Chapter 12 #3
“I remember her. Why?” Amy Fitzpatrick. Fifteen years old, vanished on New Year’s while walking home in Spain. I followed every theory, every dead-end lead.
“You were on the computer constantly. Researching. And when your brother asked you why you were so obsessed, you asked him a question: If no one looks, if no one searches, does that mean no one cares?”
The way he retells the story, I do sound rather obsessive. She was a stranger in a different country. “You remembered that?”
“I’ve wondered if that’s why you chose this field. You told me once you didn’t want a big life—you wanted one where you made a difference. Was she the reason?”
Amy Fitzpatrick. I haven’t heard her name in ages. It’s possible. I became a missing persons aficionado, following theories. The idea that some of these people ripped from loved ones are still out there, without options, or a way to get home; it’s never sat right. I shrug. “I suppose.”
I’m surprised he remembers as much as he does. But I also remember—his father was gone a lot, even before he died. CIA meant long stretches away, and I think that’s part of why Gabe was always at our house.
“Is your father the reason you chose your path?” I’d never had the nerve to ask him before. I’m not sure why. Maybe because when he announced his plan to join the Army, Scott had so much to say I couldn’t get a word in edge-wise.
“Yes.” There’s no hesitation. He kicks off his shoes and sets his feet up on the coffee table.
“I remember your dad. I liked him.”
He licks his bottom lip and presses his lips together. Thoughtful. “You know, you once asked a question that I’ve carried with me a long time.”
“Oh? Do share.”
“We were discussing a military scandal. A woman, actually. Raped. She claimed. It was in the paper for a hot minute, then disappeared. I said there must not’ve been anything to the case.”
“It drives me crazy when people don’t believe women.”
“Right. And I agree with you.” He waits until our eyes lock and he nods once, some kind of affirmation. “You said, you’re assuming the government wants justice. What if it just wants quiet?”
“Scary thought, right?” I mean, that’s basically why I’m here, researching a case I’ve been told to leave.
“It is.”
“But why have you been thinking about that? We had that conversation what…a dozen years ago? Fifteen?”
“Because I’m not convinced the government shared the truth.”
“Your father was CIA. They might not be able to.”
“True.”
“That’s why you’re looking to join the NSA? You want to conduct your own investigation?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
The only sounds are the muted hum of the city outside, distant traffic along the lake, and the soft murmur of voices somewhere down the hall.
“Partly,” he says finally. “But mostly because I’m tired of being told what I’m allowed to see.”
Something in his tone has shifted. He’s not defensive or guarded. He’s just stating the plain truth.
“I grew up believing the system worked,” he continues. “That if you put good people in charge, the truth eventually surfaced.” He huffs a quiet breath. “Turns out the truth is usually buried by people who are very good at shoveling dirt.”
I study him in the low light, the way his jaw tightens, the way his thumb drags once over his knuckle—like he’s grounding himself.
“That’s exhausting,” I say softly.
His gaze lifts to mine and holds.
“It is.”
Neither of us looks away.
My stomach flutters—undisciplined as it is.
At some point, without meaning to, I’ve shifted closer. Or maybe he has. Our knees nearly touch now, the space between us is charged and warm, the air heavier than it was a moment ago.
“I never told anyone this,” he says, quieter still. “But after my dad died, I kept waiting for someone to explain it. To make it make sense. They never did.”
My chest aches for his loss.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it—not as an apology—as truth.
His eyes flick to my mouth. Just once. Just long enough for my pulse to stutter.
“You don’t have to be,” he says. “You’re one of the few people who ever asked the right questions.”
I swallow.
“And you listened.” The pad of my index finger moves back and forth over my thumbnail, my adult version of fidgeting. “Most people don’t.”
Something shifts then—subtle but undeniable. His hand lifts, hesitates, then settles lightly at my wrist. Not gripping. Just there. Warm.
My fingers still.
The room feels hushed.
He leans in, not enough to close the distance, just enough that I can feel his breath, smell the faint trace of soap from his shower.
“Evie,” he murmurs.
I don’t know what he’s about to say.
I don’t know what I’m about to do.
I only know that if he moves another inch, I won’t stop him.
I tilt my head, breath slow—
Knock. Knock.
The sound is sharp in the quiet room, so loud I flinch.
Room service.
We both freeze.
Then he exhales—slow and controlled—and pulls back, his hand withdrawing slowly from my wrist.
“I’ll get it,” he says, voice steady and deep, but different. Rougher.
I nod, pulse still racing, and draw the throw tighter around myself.
The knock comes again. He crosses the room to answer it, and I watch him go, still feeling the ghost of his hand at my wrist.