Chapter 9 Maggie
NINE
MAGGIE
Six months.
I'm sitting at the kitchen table in my Portland apartment—not my apartment, Emma Richardson's apartment—with cold coffee and the dog tags warm against my chest. Rain streaks the window, typical for November in the Pacific Northwest, and the sky is that particular shade of gray that makes you forget what sunlight looks like.
Emma Richardson serves coffee with a smile that never reaches her eyes.
The regular at table four—the professor who always orders a triple espresso and tips exactly 18%—doesn’t notice the smile is fake. Nobody at Roasted Beans notices much about Emma Richardson.
She’s pleasant, efficient, and utterly forgettable.
Perfect for witness protection.
The name still feels wrong in my mouth. Like wearing someone else's clothes that almost fit but not quite.
I've practiced saying it a thousand times.
Written it on forms and applications, and the name tag at the coffee shop where I work mornings.
Responded to it when neighbors call out in the hallway.
But I'm not Emma Richardson.
I'm Maggie Brooks. Magnolia Brooks. The woman whose brother sold her to a cartel. The woman who shot him in the shoulder and watched him bleed. The woman who kissed a Guardian operator in an abandoned ranch while a dozen enforcers closed in.
The woman who's been waiting for permission to make a phone call.
Eighteen more months to go.
I wipe down the counter and check the clock: 2:47 PM. Three hours until my shift ends. Then home to my apartment that isn’t mine, to cook dinner I don’t taste, to watch TV I don’t care about, to sleep in a bed where I dream about warehouses and the man who saved me.
The dog tags are heavier today. Or maybe I'm just more aware of them. Sofia's name is engraved in worn metal, a reminder of wrong choices, guilt, and penance. Except they're not penance anymore. They're a promise.
Two years, Colt said. Then you call that number.
But it's only been six months, and I'm not allowed to call anyone from before. Not friends. Not former Army buddies. Not the man who saved my life and gave me his promise in the pre-dawn darkness.
At 6:00 PM, I clock out. Walk three blocks to my apartment in the rain. Climb three flights of stairs. Unlock door 3C.
The rain gets heavier, drumming against the window. November in Portland means gray skies, wet streets, and forgetting what sunlight looks like.
I should make dinner. Should eat something. Should pretend Emma Richardson is a real person with a real life.
Instead, I sit at the kitchen table with cold coffee and Sophia’s dog tags warm against my chest.
My phone buzzes on the table. Unknown number.
I stare at it for three full rings before I reach for it. Unknown numbers are usually spam. Student loan forgiveness I don't need. Extended car warranties for a vehicle I don't own. Nobody calls Emma Richardson because Emma Richardson doesn't exist.
But my hand is shaking when I pick it up.
"Hello?"
Silence. Just the faint sound of breathing and rain—not my rain, different rain, somewhere else.
Then: "Magnolia."
My heart stops. Completely stops. Then restarts so hard I feel it in my throat, in my ears, in my fingertips wrapped around the phone.
That voice. Low and rough and saying my name like it's something precious.
"Colt?" I'm on my feet without remembering standing up. "How did you—"
"I kept my promise." His voice is quiet, controlled, but I can hear something underneath it. Relief. Longing. Six months compressed into three words. "I'm outside."
The phone nearly slips from my hand.
Outside. He's outside. Right now.
"You can't be here." But I'm already moving toward the window, looking down at the street three stories below. "The program—the rules—if they find out—"
"I don't care about the rules."
Of course he doesn't. He went rogue for me six months ago. Violated orders. Risked his career. Why would witness protection protocols stop him now?
I see him.
Standing on the sidewalk across from my building, rain soaking through his jacket, phone to his ear, looking up at my window like he knew exactly which one was mine.
Even from three stories up, I can see the way he's standing—hands in pockets except for the one holding the phone, shoulders set with the kind of determination that says he's not leaving until I come down.
"You said two years," I manage, but my voice is breaking.
"I know what I said."
"It's only been six months."
"I know."
"Colt—"
"I couldn't stay away." The words come out rough, raw. "I tried. I made it six months. That's—" He stops. "That's all I could do."
My vision blurs, and I realize I'm crying. Tears mixing with the smile I can't control. "You're going to get me kicked out of the program."
"Then we'll figure something else out."
"That's not how witness protection works—"
"I don't care." His voice gets quieter. More intense. "I spent five years choosing wrong. I'm done with that. I'm choosing you."
Through the rain and the distance, I see him lower the phone slightly, and I do the same, and we're just looking at each other across the space between us.
Six months.
Six months of being Emma Richardson in Portland while Colt Harrison was—where? California? Still with Guardian HRS? Did CJ terminate him? Suspend him? Is he even still an operator, or did saving me cost him everything?
I should ask. Should demand answers. Should be responsible and careful and think about the consequences.
But I'm already grabbing my jacket.
Already shoving my feet into boots.
Already taking the stairs two at a time because the elevator is too slow and Colt is outside and I've been waiting six months for this without even knowing I was allowed to.
The building door swings open, and rain hits my face, cold and sharp and real. He's still standing there across the street, phone in his pocket now, just watching me with those steady eyes that saw through every wall I tried to build.
I don't remember crossing the street. Don't remember the cars or the rain or the distance.
Just his arms coming around me, solid and warm and real.
Just his voice in my ear: "Hi, Magnolia."
Just the way I'm shaking—from cold or relief or six months of holding myself together finally cracking apart.
"You're here." It's all I can manage. "You're actually here."
"Told you I'd come."
"You said two years—"
"I lied." His hand comes up, tangles in my wet hair. "Or I tried to convince myself I could wait two years. Turns out I can't."
I pull back enough to see his face. He looks tired. Thinner than I remember. Dark circles under his eyes, as if he hasn't been sleeping well. But he's here. Real. Solid.
"CJ?" I ask.
"Suspended pending psych eval. Then reinstated with conditions." A ghost of a smile. "Turns out saving hostages is good for Guardian HRS’s reputation even when you violate every protocol to do it."
"And the conditions?"
"Mandatory therapy. Regular check-ins. No more solo ops." His hand cups my face. "Worth it."
"You shouldn't be here. If they find out—"
"They won't. I was very careful." He leans his forehead against mine, and I can feel him breathing, feel the solidness of him, feel six months of absence dissolving into right now. "And if they do, we'll figure it out. Together."
"Colt—"
"I'm not asking you to leave the program. I'm not asking you to break the rules or compromise your safety." His thumb traces my cheekbone. "I'm just asking for right now. For this moment. For—"
I kiss him.
Hard and desperate and six months of missing someone I barely knew but couldn't stop thinking about. He kisses back with the same intensity, same need, and we're standing in the rain in Portland and nothing else matters.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"Your apartment. Show me."
We take the stairs again because we can't not be touching, can't maintain the distance the elevator would force. His hand is warm in mine, familiar despite the months apart, and I'm pulling him down the hallway to my door.
Emma Richardson's door.
But when I open it and pull him inside, when he looks around at the sparse furniture and the walls I haven't bothered to decorate because none of this is real—
"It doesn't look like you," he says quietly.
"That's the point."
"Emma Richardson." He says the name like he's testing it. "That who you are now?"
"On paper."
"But not really."
"No. Not really." I touch the dog tags around my neck. "These don't belong to Emma Richardson."
His eyes follow the movement, and something shifts in his expression. "You're still wearing them."
"Every day. Like you did." I meet his gaze. "Reminder of choices. Of promises. Of—"
He crosses the distance between us, and then his mouth is on mine again, and we're stumbling backward toward the couch. His jacket hits the floor. My boots get kicked off somewhere. His hands are under my shirt, and I'm pulling at his, needing skin contact, needing proof this is real.
"Six months," I breathe against his mouth.
"Too long."
"Way too long."
We fall onto the couch in a tangle of limbs and need and six months of wanting compressed into right now. His weight settles over me, perfect and familiar. His mouth finds my throat, and I arch into him, hands sliding under his shirt to feel the muscle and warmth and scars I remember from before.
"Colt—"
"Yeah?"
"How long do you have?"
He lifts his head, looks at me with dark eyes. "As long as you need."
"I need—" Everything. Nothing. This. "I need you not to disappear again."
"I'm not disappearing." His hand cups my face. "I'm right here. For as long as you'll let me stay."
"The program—"
"Doesn't dictate my life. Or yours." He leans in, his forehead resting against mine. "We'll figure it out, Maggie. Together. But right now—right now I just need this."
So I give it to him.