Chapter 12 #3
“On something.” She took a drink. “But I keep showing up. Because if the people who care stop showing up, then we’ve already lost.”
The people who care.
Timea had been one of those. She’d believed—really, truly believed—that kindness was the strongest force in the world.
He’d loved her for it. And now he was sitting across from another woman who believed in something bigger than herself, and his job was to use that belief against her.
The check came. He reached for it. She let him, but with a look that said next time, we split it.
Next time. She was already thinking about a next time.
He hated the idea that he was good, very good, at his job.
Outside, the rain had softened to a mist. Georgetown glowed—warm light from restaurant windows, headlights crawling along M Street, the wet cobblestones reflecting everything twice. The air tasted of autumn and exhaust and something green from the nearby campus.
“Walk me to my car?” she said. Not a question, exactly. An invitation to extend the evening by three more minutes.
“Lead the way.”
They walked side by side, close enough that their shoulders almost touched.
She pointed out a bookshop she loved, a café that made the only decent cortado in DC, the corner where she’d once watched a senator’s dog steal a hot dog from a street vendor.
She told that last story with her whole body—hands moving, voice rising, a laugh at the end that echoed off the wet brick.
He laughed too. And again, it was real.
Her car was a blue Honda Civic, practical and slightly dented, parked on a side street under a streetlight. She turned to face him, keys in hand, rain misting her hair.
“I had a really good time.” She met his eyes. “I wasn’t sure I would. The last two guys from that site were . . . let’s say they peaked in their profile photos.”
“High bar I’m clearing.”
“Higher than you think.” She held his gaze. Something flickered there—warmth, curiosity, the beginning of trust. “Alan Martin. You’re different from what I expected.”
“Different good or different jury’s-still-out?”
“Different I’d-like-to-do-this-again.”
“Then we will.”
She smiled. Got in her car. The engine turned over, the headlights caught the rain, and she pulled away from the curb with a small wave through the windshield.
He stood on the sidewalk until her taillights disappeared around the corner.
Then the smile dropped.
Alan pulled out his phone. Typed a message to Crowley.
Alan
Contact established. She’s sharp. This will take time.
The reply came in thirty seconds. As if the old man had been watching.
Crowley
Good. Don’t rush it. And Alan—keep it professional.
He stared at the screen. Rain soaked through his sports coat, plastering his shirt to his shoulders, and he didn’t move. Didn’t care.
She’d smiled at him across that table—not at his cover, not at the performance, but at something she’d decided was real.
And for one moment—one terrible, unforgivable moment—he’d wanted her to be right.
Wanted to be the man Sophia Randall thought she’d just had dinner with.
The man who listened because he cared, not because he was extracting intel. The man whose honesty wasn’t a weapon.
He told himself this would be painless. For both of them.
He told himself she was just an asset.
He told himself he wouldn’t make this personal.
He was already lying.
Alan pocketed his phone and walked into the D.C. night, the rain washing the sidewalks clean while the rest of him stayed dirty, heading back toward a hotel room that smelled of nothing and no one, where the only voice waiting for him was the one in his head that sounded more and more like Timea’s.
You’re better than this.
Maybe. Once.
Not anymore.
Thank you for reading EAST!