Jenna approached Lynda, the barista behind counter of the coffee shop. Lynda was a twenty-something with a degree from Carnegie Mellon and no ambitions beyond mastering new flirting techniques to coax better tips from her clientele. One nice thing about people with no ambitions, Jenna had learned, was that they seldom roused themselves to be curious enough to ask questions.
She slid a five into the tip jar before ordering coffee for herself and Morgan. “Also, I’ll need a computer.”
Lynda twitched her lips as she stared at Jenna’s appearance, almost but not quite mustering enough energy to ask something, but then turned to get their coffees and a computer access code. As she worked, Jenna kept an eye out for Morgan. She wouldn’t put it past Morgan to run out the back and ditch her. Morgan had a definite aversion to any contact with law enforcement.
Right now, though, Jenna couldn’t blame her. There was a good chance that she’d know whoever arrived from her own days as a federal agent. She imagined their sneers and jokes now that she was the victim, stupid enough to pick up a suspicious package.
She remembered the federal agents and police officers swarming her grandfather’s home after the Judge had received his bomb. They’d been no help at all, and had left her grandmother and father both in tears and her mother shouting and calling her lawyer. They most definitely had not made Jenna—or anyone in the family—feel safer. If anything, the overheard conversations and debates had left her even more terrified, unable to sleep for fear of a masked madman creeping into her room planting a bomb under her bed.
Nothing had helped back then. The blast had left her grandfather in a persistent vegetative state—it had taken him nearly a year to die. It wasn’t until she watched him being put into the ground that for the first time since the explosion Jenna felt she could breathe.
And now it was happening all over again.
“Green ink,” she muttered, waiting for Lynda to make change. No one knew about the green ink. The police and FBI hadn’t released that to the press. Which meant…the same bomber striking the same family almost twenty years later? How was that even possible?
Her parents. She had to warn them. Andre—did the bomber know about him? Was he in danger as well?
She grabbed the tray and forgot about her change. Then she froze for a moment, the weight of the tray against her palm eerily similar to the feel of the bomb. She shook herself and headed to the table in the far corner, where she could sit with her back to the wall and keep an eye on everyone. Was he watching her now?
Jenna tried Andre. No answer—she wasn’t surprised; Emma had a strict no-cell-phone policy for her visitors. He knew she’d text if it was a real emergency…and she almost did. Except she had no idea what to say. Look out for green ink? He’d think she’d gone around the bend.
So instead she took a sip of coffee, hoping it would calm her nerves, and gathered her strength to call her parents. Dad would be easy—but also fruitless. He’d fret, then ramble about his own life and problems until he’d erased the threat from his mind, and finally make an excuse to hang up. Any threat to his safety was her problem, not his. It was Peter Trindle’s way, perpetually passing the buck.
No. She had to call Mom. Mom never rambled or fretted, she just got stuff done, without regard to her emotions…or anyone else’s. Judge Robot, Jenna had once heard one of the defense attorneys call her.
With the time change between Pittsburgh and LA, she might catch her before court started—her mother would never take a personal call after. Jenna’s finger missed the first time she aimed for her mom’s number in her contact list—she didn’t need it often enough to have it on speed dial—and had to hang up after calling Giovanni’s Pizza instead. On the second try she got it.
“Judge Galloway.” Mom had never taken her husband’s name, and had insisted Jenna be given the more lofty Galloway name as well. “Jenna, why are you calling? I’m preparing for court. Couldn’t this wait until the weekend?”
Jenna noticed her mother hadn’t offered a time slot for tonight or any other night between now and Saturday. Obviously Helen Galloway had much more important people to spend time with than her daughter.
“Something happened.” A quiver escaped her emotional barricade, slithering into her voice, and Jenna caught her breath.
“You’re upset. Why on earth would you call me if you’re upset? It was that man, the one with all the scars, wasn’t it? Well, dear, you learned your lesson. Sorry, but that’s all the time I have for relationship counseling. I’ve got to—”
“Mom!” Jenna shocked herself. No one interrupted her mother. No one. And definitely not in that tone. If Judge Galloway had been near her bench, she would have hammered her gavel. “Mom. Listen to me. He’s back. The bomber. The one who killed the Judge.” No matter how high Helen Galloway rose in the judiciary ranks, even if she one day made it to the Supreme Court, there would only ever be one “Judge” in the Galloway family. “He just tried to kill me.”
“Nonsense,” Helen said, running over Jenna’s words she answered so fast. “That’s impossible.” She took a breath. “It’s been almost twenty years. You’re mistaken.” Of course. That final conclusion was the most likely one—a fact of Jenna’s entire life. Her mother was always right, and the rest of the world was always wrong.
The sad thing was, Helen Galloway was almost always right. Long ago Jenna had given up even trying to find the rare times when she wasn’t. It just wasn’t worth the battle.
But not now. Not with her family at risk. “You need to call Dad and warn him. He’ll take it seriously if it comes from you.”
“I’ll do no such thing. I’m telling you, you’re wrong. Now, really, Jenna, I’ve got to go.”
“No, wait. Mom. Please. The bomb had the green ink. The exact same handwriting. I had it in my hand, I saw it. It is the same guy. You need to get Dad, and go somewhere safe.”
Helen’s sigh reverberated through the airwaves like a tsunami gathering power, ready to swamp Jenna. “Why on earth would the bomber target someone like you, Jenna? You’re no longer a Postal Service Inspector. You have no official ties to anything remotely resembling genuine law enforcement. I think you’re mistaken.”
Jenna could feel the pressure; she knew Helen’s thumb was resting on the disconnect button, ready to hang up. She held her breath, knowing nothing she said would change her mother’s mind. Helen Galloway knew her world—nothing could surprise her, her world was that solid and unmalleable. In her world, the bomber no longer was relevant; therefore, he no longer existed.
Almost like her only child.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” Helen surprised Jenna by saying. “Please tell the police not to call me direct but to arrange an interview via my clerk if they must talk with me. But there’s no use pursuing this further. It’s not the same man.”
And she hung up.
Jenna stared at the phone in her hand, the screen black, her own reflection staring back. Then Morgan appeared at her side, startling Jenna—damn, the girl moved like a cat.
“That was your mom. Is she all right?” Morgan asked, her feeble idea of small talk.
“She’s always all right.” Now Jenna allowed the full force of her emotions to flood her voice. Morgan wouldn’t mind. It was the one good thing about having her around—Jenna didn’t have to censor herself, not with Morgan.
Morgan sat down and took her coffee. She fiddled with the stirrer, something she usually never did. Then she looked up at Jenna, her expression softer than Jenna remembered it. There were new scars as well—the surgeons had done a good job of hiding them, but Jenna knew where to look, having seen Morgan after she’d almost died that cold winter night five months ago. She could still remember the fear that had burnt like acid through her veins—she’d almost lost Andre that night as well.
“I know about your grandfather.”
“Of course. He was a famous judge. His rulings—”
“No. Jenna. I know all about the Judge. About what he did to you. And,” Morgan hesitated, then laid her hand on top of Jenna’s, “I know you loved him. Despite that. It must have been horrible. Being there. When it happened.”
For a moment Jenna felt as if the earth had tipped off its axis. Then she shook herself, blaming the bomb and the residual ringing in her one ear. She yanked her hand away. “You don’t know anything.”
“It’s okay. Kids, even some adults, I guess, they love who they love, despite the pain. He was your grandfather. Of course you loved him—he was the only person in your life who ever made you feel special or important. Watching him die, even though he abused your love, your trust—that only makes it worse.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Jenna snapped. “How could someone like you, a monster like you, ever know anything about love?”
Morgan blinked and leaned back. “I loved my father. Despite the fact that he was a monster.”
“And how’d it feel to kill him?” Jenna knew it was a low blow, but she couldn’t help herself. All the memories of the Judge, his death…they surged around her, threatening to pull her under. Somehow, fighting with Morgan, hurting Morgan, was a lifeline back to reality. “Face it, Morgan. We’re nothing alike. I might have had some shit go wrong when I was a little girl, but at least I’m still human. I still know what real love is. Not like you and that poor boy you’re fooling, pretending to love him, to be a normal girl.”
“Leave Micah out of this.” Morgan’s tone was sharp as a dagger.
“You’re going to hurt him. Break his heart,” Jenna continued, her words like a juggernaut, gathering speed and lethality, aiming for the only soft spot Morgan had: her heart. “He’ll end up bleeding on the ground, shattered and broken. Because of you. And you’ll do what you always do. You’ll walk away… Hell, you might even enjoy it. Just like your father.”
Jenna saw the slap coming but didn’t block it or back away. She deserved it. Wanted it. Needed to see that even someone like Morgan could feel something, anything, almost like a human girl. Somehow, hurting Morgan eased Jenna’s own pain, giving her fear and anger and frustration and every other emotion slicing through her a target other than her own soft heart.
Morgan stood. “I’m going to make sure Andre’s okay.” Despite everything, her voice was calm and measured, only a hair shy of normal. “You deal with the cops. Spin this however you want. I’m not hanging around.”
For good? The panicked thought flitted through Jenna’s mind. Had she finally pushed Morgan too far?
But as Jenna watched Morgan stalk away, her tunic top swinging above her jeans, pausing to slide on her sunglasses—trust Morgan to have sunglasses that could withstand a bomb—and smile at a cute guy moving past her, Jenna wondered. Maybe during her time in the hospital and away from Jenna and Andre and the work they did, maybe Morgan had changed. Maybe she was more human. Vulnerable, even.
No. Impossible. Morgan was like a punching bag, strong enough to always take another blow.
A siren sounded—finally!—and Jenna stood, not bothering to brush the dust from her clothing. Sometimes it paid to appear the victim. Act the part. It was a role she’d mastered over the course of a lifetime.