The Agent
“How long are you going to keep acting like an immature teenager?” Logan asked, his voice laced with irritation. He’s been trying to start conversations over the past two hours we’ve been in the car, only to be met with silence.
“The same time you learn how to communicate with someone instead of going behind their backs,” I replied, keeping my eyes glued on the book I was reading.
“And if I would have come to you, would you have told me the truth?”
“Probably not.”
He sighed in exasperation. “I don’t understand why you’re protecting him. Whatever you think the two of you have going on isn’t real.”
“There is nothing between us.” A half-truth at best. Sure, we’ve fucked, but I didn’t know if there was anything else underneath the sexual tension.
Moments when he held me, my stomach was warm enough to believe I might feel something more for him.
But, they’re never long enough for me to know for certain.
“So, I misunderstood the other night when you were staring into each other’s eyes like two lovesick doves?”
“Like you said: he’s going to kill me when I least expect it. Seduction is an easy diversion.”
“But, you’re smart enough not to fall for it. That’s why it’s not adding up.”
“I don’t know,” I murmured. “Maybe I’m just not as smart as you think I am.”
Logan glanced at me, his lips tugging into a deeper frown. “We both know that’s not true.”
I shrugged.
“Simone,” Logan said, reaching over the center dash to squeeze my hand.
Reluctantly, I pulled my eyes away from the words on the page to meet his kind gaze.
“You’re one of the best agents in the department, but you’re also my goddaughter. I’ll always trust your professional judgment, but I’m also always going to worry about you.”
His words swung like a wrecking ball through my walls, knocking them down. “Thanks for caring about me, Uncle Logan. I know I don’t always act like it, but I do appreciate it.”
He patted my hand before turning his eyes back to the road.
We drove for another hour, crossing over the state lines and into one of the towns. I raised a brow at the abundance of paraphernalia from the local college on almost all of the houses we passed. “You’re hiding me in a college town?” I asked. “Don’t you think I’m a little old for that schtick?”
“Well, I know you’re not going to sit still until this is resolved. So, to keep you occupied, I figured you could help in the criminal justice department. Guest lectures, maybe teach a class.”
“I have no interest in being in a classroom in any capacity. If you really wanted to keep me busy, you’d let me continue working remotely.”
“Yeah, I had a feeling you’d say that,” he muttered.
We pulled up to a small copper red house. I recognized the short driveway and white shutters from trips when I was younger. I was so distracted by my book, and ignoring the previous tension in the car, to notice the direction we were going.
This was Logan’s and my father’s old house. They’d rented it while they were in college, and the owner later ended up selling it to them. “A graduation gift for his best tenants,” my father used to tell me.
He used to bring me down here every year for the school’s homecoming weekend. We’d go to the child-friendly festivals, watch the football game, and go on walks around the neighborhood.
Occasionally, he’d have speaking engagements at the school and let me tag along for the road trip. Each time, we stayed right in this house.
I haven’t been here since before he passed. With my mother in a new relationship and Logan more focused on the future than the past, I didn’t really have much reason to.
As we walked up the porch steps, I noticed the once vibrant copper paint was dulling into a pale rust color and weeds were sneaking up onto the stair rails.
The familiar scent of amber wood and sage greeted us as we walked through the door.
Inside, not even an inch of furniture had been moved.
The black sectional we used to nap on still sat on the back wall of the living room, parallel to the flat screen television mounted on the opposite wall.
In the dining room, the old chairs were engraved with dents from us sitting for long dinners and card games.
Some of my old drawings peeked out from the doorway leading into the kitchen, hanging on the refrigerator door.
My dad’s laughter echoed through the silence, the ghost of the missing puzzle piece that used to make this place whole.
I almost didn’t notice the blurring of my vision until I felt Logan’s hand on my shoulder. My hands raced to my eyes, wiping away the tears before he could notice. Before they could fall.
“I know this is hard, but it’s the only place I felt comfortable having you stay,” he explained.
“I’m fine,” I assured him. “This is fine.”
“I’ve assigned some of the guys I trust to keep an eye on you, so I’m gonna wait outside for them. You go ahead and settle in.”
Nodding, I squeezed the strap of the duffel bag hanging on my shoulders and headed upstairs.
The crack of the door leading into my father’s old room called to me as I passed. I knew I shouldn’t have stopped in front of it. I should’ve kept walking to the guest room I used to call my own. But the echo of his voice blew through my ears again, beckoning.
Stepping into the room was like walking back into his arms. The scent of his old favorite cologne pulled me into a soft hug.
Photographs of his smile greeted me from frames on the nightstand beside his bed.
On his little corner desk, a pen sat crooked atop the middle of half-finished a piece of paper, like he’d stepped away for a moment.
I hovered in the doorway, waiting for his voice to acknowledge me.
Ask me why I was creeping up on him and invite me into his arms. I wanted to flop on his bed or sit in his rolling chair to relive some of the memory, but I didn’t want to disturb the space.
I wanted it to continue sitting just as he left it.
I closed the door, making sure it clicked behind me, and continued down the hall to the guest room.
There, the only sign of my younger self was the old pink blanket that lay over the comforter. I did my best not to leave much behind here. To avoid losing things, I left most of my prized belongings at home when we traveled.
This instance was the first time I’d brought them with me.
Perching on the bed, I pulled my duffel bag onto my lap and shuffled through it for the velvet jewelry boxes.
One held the diamond ring and matching band that I’d begged my mother to let me keep when she tried to sell them to a local pawn shop.
The other held a charm necklace my father bought me for my last birthday; it was my first from a high-end jewelry store.
He’d decorated it with my favorite gemstones and symbols.
They were one of the few pieces of him I still had left.
I opened the drawer on the nightstand to tuck them away, but froze when I noticed an envelope sitting inside. My name was written across in my father’s handwriting, and the edges had yellowed from time.
What was this doing in here?
My mother had given me everything he’d left behind. How did this scoot past her radar? Knowing my father, he probably didn’t tell her he planted it here. Or if he did, she wasn’t paying enough attention to hear him.
Curious, I traded the jewelry for the envelope. It was heavier than I expected, filled with papers.
Carefully, I broke the seal and pulled out the contents.
At the top of the folded pile was a letter dated the day before my father’s death. My eyes burned as I started reading.
Dear Simone,
If you’re reading this, I’m probably dead.
There’s so many things I wish I could apologize for. Not seeing the signs sooner. Letting my curiosity get the best of me. Being too noble to let shit slide.
You deserved a better father. A better world.
I’m sorry I can’t give either to you.
I don’t expect you to do anything with the enclosed documents. I’m not sure there is anything you can do.
I just want you to know the truth about what happened to me.
Because they’ll twist it. They’ll feed you lies; the same way they did to me.
This system, these people… it’s all corrupt. And I am so sorry I won’t be around to shield you from it.
But, please know that no matter what happens or what they say about me: I loved you. You are the greatest thing I’ve ever done. And I have faith you’ll do what’s right with the information I’m leaving you with.
Last time we saw each other, we said “Goodnight” when it should’ve been “Goodbye.” So, I guess that’s how I’ll end this letter now.
Goodbye, Simone.
I love you.
-Dad
Teardrops splat on the ends of the paper as I moved it aside, revealing the missing pages of my father’s notebook, the tops dated with the week of his death.
Through blurry, wet eyes, I read about the epiphanies he’d come to about his case.
The reason why he couldn’t find his target was because people in his unit were laying in bed with them.
Some of his bosses, his colleagues - his best friend.
All of them were in cahoots with this crime organization, assisting with keeping their shipments under the radar and keeping their men out of jail.
And the only thing they asked for in return was enough money for them to live comfortably and the inside scoop on other organizations they could bust. They got the credit and the organization took over their clientele; it was a win-win situation for both of them.
And Dad had all the evidence to prove it.
Dad pretended to act like he didn’t discover their corruption, but Logan knew him better than anyone. He saw right through the fake smiles and excuses. He knew Dad was on to him.
His last entry lamented over knowing Logan, lowest in seniority and closest to him, was going to be the one to pull the trigger. He just didn’t know when.
“Simone,” Logan’s voice cut through the silence, echoing from down the hall.
I couldn’t force myself to move. To run.