Chapter 33
Night Twelve
Julian
Julian hadn’t meant to rip Sybil’s head off, but he didn’t have time to worry about her, and he certainly didn’t have time to protect her feelings.
He was in work mode, despite his promises to Simone, and fuck it, the adrenaline coursing through him made him feel alive.
The best he had since his heart attack. Everyone got it wrong, he thought.
He shouldn’t have retired and become a genteel candy store proprietor.
That was actually doing him more harm than the Bureau had.
He’d been good at one thing his whole life, and it was chasing leads and closing cases.
He was a fool to think that idling for the past four years was the key to a healthy heart.
There wasn’t any service in Zeke’s elevator, so he waited and waited as he ticked down the twenty-nine floors, stopping twice for two different dogs and their owners.
As soon as they hit the lobby, he raced outside, his jacket still unbuttoned, his hands and head exposed to the elements.
The temperature had dipped precipitously since he’d been inside.
The wind was kicking up, the air smelled of snow.
He turned uptown to flag a taxi, and his fingers were nearly numb within a minute.
The streets were dead, as if everyone had heeded the incoming storm warning but him and those few dog owners making a last-minute run before the snowdrifts piled up.
“Shit, shit, shit,” he said to himself, his breath a foggy plume around him.
The CVS on the corner was open, so he ducked inside, the artificial heat an immediate reprieve.
He should call Richard. But it was midnight, and Richard had remarried, had stepped into a different position within the Bureau, and now had little kids at home.
Julian had given him such hell when he became a father again in his fifties.
Richard had given him hell for having a heart attack at the same time that Richard was learning to swaddle a newborn all over again.
He’d call Richard tomorrow, first thing.
The cashier was eyeing him, probably wondering what this worried-looking Black man was doing loitering in the front of the store.
He nodded at her, then made his way through the aisle.
Grabbed a few necessities and a Coke because it might be a long night.
He needed to be delicate about what happened next.
He didn’t know who might be watching. But he did know that there was a tipping point between being careful and being paranoid, and he would step right to the precipice and not tilt over it.
He paid, the cashier not making eye contact, and wished her a wonderful evening.
Outside now, the snow was dumping like God had turned on a hose.
The sidewalks were damp and turning slippery, and he nearly landed on his back more than once, stopping his fall by grasping a parking meter.
There was a man in a heavy parka, hood up, right behind him, and Julian froze for a moment, wondering if the man was too close, wondering if he had gotten sloppy.
He’d been meticulous in the years since retirement, obscuring his name on internet forums, being sure to leave no fingerprints anywhere he went.
He knew how dangerous this dance was. But then the man passed by and rounded a corner, and Julian eased his grip on the parking meter and blessedly dipped into the subway station on the corner unscathed.
The train was delayed because the trains were always delayed. Fifteen minutes later, the red line screeched to a stop, and he stepped into a mostly deserted car. A few people loitered at the other end, but Julian sat in the far corner and opened his phone one more time. Just to be sure.
There was no doubting it: There, in his text, discovered in a forum in the dark bowels of the internet, was a photo of Betty at Grand Central.
In the months since he had tracked Betty down, Julian had paid a source to keep an eye out online, suspecting it would be money well spent.
Slow and steady, have patience—he’d learned that at Quantico.
And here it was: Someone was looking for her, someone was hunting her.
Julian was pretty sure he knew who. He pulled out a pad of paper from the CVS bag, uncapped a Sharpie pen with his teeth.
This was the most he could do for now, until he figured out more.
Until he figured out not just the who, but the why.
Until he could tell Betty who he really was, why he was really watching.
He couldn’t spook her now, not when he had finally gotten close and earned a small bit of trust. This would have to do.
In dark black permanent ink, he wrote: RUN.