Tara opened her eyes but then quickly squeezed them shut as the ceiling light glared down at her. She turned her head sharply, opening her eyes slightly once again.
The thunder and lightning from the night before were now just a memory, replaced by a flicker of sunlight peeking through a break in her silver curtains. The electricity was clearly back on, reminding Tara that they had forgotten to flick the light switches before bed.
John was still sound asleep, as usual, and Tara quietly peeled back her cover, treaded across the floor, threw some clothes on, and flicked the switch for him, sending the room into near darkness.
She grabbed hold of her phone, checking the time as she quietly crept into the kitchen. It was 6:00 a.m. Normally, she wouldn’t get up for another hour, but she knew if she was going to keep her promise to John, if she was going to visit her father that day, she would need the extra time to plan.
At the thought, she could feel her stomach grow queasy, but she couldn’t dare let herself cave in to emotion. She needed to do this; she knew that now. For so long, she had seen visiting her father as a window to more pain, but now she knew it held the possibility of freedom—the freedom of knowing what happened that night. But most importantly, of not being controlled by her demons anymore.
But even though Tara felt mentally ready, she knew there was another hurdle. Her father was imprisoned in New York, over two hundred miles from Washington, D.C. It would not be easy to get to with less than a day to plan. But she had to try because she didn’t know how long her mental clarity would last before the fear would take hold again.
Tara placed a filter and coffee grinds into the machine as she began to search on her phone for flights from Washington to New York. She knew it could be an easy day trip. After all, she had taken a similar trip when she was in the FBI academy in Quantico, when her grandmother was diagnosed with cancer. It was only a week into Tara’s training when she had received a call from her grandmother. She didn’t tell her at first. Her grandmother was always the type to hold things in—especially if she knew it would cause Tara the slightest discomfort. But she was also not someone to keep things completely hidden either. It was something she often struggled with—when to shield Tara from more pain and when to tell her the cold, hard truth, because in the end she deserved to know.
Tara had sensed that something was wrong that day. She could hear the same passivity in her grandma’s voice, the same hesitation and conflict from the first time Tara’s father wrote to her—when she decided that even though it would be painful, it was ultimately Tara’s decision if she wanted to read the letter.
It took Tara a few times asking before her grandmother cleared her throat—something she always did before saying something that troubled her. It was then that Tara learned of the cancer.
Tara had wanted to fly back home that very day, but her grandmother begged her not to. She was afraid it would disrupt her training––that it would disrupt the one thing that had gone right in Tara’s life. Tara knew very well that flying home would cause her grandmother more stress than she needed. And so she decided to stay, under the condition that her grandmother would call her if things worsened.
Two weeks later, Tara received the worst call she had ever gotten. It was her grandmother’s live-in nurse. Her situation had worsened, and her doctors didn’t think she would make it through the night. Apparently, her cancer was much further along than she had led Tara to believe.
Tara flew home immediately, but her grandmother was already gone. That was the last time she went to New York. It would be strange, she thought, to be back in the city after all these years.
Tara took a sip of coffee as she took a seat on a barstool and continued to look down at her phone. There was a flight leaving at twelve. I can probably make that, she told herself, but she would have to call Reinhardt first and see if she could take the day. She hasn’t had a major case since the trail killer case, and they’d been keeping her on local smaller cases while her arm healed.
She reassured herself with those thoughts as she searched his contact and then placed her phone to her ear. He picked up almost immediately.
“Mills, what’s up?” There was a softness in his voice, tainted with concern.
Over the past few months, Tara’s relationship with Reinhardt and the entire division of the FBI, had grown much more comfortable. They respected her more; she could feel it. They no longer just saw as a rookie.
However, it was still unusual for Tara to call Reinhardt this early. She glanced at the clock on the stove—it read six thirty. This was early, even for Reinhardt, who didn’t get to the office until seven.
“Sorry to call you this early,” Tara started.
“Everything all right? How’d you make out in the storm?”
“Yes, everything’s fine. We’re all okay,” she replied. She had almost forgotten about the storm. “What about you?”
“All good here. A few agents called and said they had some home damage, though, won’t make it in.”
Tara hadn’t anticipated that before this call, and she suddenly began to question if maybe Reinhardt would need her more right now, and maybe it was an inappropriate time to ask to pick up and leave. She felt the phone grow slippery in her sweaty palm.
“I’m guessing that’s not why you called?” Reinhardt finally asked.
Tara was quiet for a moment, trying to determine if she should still ask.
“I just wanted to check in with you early and see if you have anything urgent for me today.” She paused, deciding how she would word what she was about to say. “I have a bit of a family matter I’d like to take care of in New York today. If it’s not a problem, I’d like to take the day.”
Reinhardt was silent for a moment. “You want to fly all the way to New York? You sure everything’s all right?”
“Yes, everything’s fine,” she replied quickly, but she couldn’t think of anything more to say without telling the truth. He’s going to ask me what type of family matter, she thought as her heart rate picked. She quickly tried to think of an excuse.
“Yeah, should be fine,” he finally said hesitantly. Tara sensed his suspicion but that he didn’t want to pry, and she relaxed. “Because of the storm, there’s not a whole lot going on today.”
Relieved, Tara thanked him and was soon off the phone. She was about to book the flight when she heard footsteps and felt the presence of someone in the doorframe where the hallway met the living room.
Tara raised her head to see Claire entering the kitchen, already dressed for the day with a duffle bag around her shoulder. She struggled to carry it into the living room before dropping it down on the floor and looked up at Tara, out of breath. She always had a habit of overpacking.
Tara was surprised to see her up this early, and she felt a sudden anxiety bubble up at the thought of Claire overhearing her conversation with Reinhardt.
Tara stood up from her bar stool. “You’re up early. Do you need help with that?”
Claire pushed her bag neatly into the corner of the room. “No, dear, but thank you,” she said as she stood up. “I wanted to get over to the condo early and check on it,” she added as she walked into the kitchen. “Any coffee?”
Tara poured Claire a cup before settling back down in her seat, and the room fell into silence. She looked back down at her phone. She was almost finished booking her flight, and she quickly finished the transaction before looking back up at Claire.
Tara hadn’t even realized that Claire was staring at her skeptically until she looked up.
“Doing something for work?” Claire asked as her eyes moved to Tara’s debit card sitting on the counter.
Tara placed her phone down as she felt her face begin to flush. She didn’t like to lie, especially to John and his family, but she knew she certainly couldn’t tell the truth. Claire did not know about Tara’s father. As far as Claire knew, Tara’s parents were murdered during a break-in gone wrong—it was the story John and Tara had stuck to when his parents spontaneously asked about her family a couple of years ago. Even though John insisted that Tara could tell them the truth—that his parents wouldn’t look at her differently—she refused to tell them. She knew no matter who she told, a change in perception was inevitable, and she certainly didn’t want that to occur with John’s parents.
“Yes,” Tara started before hesitating. “Well, I was, but then I was just buying something I needed.”
Tara knew Claire wouldn’t ask what it was. She was respectful in that way. But Tara also knew that if she were concerned about something, she would push.
Claire reached for the handle on the fridge before grabbing some milk. As she poured it into her mug, she turned halfway to Tara.
“Is that who you were on the phone with before—work?” Claire asked. Her eyes moved from Tara to her mug, which she was now stirring anxiously, awaiting Tara’s reply.
Tara’s heart sank. She had overheard. But how much? She knew she couldn’t now lie. Depending on how much Claire had overheard, she would catch her in it.
“Yes, it was my boss,” Tara replied.
Claire nodded. She opened her mouth briefly as if about to speak before hesitating and twisting her mouth, as if deciding what she was about to say. She placed the milk back into the fridge.
“I don’t mean to pry, but I couldn’t help but overhear. It sounds like you’re going to New York?”
Tara’s stomach twisted into a knot. It was one thing about Claire that always irked her—she didn’t have many boundaries. In Claire’s eyes she was treating Tara like a daughter, but at times it was overboard, and it certainly wasn’t something Tara was used to. She was independent. She kept things to herself unless she wanted to speak of them, and she wanted to keep it that way with Claire. But Claire would never allow it, and it was clear that she had overheard the majority, if not all, of her conversation. And if that were the case, she would know that Tara did ask to leave work early—that she wanted to fly to New York later that day for a personal reason.
Tara searched in all corners of her mind for a response. She needed one that was believable but still kept her father’s imprisonment a secret. My grandmother, Tara thought. I’ll make up something about her estate.
“Yes,” Tara finally said. “My great-aunt has some things of my grandmother’s that she wants me to go through.”
Claire nodded. “That’s a long way to go on a weekday.”
“I kind of just want to get it over with,” Tara shot back.
Tara was growing irritated by the incessant questioning, and she couldn’t help but question why Claire was pushing so. It had to have been clear that Tara was uncomfortable with the conversation.
Claire moved closer to the island counter until she stood directly across from her. Tara could sense her movement, but her eyes remained focused on her coffee mug, trying to deter any further conversation. But all of a sudden, Tara felt Claire’s hand clasp hers and then give it a gentle squeeze.
Tara looked up.
“You know you can tell me anything, right?” Claire asked. “I see you as family, Tara—as a daughter. I want you to know that you can always confide in me.”
Tara nodded, but she didn’t know what to say. It was clear that Claire knew she wasn’t being truthful. Tara knew Claire meant what she said, and it gave her a sudden surge of belonging––one that she had always searched for. Tara knew very well that she put walls around herself, and it was likely that Claire sensed that too. But as much as Tara wanted to grow closer to John’s family, she was in no way ready to tear this one wall down.
“Thank you,” Tara replied. “Yes, I do know that.”
There was brief silence, and Tara’s hand squeezed Claire’s on instinct, without even meaning to do so, and then she quickly pulled away. But Claire only smiled. It was as if Tara had said something without even speaking a word—that she was grateful, but she wasn’t ready yet to tell her what she held deep inside.
Footsteps interrupted the moment as their eyes darted to the hallway entrance that led to Tara’s bedroom. John stood in the doorframe. He looked at them sleepily.
“Good morning,” he said as he trudged into the kitchen.
But Tara was already looking at the clock. She needed to get ready, and she quickly excused herself before leaving the room.
***
Tara sat in the passenger seat of John’s car as they made their way to the airport. She had already told him of the awkward conversation with his mother, but he wasn’t surprised. He had already sensed it from Tara’s awkward exit from the kitchen, and how she seemingly stayed in their bedroom until they left—only leaving the room for a quick goodbye.
“I think she knows,” Tara finally said as she sighed and looked back down at her phone, double-checking that there were no delays with her flight. There weren’t. “It was like she was trying to pull it out of me.”
John’s eyes moved briefly to Tara before shifting back in front of him.
“She just loves you, Tara, and she just wants to make sure you’re okay.” He grasped her hand and slid his fingers between hers. It was something he had said numerous times already. “You have nothing to be ashamed of,” he added as he gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Your past doesn’t define you. You never did anything wrong. Your dad did, and that doesn’t say anything about you.”
Tara sighed. “But it does, John. You know that.”
John remained silent. She had explained her reasoning to him before. And although John had always respected Tara’s feelings on the subject, he could never quite grasp what it felt like to be in Tara’s shoes. She knew it wasn’t his fault. No matter how hard he tried to empathize with her, no matter how hard he tried to understand, he was always limited because he never actually had the experience. Part of her envied that about him. He had a loving family—a normal family—and because of that Tara was certain that he didn’t fully understand the depths of shame.
To John, Tara was merely the victim of a tragedy. She was an innocent bystander. And because she didn’t play a part in the events that unfolded, in his eyes she had no reason to feel ashamed. But Tara knew different. Her past did define her, because no matter who she told, she would always look damaged.
She placed her phone back down and looked over at him. She could see him growing flustered, the way he knitted his eyebrows, evaluating his next choice of words carefully.
His display of distress suddenly made Tara feel sorry for him. He was trying so hard to say the right thing and to make Tara feel better, but there was no right thing to say.
John finally sighed. “I just don’t think you should worry about that right now. And I promise you, there’s nothing to worry about with my mom anyway.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.
“You’re right,” Tara sighed.
She wasn’t going to keep pushing the subject, and she could see John relax slightly at her words. He knew that he didn’t have to keep reassuring her now. But he was also right. Tara had something much bigger to face, and it suddenly occurred to her that maybe she was using the situation with John’s mom as a distraction.
Tara’s phone beeped, interrupting her thought. It was her work phone, and as she picked it up, she could see Warren, her partner’s name, light up the screen. She had a text from him.
How is everything?
Tara assumed he was asking in regard to the storm. It occurred to her that she hadn’t even checked in with him to see how he was. Reinhardt mentioned that some agents had damage to their homes, and it didn’t even cross her mind at the time that Warren could be one of them. She felt guilty.
Everything’s fine. We didn’t have any damage. How about you?
No damage.
Tara was about to write that she was glad to hear it, but then Warren started typing again, and a message came through.
Reinhardt said you’re going to NY?
Tara’s heart sank. She wasn’t prepared for Warren to know. Ever since the trail killer case––since she proved herself to him and revealed the details of her past––Tara’s relationship with Warren had become much more level. Instead of seeing her as an inferior rookie, he now saw her as an agent with potential. He seemed to feel like he had a new role, to mentor her, which often required him to check in with her if he was concerned. And Tara knew that was exactly what he was doing. Warren knew that Tara was from New York, and that given her past, there were very few reasons why she would be heading back there. It quickly occurred to her why Warren had texted her at all. It wasn’t to check on her about the storm. It was because he heard of her plans.
“Is that work?” John suddenly asked as his eyes moved from the road to her.
Tara looked up. They were close; she could see the exit sign to her terminal, where John would be dropping her off.
“Yes,” she replied. “It’s just Warren.”
She looked back down at her phone.
Yes, I’m just going for the day, she finally wrote.
Warren was quick to reply. Everything OK?
Tara’s fingers hung heavy over her phone as John veered off the exit and then slowed down as he neared the drop-off.
Yes, everything’s fine.
She sent off the message and then slipped her phone into her purse as the car came to a stop. She turned to John, whose dark brown eyes were heavy with concern. It made her realize just how quiet he had been throughout this drive, and that he was probably torturing himself with worry.
“I can still come with you,” he said.
Tara shook her head. “This is something I need to do by myself.”
John opened his mouth, about to protest, but then he closed it as his reason caught up to his emotions. He wanted to respect her decision.
“Well, if you change your mind when you’re there, just call. I’ll hop on the next flight.”
Tara smiled. It felt good to have someone so supportive and devoted to her, and that she felt the same about. It was something she had always craved as a child. And now it felt almost ironic—how she would’ve done anything to find this type of love and leave her life behind, and yet here she was, leaving John behind as she faced what she always wanted to escape.
“Thank you,” she replied. She would never ask him to do that, but it was still nice to hear that he would.
He leaned over, placing his hand gently on the back of her neck as he pulled her in for a kiss.
Their lips parted ways, but he still held her there, their foreheads touching, his hand still caressing the back of her neck.
“You’ll be okay,” he added. “You’re the strongest person I know, Tara. You can do this.”
His hand slid off her as they settled back into their seats, and she nodded. She could feel a newfound strength swim through her at his words, but then her father’s face surfaced in her mind and butterflies burst into her belly.
She took a deep breath as she pushed the image out of her mind and said her goodbyes to John. She then gathered her things and stepped out of the car.