“The short list?”
Both agents look at me, confused by my confusion.
“It’s exactly what it sounds like,” Shaw explains. “A list of names compiled by the Director that includes the best agents to lead a specific detail.”
“The more prestigious the detail, the shorter the list,” Morgan adds.
I rub my chin, interest more than a little piqued. “Who has access to the list?”
Shaw yawns, either bored with the conversation or done with this day. “The Director and the protectee, so in this case, Aubrey.”
“And no one else ever sees it?”
“Nope,” Morgan says.
Shaw’s brows fold in on each other. “Well, that’s not true.”
Now the other agent’s brows are furrowed as well. “It’s not?”
“No, when I was selected as the head of this detail, the Director gave me the list. He suggested I use my competition to build my team. I got access to entire personnel files, psych exams, credit reports, the whole nine.”
Morgan looks a bit dismayed by her superior’s confession, but I’m too distracted by the spark lighting up the edges of a path in my mind that starts at Shaw’s revelation and ends at the only place we can find answers to the questions we have about the men who are now in charge of Aubrey’s safety.
17
CAL
Beck shuffles and reshuffles the deck of UNO cards while I carefully stack the small wooden blocks from the Jenga set inside the box. It feels kind of pointless to be cleaning everything up when Riley is just going to want to tear it all out again as soon as she wakes up in the morning, but we both know that Rae or Hunter will do it if we don’t, and we’re not having that.
Since they’ve arrived, Beck and I have done everything we can to keep Riley occupied so her parents can have some actual downtime. They’ve managed to sneak out of the house every day this week to try restaurants their picky eating daughter won’t enjoy and see movies she isn’t old enough to watch while we’ve kept her distracted with museum visits, ice cream cones and pool days. Tonight, though, we all decided to stay in and let Riley beat us at literally everything.
“I’m tired,” Beck says, resting his forehead on the dining table next to a half-empty pizza box. The UNO cards have been returned to their box, and he’s clutching it in his left hand like a lifeline.
Laughing, I reach over and rub his back. “Buck up, Beckham, we’re almost done cleaning up.”
He groans softly but rallies, scooping up the pizza boxes as he rises from the table. “What’s on the agenda for tomorrow?” he asks, transferring all the uneaten slices to a large zip lock bag and tossing them in the fridge.
At least once a day for the last week, we’ve found ourselves asking each other this question. Neither of us knows what to do with all the free time we now have, so I guess this is our way of coping, of prompting one another to find something to look forward to. It’s been easy with Hunter and his family here, but they’re leaving the day after tomorrow, which means eventually we’re going to have to face the uncertainty of our future without Riley’s constant requests for activities to distract us.
I slide the top of last block into the box and close it, turning to face Beck. “All I’ve got is running with Hunter in the morning and taking Riley to the Air and Space Museum in the afternoon.”
Nodding, he folds the pizza boxes in half and presses them into the trash can. “She’s still mad the White House visit isn’t happening. I hate disappointing her.”
A grimace twists my features into something dark and ugly. These days, I can’t think about that fucking place without it happening. When I think about Selene still being there, surrounded by people like Aubrey and the men who treated us like animals, it gets worse. I force myself to relax, pushing the thoughts away. “Yeah, me too.”
“It’s for the best, though,” Beck concludes. “Because if they ever let me back in that motherfucker, I’ll be coming out in cuffs.”
“A body bag,” I correct him, knowing there’s no way he’d make it out alive.
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
Several pieces of balled up paper towel fall out of the trash bag when Beck lifts it out of the bin. He throws his head back and lets out a long groan that’s wrapped in exhaustion. I cross the room, picking the paper towels on my way over to him, and take the bag from his hand.
“Go to bed, love. I’ve got this.”
Red-rimmed onyx eyes meet mine. “I don’t want to leave you down here alone.”
One of my favorite versions of Beck is the tired one because it always comes with a side of clinginess. An indulgent smile tugs at the corners of my mouth, and I press a kiss to his cheek.
