Another brown paper bag is waiting for me outside my apartment door. This time the gift inside is big enough to tell exactly what it is. It’s squat and circular, and the note on top—another folded piece of paper—simply says, In case you run out.
A roll of toilet paper. Hardy har har.
I consider knocking on Erik’s door, playfully tossing the toilet paper at his face, but I feel sticky from sweat and smell of gasoline, and besides, I still have my weapons.
Inside my apartment, I set the toilet paper on the kitchen table next to the box of Imodium A-D, as well as the knife and the pistols. They’ll need to be cleaned, which is something I’ll do after my shower. It’ll feel good to clean the weapons—a familiarity I’ve long missed—but they’ll have to wait.
I head to the bathroom, stripping out of my clothes as I go, so that when I flick on the light I’m only wearing my bra and panties. I study my face in the mirror, at the place where the cowboy backhanded me. A slight bruise, but it’s not too noticeable. Nothing a healthy dollop of makeup can’t hide.
I slide the shower curtain back and turn on the water and adjust the faucets until the temperature’s just right, and then I step into the tub and pull the curtain shut and tilt my face down so the warm water beats at the back of my head.
Part of me hopes the shower will not only rid me of the sweat and gasoline but also my exhilaration. Tonight for the first time in a year I felt alive again. Like I had a purpose. For once my existence didn’t consist of the mundane—shelving books, serving drinks—but for a couple hours I had felt like the old me.
And it wasn’t only saving Eleanora—that should have been enough—but what I did to those two men. Making them pay for their crimes. Making sure they would never hurt another helpless girl.
Stop. Just stop it.
I don’t want to be that person again, do I? I made the choice to walk away from everything. To tell Walter Hadden I was done—not just being a bodyguard to his two children, but to all of it. The non-sanctioned work I’d done for the government. The covert missions. The assassinations. The knowledge that with every life I took it was in service to the country and to normal Americans who went about their every day lives completely oblivious to the constant danger surrounding them.
Of course, it wasn’t only Walter and the work I’d walked away from. It was the knowledge that my father—our team leader, who all my life I’d considered a hero—wasn’t really dead. That he’d only faked his death. That he’s out there somewhere, having aligned himself with terrorists, and part of me wants nothing more than to put a bullet through his face while another part … well, another part dreads the idea, because despite what he’s become, he’s still my father.
My mother never knew the truth about her husband, just as Tina, my sister, never knew the truth about her father. All they knew was he worked for the military. Not that he was an assassin for the United States government. That when the government needed full deniability and couldn’t afford to risk sending in a CIA asset, they’d send my father and his team.
Besides myself, the only other person left from the team is Nova Bartkowski, who I haven’t seen or talked to in a year, not since we came back from an impromptu mission in Mexico, and now that I think about Nova, where did he end up, anyway? He mentioned something about finding his father, but he didn’t tell me much else. For all I know something bad may have happened to him. For all I know he may be dead.
I blink, realizing all at once I’ve been lost in my thoughts, still standing in the shower. How many minutes has it been? I feel the tips of my fingers, realize they’ve started to prune, and decide enough screwing around.
A couple minutes later I step out and dry myself off. My hair’s still wet, but at least it’s short now, not long like it was a year ago.
Wrapped in a towel, I walk into the kitchen and grab a bottle of water from the fridge. As I twist off the cap and start to raise the bottle to my lips, there’s a soft knock at the apartment door, followed directly by a whisper.
“Police, open up.”
I eye the two pistols and the knife on the kitchen table next to Erik’s two gag gifts. I cross over to the table and collect all three weapons and place them in a drawer before heading to the door.
A quick glance through the peephole confirms Erik is standing on the other side. But he’s turning away, having concluded I’m asleep or maybe mad at him, and is about to head back into his apartment.
I open the door.
He pauses, and glances at me over his shoulder.
“Oh, hello.”
He says it all innocently like he’s surprised to find me answering my door at three o’clock in the morning.
I say, “Don’t you ever sleep?”
He turns to me, and shrugs.
“I was reading. Thought I heard you come in not too long ago. Wanted to check to see how you’re feeling.”
I glance down at his empty hands.
“What, no beers?”
He offers an embarrassed smile, and shrugs again.
“Figure you probably wouldn’t be in the mood for a drink. Why were you out so late, anyway? I was at Reggie’s earlier; they said you called out sick.”
“Keeping tabs on me, are you?”
Another shrug.
“I’m merely a concerned neighbor, is all.”
“Maybe I was out on a date.”
“Oh. That’s nice.”
“Erik.”
“Yes?”
“I have a confession to make.”
“Okay.”
I beckon him with my finger. He takes a step forward. I glance down the empty hallway, as if I expect a crowd to be watching, and then lower my voice.
“My problem from last night? It’s not a problem anymore.”
“Oh. Well … that’s good, right?”
“Too bad you didn’t bring any beers.”
His eyes light up.
“I’ll be right back.”
Before he can step away, though, I reach out and hook a finger on his belt, pull him toward me into the apartment.
Tilting my face up to kiss him, I murmur, “Let’s skip the beers.”
Erik doesn’t object. He goes right with it, kissing me back, his hands grazing my body through the towel, and I jump up and wrap my legs around him as he holds me tight and walks farther into the apartment, absently reaching back to close the door.