“We’re both fine. Sure, last night brought back memories, but we’re adults and can soldier on with the best of them.”
Emma nodded her head and walked out of the room. Blayne let out a huff as he finished putting stuff in his bag. There was a soft knock at his door. He looked up to see Dr. Esperanza Secada, the FBI-approved psychologist, standing at the entrance to his classroom.
“Got a minute?” Dr. Secada asked.
“For you”—he glanced down at his smartwatch—“I have ten. But I need to get home soon.”
“Ethan’s waiting for you there?”
“Yes, he stayed at my apartment today.”
“I saw the news,” she said, letting the intent hang in the air.
“I’m fine,” Blayne said. She cocked her head, narrowing her eyes. “Really, I’m fine. Everyone keeps asking me how I’m doing. I’m okay. I must get back to my place. Ethan is taking this harder than I am.”
“How so?”
“It was his concert that was interrupted by that mess. It’s been a rough month for ZERO between canceling dates last month and this.”
“Well, if you need anything, you know where to find me.”
Blayne could tell that Dr. Secada didn’t believe a word he’d said about being fine, but she would not push him if he didn’t want to talk—and he really didn’t want to talk. He was half afraid that everything would come rolling out of his mouth if he started. He slung his bag over his shoulder.
“I’ll see you at your regular time?” Dr. Secada asked as they exited the classroom.
“Of course,” Blayne said and tried to offer a genuine smile, but he was sure it came off as more cocky than genuine. As he left the Akokisas Lecture Center, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He wasn’t sure how long he could keep up the pretense of everything being okay.
He walked north, passing Gonzales Hall on his right and the Hale School of Education, recently renamed to honor the first Black teacher in Texas to win Teacher of the Year. The fall air was crisp but not too cold. The temperature was in the mid-seventies, so he didn’t need a coat yet. He waved at a few people he knew from a distance but was thankful none of them tried to talk to him. He just wanted to get home.
He was almost at the northern edge of the main campus when someone came up beside him and threw her arm around him. Something metal poked into his back.
“Where is she?”
Chapter Nine
Agent Murphy
Murphy had decided she hated reports. She detested reading them, abhorred writing them and loathed making others read them. She sat at her keyboard, flying her fingers over the keys, the buttons making theclick-clacksound as she depressed them while writing her mid-afternoon update for Director Steele. This update would be handed off to President Jeffery Barnes. How did she know the report would be passed on to the President by the Director? She’d found out the hard way when the White House Chief of Staff, Sepi Amin, had called to ream her out for ‘opining’ in the morning report. Apparently, the President didn’t like to read…ever. So, his reports had to be easily digestible and short.
“I’m sorry,” Murphy had told the Chief of Staff. “I didn’t realize my report would make it to the President’s desk.”
“Assume everything makes it to the President’s desk, Agent,” the White House Chief of Staff had drawled out the word “agent” like it was a curse word, as though Murphy were gum on the bottom of her thousand-dollar high heels that she couldn’t scrape off.
“I understand, sir,” Murphy had responded. “Is there a preferred character limit?”
“Don’t get glib with me,” was the response before Murphy had been hung up on.
By mid-afternoon, Murphy had talked to the Special Agents in Charge of both Oklahoma City and Dallas. Both had welcomed her into the club of being yelled at and summarily dismissed by the White House.
“I heard you had your first run-in with Sepi today,” the Special Agent in Charge of Dallas had said. “That woman is a bunch of contradictions rolled up in one tightly wound package. She reminds me of a snapping turtle. They may look all cute and innocent, but don’t get too close. They’re fast and will snap your finger off.”
Murphy wasn’t sure if the statement was supposed to be misogynistic or just a bad metaphor. She had opted to let it fly by her. Working for the FBI, she’d learned that many ‘good old boy’ tendencies still existed in the Bureau. Most men didn’t mean to demean women in power, but it happened regularly. Murphy had been someone who called every guy out for every microaggression early in her career. Still, she realized she hadn’t wanted a career in Human Resources, so she’d learned to pick her battles. Sadly, to become part of the club, she’d had to make a few concessions along the way and hold her tongue.
The Special Agent in Charge of Dallas jabbered about nothing, so Murphy finally stopped him before he put his foot firmly in his mouth. “What can you tell me about writing for the President?”
“K.I.S.S. Him. Keep. It. Stupidly. Simple. Aim for writing for a high school student with a moderate understanding of the government’s workings, then dumb it down until a fifth grader could understand it.”
“You’re kidding.”
