Thea
“Watch out for this one. She’s dangerous.”
It’s been hours, and I still can’t get those eerie words out of my head.
What did that man mean? He must have confused me with someone else, right?
The most criminal thing I ever did was graffiti an old tunnel as a teenager.
I wrote exactly four letters: YOLO. To this day, I’m still plagued by guilt.
So why did that man seem to think he knew me? Knew what I’d done? And why can’t I remember?
I tried to sleep in the car while Pierce drove, but then those terrifying words—accompanied by nightmares—found me.
I sit up in my seat and rub my arms. The AC isn’t on, but my skin is cold.
An uneasiness swirls in my stomach. I’m missing or forgetting something important.
Did I meet that man on the plane? Talk to him?
Surely not. I’m a friendly person, but I wouldn’t have put my book down to talk to just anyone; I would have needed a good reason.
“Are you cold?” Pierce asks, low and inviting like the golden rays of the sunrise.
“A little.”
He twists the knob for heat, but I barely detect the warmth.
“It’s seven in the morning; we can stop for some breakfast,” he says.
“That’s fine.” I can’t find more words. I want the ones that make this situation better, but there aren’t any.
I wouldn’t be so afraid if I could just remember what happened before I landed in Mexico.
Before I was drugged. Why me? Why did I need to take the fall for the murder of a man I can’t even remember?
“Pancakes?” Pierce asks again.
“Sure.” Murder and pancakes. My life just turned into a cozy murder mystery I never approved of.
Not five minutes later, he stops at a pancake house.
I focus on the intense grumbling of my stomach and allow nothing else through while I order a breakfast feast. Pancakes, a crepe, eggs, bacon, sausage, and hash browns.
Pierce raises his eyebrows, then simply orders chicken and waffles. Dang it, why didn’t I order that?
“All right.” Pierce draws in a breath. “I never do this. In fact, the thought of even doing so makes me cringe, but Thea, do you uh, need to tell me what’s bothering you?” He winces, scratching the back of his neck and looking so uncomfortable I actually laugh.
“Are you afraid I might kill you with my emotions?”
“No.” He shifts in his seat, clenching and unclenching his bruised fists. “Maybe a bit, but go ahead, get it all out. It’s not good to keep things buried inside.”
“You would know, right?”
He slaps a hand over his chest, falling back in his seat. “Touché.”
I lean over the table. “You tell me your fear, I’ll tell you mine.”
A child cries and he looks away before looking back at me. “I’m not afraid of anything.”
“That’s not what I asked.” I use all my therapist skills on him to get him to crack even in the slightest. If anything, he places his walls up higher.
I need to say the words. The words I’ve never dared to utter. I rub my bare wrist. “I’m afraid I did something bad.”
“Like what?”
“I’m not sure, but I have this feeling in my chest. The same one I had when I…” I clamp my lips closed.
“When you what?” he whispers.
“When I crashed the car that killed my mom and ruined my dad’s shot at a normal life.” The words fall unbidden from my lips as if they were racing to get out. I’ve never told anyone.
“You were driving?” Pierce asks, his brow furrowed.
Tears spring to my eyes. “We went out to dinner for my mom’s birthday.
She had a few drinks and was apparently a lightweight, like me.
My dad was nearly falling asleep by the end of dinner from all the extra work he’d been putting in at the office.
I offered to drive us home. I slid on black ice, and we crashed into a semi. ”
Pierce blinks. “Thea, that wasn’t your fault. You’re lucky to be alive.”
“I know.” Believe me, I know. Or at least I’ve tried to talk myself out of the pain and guilt for the last eighteen months. “It still hurts. I have a scar, too. In here.” I pat my chest. “And here.”
I part my hair, revealing the half-moon that crests my scalp from my head going through the windshield. He reaches across the table. His fingers brush my hair back, lighting the skin on fire as he drags his fingers down my face and turns my chin to look at him.
“You made it out of that crash, and you still take care of your father,” Pierce whispers. “You’re brave and strong.”
“I don’t feel strong.” I huff out a laugh. “I feel like I’m losing my mind.”
He covers my hand with his. “If you did something bad, we’ll fix it.”
If it’s fixable.
A plate of chicken and waffles is set in front of Pierce, and I stare at it while the waitress unloads four other plates with my meal. What did I even order? All I want is the man sitting in front of me.
And his food.
“Will that be all?” the waitress asks.
“Yes,” Pierce says. I’m still staring at his plate. “Would you like to switch?” Pierce asks with a chuckle.
“Yes, please.” I snatch his plate and slide a couple of mine toward him. For now, I’ll take what I can get from him.
“I used to be afraid of my mother.”
That’s not what I expected him to say, but I don’t flinch, don’t react. I simply wait.
He picks up a saltshaker and rolls it in his hands, completely unaware that he’s spilling salt.
“My dad passed when I was three. My mom blamed her behavior on grief, but I’ve only known her as an addict and narcissist. She was unpredictable.
She’d be the nicest mom in the world, taking me out for ice cream one moment…
then locking me in my room for a whole day.
She drove us off the road more times than I can count.
She’d hallucinate and throw things.” His gaze finally swivels to mine, and I see the depth of pain this woman caused him.
“She tried turning us into a ‘perfect’ YouTube family. That scar…? I got it from the first episode. I was nine. She was high, trying to make homemade donuts with her son, and she accidentally dumped the pot of hot oil down my back.”
My heart physically aches for nine-year-old Pierce, and I grab his hand like he held mine. “What happened?”
“I was removed from her care. My grandparents took me in, but even though she scared me, I still wanted to be with my mom. They let me see her for a time after she got clean. But she didn’t stay clean; she just got better at hiding it.
She turned meaner. Less with violence and more with her words.
” His jaw tightens around the words, and he falls silent.
The ting of forks hitting plates and ice clanking in cups is the only sound.
“And your grandparents?” I hedge.
“My grandmother gave me all the love she could, but my grandfather was determined to turn me into something I didn’t want to be.
I was already a mad kid and didn’t want to be pushed.
Deep down I knew it was his version of showing love, but it felt like more manipulation.
The second I turned eighteen, I left. I used Becca, my ex-wife, to do so.
But that was putting a band-aid on a bullet wound. ”
All his words, his heartfelt confessions, have come with little emotional reaction. He’s spoken about all this with someone before. He’s put it in the past, but there’s something he’s still holding onto. Something he can’t let go.
“And the CIA?” I lower my voice appropriately.
He physically flinches, and I know my words have found their target, unintended or not.
“My dad was an agent—the perfect agent. Just like his dad. The two of them were CIA legacies. My dad was killed on an op, and when I got old enough, I thought I had to follow in his footsteps. To be the son my grandparents lost. To uphold the family name.”
“Is that what you wanted?”
He purses his lips. “It was… until it wasn’t. I saw how little it takes to turn an agent bad.”
“What do you mean?”
He takes a bite, chewing slowly. “My second partner stole money from a bust. That wasn’t the first time he’d done so, either.
I turned him in. They gave him a slap on the knuckles.
That was it. He had a connection to some powerful government officials, and that was more important than being a decent human.
They let him do whatever he wanted to promote their agendas, and I couldn’t sit by and watch as he got worse.
Then he sold government information and blamed me when one of our ops was blown.
No one believed me, and though they didn’t have evidence, I couldn’t work with people who could trust him over me. Even my grandfather chose him.”
“Your grandfather?” I think of the note that had clearly upset him. He was CIA—he knew what that life was like.
“He was the chief at the time. It was the one and only instance I went to him for help, and he told me to resign because it would be 'better for everyone’.” His jaw clenches, and I can feel the hurt that betrayal caused him, still causes him.
“He cared more about his reputation in the agency than his own grandson.”
I squeeze his hand, gently reminding him I’m here. “I’m sorry everyone let you down.” All Pierce has wanted from me since day one is trust. So few have ever valued him in such a way.
He drags his hand back with a sniff. “Not everyone.”
“You needed someone to stick up for you. It must have hurt when your adulthood proved the same as your childhood.”
He looks thoughtfully over my shoulder. “I guess it did.” He clears his throat, then meets my gaze, and I can tell he’s mentally rebuilt that wall. It’s up and in place, ready to keep me out. Joke’s on him; I carved out a tunnel while I was there. He’s never getting rid of me now.