2. Chapter 2 #2
Raffe could picture her pinching the bridge of her nose, fighting the frustration that never seemed to leave her these days. “Freddy is a good kid. I wish I could foster him. Hell, I’d adopt him. But I can’t even keep a cactus alive. No judge in the world would give me custody of a kid.”
Raffe’s jaw flexed. She was right, about both of them.
“I’ll figure out how to get him the surgery,” he vowed.
He hit the brakes at a red light, staring through the windshield at nothing.
Ten miles from the barren apartment that he used to crash between shifts.
Not a home. Just a place with four walls, a roof, a bed, a shower.
No food in the fridge because he’d forgotten to hit the grocery store. Again.
Diane’s next words cut through his thoughts. “The FBI has great health insurance. You could take over my job, maybe even get custody of him.”
There it was. Again.
Diane had been pushing for months, hinting, nudging, practically begging him to take her place as task force supervisor. She wanted out, wanted to move on to something new, but couldn’t until she had a strong enough replacement. And she thought he was it.
Raffe had considered it, for two whole minutes, before throwing the idea out.
Supervising wasn’t him. Sitting at a desk, pushing paperwork, managing agents from behind glass walls?
He wasn’t built for that. He was muscle and instinct, grit and surveillance.
He belonged in the cracks, not seated at a conference table.
And yet…
“Your hours are too long, Deb,” he deflected, merging onto the highway. “Even with the responsibility shift, I doubt the state would let me adopt him.”
“You don’t know that,” she argued after a pause. Then, gentler: “Just…think about it, okay?”
“Will do, boss.” He disconnected before she could say more.
But her words haunted him. The hum of his tires on the asphalt did nothing to quiet the thoughts racing through his head.
And then a crazy thought popped into his mind; maybe the state officials would let him adopt Freddy…
if he had a wife. If he wasn’t just some scruffy undercover cop with no stability, no roots, no family.
If he took off his disguises and showed up to court with a wife, if he appeared… normal. Reliable.
His gaze dropped to the envelope stuffed in his jacket pocket. The one filled with small bills, pressed into his hand by a desperate woman who needed a husband.
What if…?
The thought pulsed in his head, insane but relentless. What if her solution could also be his?
He pulled into his usual parking space, lost in the swirl of possibilities, and forgot to kill the engine.
It wasn’t until a neighbor’s headlights washed across his windshield that his instincts kicked in, snapping him upright.
Thirty minutes had bled away while he sat there, the truck rumbling beneath him, caught between two lives—one that demanded he keep fighting in the shadows, and one that might, just might, offer something more.
Shutting off the engine, he pocketed the keys and cranked the windows closed by hand.
His old truck didn’t have air conditioning or power anything, but he didn’t care.
He liked the crank windows. He enjoyed the wind in his face on the long drive home, almost as if the breeze could blow away the grime that clung to him after eighteen hours of surveillance.
The illusion of cleansing. Of becoming human again.
Tonight, though, he was too damn tired to care. He needed a shower and a beer. Or maybe just the shower. And then oblivion.
Inside his apartment—a sparse box that still didn’t feel like home—Raffe peeled his clothes off, letting them drop where they fell.
His only pause was to lock his weapon into the hidden safe in his bedside table, the ritual so ingrained he could do it in his sleep.
Then he stepped into the shower, twisting the knob until steam rose around him.
The first blast of heat made him groan, muscles loosening under the pounding spray.
He stayed until the twenty-gallon tank had nothing left to give, the water shifting from blissfully hot to biting cold.
He still didn’t move, forcing himself to endure the discomfort as penance for something he couldn’t name.
Finally, he shut it off, dragging the lone towel across his skin. His reflection in the mirror caught his eye, and he froze.
The beard stared back—thick, scruffy, unruly. Years ago, it had felt like freedom, a break from Bureau formality. Now, it was a cage. His skin itched beneath it, his jawline lost. He didn’t recognize the man looking back. Not anymore.
Or maybe that was the problem. He didn’t know who he was.
FBI Agent. Undercover ghost. Janitor, delivery guy, muscle for hire, drunk sprawled on a park bench.
He’d worn all those faces. The homeless disguise worked best—people didn’t look at you, didn’t see you.
A man without a face, without a name. Just a void they skirted around for fear of being asked for change. Or worse, their pity.
And in that void, he heard things. The deals, the whispers, the confessions people made when they thought no one was listening. Ugly truths spilled out as if the invisible man nearby couldn’t hear them.
He rubbed the towel over his face, scrubbing until his skin burned, but the itch wasn’t just from the beard. It was from the life. From being no one. From losing pieces of himself, one alias at a time.
He folded the towel, making sure it was spread out on the towel bar to dry, and trudged naked to the bed. Collapsing flat on his back, he didn’t bother with sheets. Exhaustion claimed him too fast.
But just before it did, a face surfaced through the fog. The woman in the too-baggy jeans, her dark eyes full of desperation and secrets. Why the hell did she need to get married?
And why did he care?