Chapter 4 #3
“That’s the tip of the iceberg.” I finish off my chai tea latte, tipping the bottom of the cup to the ceiling, which gives me a random flashback of last night.
“She told me something I don’t think she needed to.
She had a long-term affair while we were married.
She’d wanted out for a long time, and the only reason she stayed as long as she did was—” The words stick.
I make them come. “I got hurt. On a job. Badly. Almost didn’t make it.
And she stayed because of that. Out of pity, or guilt, or duty.
Not love. She’d already checked out, but my near-death experience trapped her into two more years of pretending. ”
Sylvie has gone very quiet across the table.
“I didn’t suspect a thing. So I’m either an idiot, or I was that fucking selfish I didn’t notice when she mentally left. I didn’t see the divorce papers coming. That last fucking mission either ruined my life or saved it. I don’t know.”
She’s statue-still. Not frozen with sympathy. Alert-still. Her jades are locked onto my boring brown eyes, and they’re not soft anymore. They’re bright and fixed, and the coffee cup has stopped halfway to her mouth.
“The mission,” she says. “Where you got hurt. Where was that?”
The cold alert in the back of my head sits all the way upright, armored up.
“Why?”
“No reason. You just—” She recovers quickly, setting the cup down and clasping her hands. “You get this look when you talk about your time in the military. My dad got that look. Combat does something to a face. I think he was also in Kesara once.”
I’m really watching her now. “No, he wasn’t.” No one who goes to Kesara makes it out alive. I’m the only one. Well, me, Belai, Nuria, and Sameen. But that’s a secret no one will ever fucking touch. I’ll make sure of it. Their safety depends on my silence. “Sylvie. What do you know about Kesara?”
She must register the anger on my face, because hers hardens right back. “Calm down. You said it last night. That’s all. You said Kesara was on your mind.”
“That’s all I said?”
“That’s all you said. Forgive me for prying. I’ve been called a lot of things, and nosey is at the top. I’m sorry. It doesn’t mean anything to me.” She holds my gaze, steady, and God help me she’s good, because I almost believe her completely.
Almost.
I sit with it. What did I say? Kesara was on my mind?
That’s not news. Kesara’s always on my mind.
It’s on my mind at my own kitchen table and in the shower and at the bottom of every glass I’ve ever regretted.
If I said the word out loud last night, it’s the least surprising thing I could have done.
It doesn’t mean I said the rest. It doesn’t mean I told her about the black box, or the village, or the four tags in the safe and the fifth one I couldn’t reach.
It just means I say one word in my sleep, the same mantra on repeat.
Kesara. Coward. Kesara. Coward.
It’s harmless, I decide. I’ve spent ten years being suspicious of everyone, and I am so tired.
“Callen?” she says softly. Pleadingly. “I’m sorry for asking.”
I nod and let it drop. The tension bleeds out of the room, or I let her believe it does. “It’s all right.”
We finish our caffeine. The blank spot in my memory is still there and I’ve decided to stop poking it, because whatever I said, it’s said, and the woman across from me either has it or she doesn’t and there’s nothing I can do about it now except leave before I say anything sober that I’ll regret worse.
I stand when I’m finished and like a shadow she does the same. I reach down and take her hand in mine. I didn’t plan to, it’s just there. I bring it up and press my lips to the back of it, quick, gentle.
“Thank you. For taking care of me. You were…” I search for it. “You were a surprisingly pleasant break from reality. I needed one more than I knew. But I’ve got to get back to it now. There are people who’ll be looking for me.”
“Which people?”
She asks it too fast, that same bright fixed look flaring for half a second before she can bank it.
I don’t answer. I give her a small smile and let go of her hand and head for the door, and I leave her question sitting in the room behind me, unanswered, hungry.
At the door I stop. I don’t know why. I turn around.
“I’d ask for your number,” I tell her. “I would. But I can’t see you again.”
She crosses her arms. “You said that last night. Because I’m too young for you.”
“Because I’m too broken for anyone.” It’s the truest thing I’ve said all morning, truer than any of the lies we traded over breakfast. “It’s not you, Sylvie. There’s just no version of me that’s any good to have around. You’d be doing yourself a favor to forget my face. Take care.”
And I mean it. I walk out believing every word of it, believing I’ve done the decent thing, the protective thing, a clean choice in a storm of dirty ones lately. Regardless if she’s mischievous or a liar, I’ve spared a bright young woman the disaster of knowing me.
Or I’ve spared myself future heartbreak.
Either way, I pull the door shut behind me and head for the elevator, and for the first time since Melissa’s text last week, I feel something akin to closure.
SYLVIE
TAKE CARE?
I snort to myself at his Rico Suave send-off, burying myself back in the delicious scone.
Oh, Callen. Poor fucker doesn’t know I broke into his phone and put a trace on it while he snored last night.
From now on, I’ll read every single text he does.
I’ll be able to listen to every call in real time.
He thinks he’s heard the last from me?
I’m the boogeyman, and his nightmare has just started.
Let the games begin.