Chapter 28
NOT THE WAY I USED TO BE. That stung. Metcalf knew it would.
I was twenty-one when I was hired, fresh out of college and full of dreams. Back then, I had youth and energy on my side.
I was up for anything. Man the phones on Friday night so others could leave early?
Sure. Sit in a seedy car in a seedy neighborhood at midnight so I could alert the surveillance team if the perp was on his way?
You betcha. In time, my attitude and eagerness got noticed.
Sometimes too noticed.
Those were the days before #MeToo. It was nothing to be on the receiving end of a pat on the rump or a lewd suggestion—well, nothing you could bring to what was then known as Personnel. Corporate rules forbade office relationships. But that didn’t stop anyone.
My standard response: “Gee, [harasser’s name], if there were anyone I would ever be tempted to bend the rules for, it would be you.”
Men are amazing. Even the butt-ugly ones believed me.
And then I met Coveleigh Ravenstock.
He sounds like the unnecessarily handsome blond captain of the lacrosse team instead of what he was—an ordinary-looking guy in his late thirties.
Dark hair, somewhat balding, horn-rimmed glasses.
If you didn’t keep your eye on him, you’d lose him in a crowd.
To add to the misdirect, Cove was a big fan of baggy brown suits (who wears brown if they have a choice about it?), bow ties, and short-sleeved shirts that screamed wash-and-wear.
A deputy assistant special agent, Cove was five years younger than Metcalf but several levels above him—he was Metcalf’s boss’s boss.
Cove was charming and dynamic when you got to know him.
Watching him take charge of an unruly meeting was like watching a man tame a bucking horse.
Unlike most of the drones who filled most of the offices, Cove had a zany streak and a wicked sense of humor.
He made me laugh. As I rose through the ranks, he became my go-to guy for career advice, then my mentor, then my closest work friend.
Is it any wonder I fell in love with him?
No, he wasn’t my direct boss. I reported to someone who reported to someone who reported to him.
But being that far apart on the food chain meant people noticed.
A few whispers at first, then some side-eyes and a couple of comments.
The irony is, our relationship was completely innocent.
Totally asexual. Cove was my mentor and just about the only guy there who never hit on me.
I saw him in the office but never outside it.
He would pop by my cubicle every so often to recommend a book, a movie.
We shared one or two lunches in the FBI cafeteria.
He shared some great insights into criminal profiling.
I made him laugh a lot. And that was it.
That’s the way I used to be, because of him: gloriously happy during the day. Then miserable every night, when Cove went home to his wife.
I know. Throw a rock anywhere, and it’s bound to hit a woman who at one time or another was in love with a married man. Oldest story in the book. But that didn’t make it any less painful.
Was Cove in love with me as well? In hindsight, I’d say yes. But I never got to find out for sure. I knew how much he hated cheating on any level—corporate, financial, personal. I waited to see if that included me.
Then one day, he left. He had asked to be transferred to the field office in Cleveland.
How many people in the history of the FBI have ever requested a transfer to Cleveland?
So of course, the FBI said yes. Cleveland was where his wife was from, and she still had family there.
They’d always meant to go back eventually. That’s what he told me.
Even the nastiest gossipers stepped back a little and cut me some slack.
But not Metcalf. With Cove out of the picture, he thought he had a chance to worm his way into my heart—or some other part of my anatomy.
Yes, I was sad and lonely at the time. But never that lonely. When I turned him down, he was livid.
Metcalf was a big believer in revenge. I knew he’d be waiting to get back at me. But he was a patient man. It took almost fourteen years before he could finally officially screw me.
Even if it was not in quite the way he’d intended.