwise.
“What’s your plan?” I ask instead of answering.
“I need to find evidence. That proves the money is moving drugs and weapons into this country. That proves what I found is real and that I was framed and I’m innocent.”
"What you have is pretty thin," I say, keeping my voice neutral. "Shadows on the wall. Money trails that don't make sense. A name of a place that doesn't exist."
"But think about the fact that it wasn't classified, and then suddenly it was. They sent agents to kill you. To set me up to send me to prison."
“I’m not saying I don’t believe you. I’m saying it’s not enough.”
“I know.” She doesn’t say it with any form of defeat. It’s a tone that says “yet.” It’s not enough, yet.
“So where are we going to find this evidence?”
“At El Centinela.”
“But we gotta find El Centinela first.”
She nods. I study her face: the determination in her eyes, the set of her jaw. I don't believe in my country anymore and haven't for a long time. But looking at Naomi, I realize I don’t just believe her. I believe in her.
I pull out a phone I had packed with my bug out gear a long time ago. Given to me by maybe my only friend left on the planet. I never thought I’d ever use it.
“As a CIA agent, I can say with some confidence you shouldn’t use a phone. They’re too easy to track,” Naomi says, watching my hands work.
“This ain’t a normal phone.”
Her eyes narrow. “What do you mean?”
“An old colleague gave this to me. It’s a break-glass-in-case-of-emergency kind of deal. And I’d say that glass has already been smashed to pieces.”
I push a button on it. And I signal that I—we—need help.
I hold up the box of hair dye from the small pharmacy bag I'd packed with the clothes. "I got you something else, too. Hair dye. It’s a cheap trick, but people do it because it works.”
Naomi nods. “What color?”
“Medium brown.”
Naomi takes the box, examining it with a slight nod. "Perfect. Brown works."
I watch her turn the box over in her hands, feeling a strange pang at the thought of that golden hair disappearing.
It suits her: bright and vibrant, the fallen ringlets that kissed her cheeks caught the waning light even in the dim forest. But it's also too memorable for someone whose mug shot is going to be everywhere.
"I had an adventure with red hair once in high school.” A wry, wistful grin blooms on her face. "It ended too close to a traffic cone for my liking."
"Well, you'd be pretty no matter what color your hair," I say before I can stop myself. The words just tumble out, honest and unfiltered, in a way that makes me suddenly feel exposed.
Her eyes dart up to mine, surprise flashing across her face. "Thank you," she says softly, then quickly retreats to the bathroom, but not before I catch the bloom of pink spreading across her cheeks.
I stand there for a moment, feeling like an idiot. Christ. I haven't felt this awkward around a woman since high school. Maybe before.
I need air. And I need to get rid of evidence.
I gather her prison uniform, the socks and underwear she'd been wearing, and even the hair ties and small plastic clips from the packaging of her new clothes—anything that might connect her to the woman running from the law.
Outside, the evening air is cool against my face. I walk casually to the dumpster at the far end of the parking lot, instinctively scanning the area as I go.
Parked cars, all empty. Certainly no vehicles that scream law enforcement or government agency.
I drop the evidence directly into the dumpster, making sure it lands at the bottom and not in a bag that could be easily retrieved. Then I make a slow circuit of the motel's perimeter, checking sight lines, entry points, and potential surveillance spots.
Nothing stands out, but I don't rush. Let my instincts work. After fifteen minutes, I'm reasonably confident we're clean for the moment. Not complacent but satisfied enough to head back inside.
I knock twice, pause, then unlock the door with the key card.
She's standing by the mirror, running her fingers through her newly darkened strands. The transformation is startling. Gone is the golden halo that first caught my attention, and in its place, a rich chocolate brown cascades around her pretty face, framing it.
It somehow both changes her and doesn’t. The blond was striking, but the brown is more mysterious. But I was right. She’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on. No color from a box can change that.
I suppose I hoped the dye would make it so no one would give her a second glance.
But that’s a spectacular failure.
I know I’m going to be stealing all the glances I can get.
She turns to face me, uncertainty flickering across her features. "How do I look?"
I swallow hard. The warm brown somehow makes her skin look even more like porcelain.
"Amazing," I grunt out, the word inadequate for what I'm feeling, but it’s all I can manage. “I mean, you’re much less conspicuous.”
A small smile tugs at her lips. "Good," she says simply.
Night settles in around us, the motel room growing darker as the cheap bedside lamp casts long shadows across the walls. Naomi eyes the lone queen bed, then the chair I'm sitting in.
"I can take the chair," she offers, but I’m already shaking my head.
“You need good rest more. I’ve had more of it in the past few days than you.” I don’t add that it wouldn’t matter, I’d still stay up and keep watch to make sure she’s safe.
She doesn’t fight me any further and simply slips under the covers, still fully clothed in her yoga pants and T-shirt, which is smart.
She’ll be ready to run if needed. I’m sure it’s also about modesty, since I’m in the room.
But I can’t help but wonder what she normally sleeps in.
Nightgown? T-shirt and panties? Just panties? Nothing?
"I'll keep watch," I say, settling deeper into the chair by the window, positioning myself where I can see both the door and the parking lot through a crack in the curtains.
She doesn't argue, just nods again and reaches for the lamp, plunging the room into darkness save for that thin strip of light filtering through the gap in the curtains.
Silence reigns, punctuated only by the distant sounds of cars passing on the highway. My eyes adjust quickly to the darkness: another perk of what they did to me. My body doesn't need as much sleep as a normal person's. Four hours and I'm well rested. Two and I can function just fine.
But then I hear it. A soft, muffled sound from the bed. At first, I think maybe she's asleep already, but then it comes again. A sniff. Then another.
"You alright?"
No answer at first, just the sound of her shifting under the covers.
"I'm sorry," she finally says, her voice small and thick with tears. "I didn't mean to—" She breaks off, and I hear her take a deep, shuddering breath. "It's just... this is the first time since I was arrested that I feel like I can..."
She doesn't finish, but she doesn't need to. I understand. The first time she's let her guard down enough to feel the weight of everything that's happened. The first time she's allowed herself not to be strong.
"It's okay," I say, rising from the chair and moving toward the bed, guided by the sound of her breathing. "You don't have to apologize."
I reach out, finding her shoulder in the darkness, and place my hand there. I mean it to comfort her, but it only seems to break the dam holding back her emotions further. Her body shakes with silent sobs.
I don't pull away. As stoic and out of touch with emotion as I can be, I understand that I’m allowing her to do this. This release that she so clearly needs.
Without thinking too much about it, I ease myself onto the bed beside her. She doesn't resist when I pull her against my chest, one arm wrapping around her shoulders.
“No one believed me. No one listened,” she sobs.
“It’s okay, darlin’," I murmur into her hair, which smells of cheap motel shampoo and hair dye, but is still somehow irresistible. "I've got you."
She turns her face into my shirt, her tears soaking through to my skin. Her body trembles against mine, but she keeps her sobs quiet, conscious even now of the thin walls and the danger of drawing attention.
I hold her, my hand moving in slow circles on her back. The military trained me to always use the right tool for any task. And I can’t think of a worse tool to comfort her than myself. I’m designed to bring war, not peace.
But I do the best I can.
Gradually, her sobs subside. Her breathing slows, her body relaxing incrementally against mine.
"Mary," she whispers after a while, her voice rough from crying. "Is she real?"
It takes me a moment to understand what she's asking. Then I remember the story I told the fake marshals about having a girlfriend waiting for me in town.
"Yes," I say softly.
“Oh,” she says quietly. I must be imagining it, but it sounds like she’s disappointed.
"But I made up the part about her being my girlfriend. I don’t know her all that well.”
She doesn't respond. After a moment, I notice the change in her breathing. She's fallen asleep, exhaustion finally claiming her.
I should move back to the chair. Keep watch as I promised. But her weight against my chest feels right in a way I can't explain. The warmth of her body against mine, the trust implicit in her falling asleep in my arms—it makes it impossible for me to find the will to get up and leave her.
I don't know if it’s right or wrong to stay here in bed with her. Don't know if I'm the right or wrong man to help her. All I know is that I will. And that I'm not going anywhere.