Chapter 10 Sophie
SOPHIE
The Federal Building’s lobby hit Sophie with its aggressive chill, the air-conditioning set to support computers rather than humans. She shifted a paper bag of sandwiches to her left hand, warm oil from her Italian sub already starting to seep through the white paper.
The security guard’s nostrils flared at the scent of garlic, aged provolone, and the particular blend of oregano and red pepper flakes that made Marcella’s parents’ sandwiches legendary.
“Smells like someone’s having a good lunch,” the guard said, waving her through after checking her ID.
Sophie’s heels created a rhythm on the hard tile floor, each click echoing until she got on the elevator. The doors closed; odors of cleaning solution and someone’s cologne (probably the suited businessman who exited on the third floor) surrounded her.
The FBI offices on the seventh floor carried their own distinct atmosphere: gray walls and nothing but flags and seals decorating them.
Marcella had once joked that the whole floor felt like justice and bureaucracy had a baby.
The space was very familiar from her five years working there, though she’d spent most of her time in the basement where the tech heart of the agency resided.
She signed in and then was buzzed back to Marcella’s small office.
Once shared, Marcella’s partner had returned to the Continent, leaving her solo on her cases.
Three empty paper coffee cups decorated Marcella’s desk, and her chignon, perfect this morning, was unraveling around her face and neck as she looked up with a smile for Sophie.
Outside, the sun beat down on downtown Honolulu, making heat mirages shimmer off the surrounding buildings’ windows. But here in Marcella’s arctic office, Sophie was grateful for the blazer she’d grabbed at the last minute.
“Thanks for coming to the Bureau,” Marcella said, standing up behind her desk.
“I wanted to get started strategizing with you the minute I got the go-ahead on the case from SAC Waxman. And . . .” Marcella’s large brown eyes lit with an almost religious fervor as her gaze landed on the bag in Sophie’s hand.
“Tell me that’s my mother’s hot sub sandwich special and I’ll name our next child after you. ”
“If Marcus ever sleeps with you again. He seemed upset this morning. That you took over the case and dropped him from it.“ Sophie walked over to set the bag on the small conference table by the window, careful to avoid files spread across its surface.
Marcella flapped a hand dismissively and locked her file drawer away with a definitive metal thunk and practiced efficiency. “He’ll get over it. There’s always a new one down at HPD and plenty to go around.”
“Meanwhile, extra peppers, oil on the side, lettuce shredded not chopped. Your mama sends her love.” Sophie took two sandwiches out of the bag, along with a stack of napkins.
“She was delighted when I told her I was bringing you lunch. Then she lectured me for ten minutes about how we’re both too skinny. ”
“She thinks everyone’s too skinny. Feeding people is her love language. That and guilt.”
Sophie unwrapped her own sandwich, the paper crackling, releasing a fresh scent wave of vinegar and herbs as Marcella joined her at the table after fetching a couple of bottled waters from a box in the corner of the room.
“So.” Marcella bit into her hot sub with predatory satisfaction, a drop of oil escaping to glisten on her chin before she caught it with a napkin. “Let’s talk about Connor.”
Sophie’s hands stilled as she picked up her sandwich. “What about him?”
“Come on, Soph.” Marcella spoke in her investigator tone, friendly but inexorable.
“The man compartmentalized his life like a digital vigilante, which he was. Multiple identities, hidden assets, connections to international terror groups . . . and you took him back. After he faked his death and broke your heart.” She tore a huge bite off her sandwich as if it were a piece of the man himself.
“I did.” Sophie took a deliberate bite, using the chewing time to formulate her response.
The sandwich tasted like comfort and nostalgia—she’d been eating the Scatalinas’ subs for years since they opened their cute little Waikiki restaurant.
“He made it up to me for that, and he’s always been good to me. ”
“Good in bed, you mean.” Marcella winked.
Sophie rolled her eyes, smiling. “That too.”
“What’s he been up to? Late nights, unexplained absences, mysterious phone calls?”
“He’s moved out. We’re not together now.
It’s been six months.” Sophie kept her tone level, focusing on the texture of the bread, the way the oil had soaked just far enough into the crust without making it soggy.
“I haven’t kept you updated because . . .
it’s been hard to talk about. At first I thought his departure was temporary.
That he’d be back. But things kept coming up.
He’s working overseas. International business.
” She met Marcella’s penetrating gaze. “Don’t forget, he’s the founder of Security Solutions, even though he signed the company over to me. ”
“That was just to avoid our investigations,” Marcella rapped out, her eyes flashing.
“But we resolved those investigations. And as you know he has clearance from the CIA to be in this country.”
“I know. But—” The office phone rang; Marcella got up and went to her desk. She hit the speaker button, her eyes never leaving Sophie’s face. “This is Agent Scott.”
“Agent Scott, there’s a team from DEA here. They say you scheduled a two o’clock?”
“Tell them fifteen to twenty minutes.” Marcella hung up without waiting for confirmation. “Sophie, I’m not trying to put you on the spot. But if we’re going to raid that plane and its hangar that you tracked down, I need to know what we might find. And if your boyfriend is involved.”
So Marcella had already scanned the files Sophie had sent over and found the only real lead they had, the private plane Sophie had discovered that the group might be using to travel back and forth to Thailand.
She set down her sandwich, her appetite evaporating. “I hope you will find the missing artifacts there in some kind of storage, but to be honest, I doubt it.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Seems too easy.” Sophie shrugged. “But a search of the plane and its hangar might tell you more about the thieves. If they’re moving the artifacts on that plane, etcetera. We should do it.”
“There’s no ‘we’ here. I’m getting a warrant and gathering a team to search, but you won’t be coming with us.
Sorry.” Marcella grabbed an electronic tablet, sat back down, and resumed eating.
“You and Pierre are ‘consultants’ for us now, okay? You know the drill. We’ll do our thing, and we’ll ask you for information when we need it. ”
“I expected as much.” Sophie had started her career as an investigator with the FBI; she was familiar with their protocols. “You don’t need to remind me that I’m a civilian now.”
“And you didn’t answer the second part of my question. About your boyfriend being involved.” Marcella narrowed her eyes.
“Connor’s not my boyfriend, as I just finished telling you. And he’s not involved.” Sophie kept her voice steady and her gaze trained on Marcella’s.
“But is he still involved with the Yām Kh?mk?n?”
Sophie pushed aside the sandwich, abandoning any attempt to eat it.
If she didn’t answer the question directly, it would erode Marcella’s trust in her, and Marcella would find out who the organization’s leader was, eventually, anyway. “Yes. But he is not involved with the thefts.”
Marcella made a note on her tablet, the stylus clicking against the screen. “Is he your source? The one who told you the Yām Kh?mk?n is involved in these thefts?”
“It’s a splinter group. Not the main one that he’s in charge of. And I cannot confirm or deny anything about my source.”
“Oh, please.” Marcella rolled her eyes.
Sophie’s phone buzzed in her purse. She ignored it. Marcella’s eyebrow arched.
The sound came again, insistent.
“You should get that,” Marcella said, but her tone suggested they weren’t done with this conversation.
Sophie took out her phone, seeing Armita’s number. Her stomach tightened; her nanny never called unless something was wrong.
She stood and turned her back as she answered. “Armita?”
“Sophie, I’m sorry to bother you.” In the background, Sean was crying—not the angry wails of a tantrum but frightened, hiccupping sobs that made her chest ache.
“Sean had a bad nightmare at nap time. He woke up screaming for you, and nothing I do helps. He keeps saying ‘Mama’ and pointing at the window like something terrible is there.”
Sophie’s body had already made the decision before her mind caught up, her muscles responding to primal maternal programming that overrode everything else.
She pivoted to reach for her handbag. “Take him to my bedroom—sometimes the big bed helps. Close all the curtains and dim the lights. Sing him the rainbow song. I’ll be home as soon as I can get there.”
“I’m glad you’re on your way. This is not normal for him.”
“I know. You did right to call.” Sophie slid her phone into her bag.
Marcella wore an expression that mixed understanding with a touch of regret. “Emergency at home? It’s been a bit since I’ve had one of those calls. Jonah is in school now, and the baby’s daycare is Marcus’s sister or his mom. They handle her so well I feel like an appendage.”
“We’re both lucky. Armita’s amazing, but Sean’s having a rough time,” Sophie said. “He’s been unsettled lately.”
“Kids pick up on stress.” Marcella bundled up Sophie’s barely touched food with efficient motions, the paper crackling, and handed the sub to her. “Even when we think we’re hiding it.”
The observation hit too close. Sophie shoved the wrapped sandwich into her bag. “I’ve got to go.”
“Sophie, we’re going to need to finish this conversation.” Marcella cocked her head. “Even if it gets uncomfortable.”
“There’s nothing more to say. All I’ve got is in that file I sent you.” Sophie had created a subfile with the tip about Sunan for the FBI, without Connor’s name attached, of course. “Can you keep me posted on the plane situation?”
“Will do.” Marcella stood and gave her a quick hug. “Thanks for the food. Now go take care of your baby.”
* * *
Sophie had texted Bill that she was incoming; the gate to her house opened automatically, ushering her into her personal oasis after a hectic, hurried drive home.
Sophie was glad that Momi was at her preschool because she could hear Sean before she opened the front door: exhausted sobs seemed to vibrate through the walls of the house. She kicked off her shoes at the door, her bare feet silent as she hurried to follow the sounds of distress.
Armita was in the master bedroom as instructed, walking Sean around the bed that took up most of the room. His face was blotchy and red, snot mixing with tears, his fists clutching Armita’s shirt. But the moment he saw Sophie, his whole body arched up as he reached for her.
“Mama!” The relief in that single word nearly broke her.
“I’ve got you.” Sophie took Sean’s warm, damp weight, and he immediately burrowed his hot face into the crook of her neck, as if trying to crawl inside her skin. His hair smelled of shampoo and sweet baby sweat. “Thank you, Armita. Why don’t you take a break? Get some lunch. Have a rest.”
Armita nodded, exhaustion clear in every line of her petite body. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”
Alone with her son, Sophie sank into the rocking chair she’d nursed him in as an infant.
The familiar creak of wood, the way the afternoon light filtered through the filmy inner curtains Armita had drawn—it all combined to create a cocoon of safety.
Sean’s sobs settled to hiccups, his body relaxing incrementally as she rocked.
“Bad dream, baby?” she murmured into his hair.
He pulled back to look at her, his light brown eyes with their ring of gray—Jake’s eyes, though she tried not to think about that—were serious and still frightened. “Bad man,” he said, pointing to the window.
Sophie’s blood chilled, but she kept her voice calm. “There’s nobody there, sweetheart. It was just a dream. Mama’s here now.”
He studied her face, then settled against her again, thumb finding his mouth. Within minutes, his breathing had evened into sleep.
A man at the window. Just toddler nightmares, surely. The pediatrician had warned her about night terrors, about how vivid they could seem to small children.
But as she rocked her sleeping son, Sophie found herself studying the filmy closed curtains.
The faction knew where she lived. Knew about her children. Probably had a schematic of her house.
Could he have seen someone? Or one of her security detail, doing a perimeter check?
Her phone vibrated with a text. The world was trying to demand her attention, pulling her back to the shadow games Connor had sucked her into.
But Sean’s weight anchored her to this moment, to a priority that outweighed all others.
She closed her eyes, savoring the warm spot where Sean’s hot face rested on her shoulder.
She let his breathing regulate hers.
An afternoon shower blew in; raindrops pattered against the window, washing the world clean. In this chair, in this room, they were safe. For now, she was just a mother holding her child, guarding a baby from nightmares dreamed and real.
But just in case there was something she needed to know, she peeked at her phone. A text from Connor: “My operative is arriving this evening.”
“Spawn of a flatulent toad,” Sophie cursed, but softly—so as not to wake the baby.