“Navarro here, ma’am.”
“Navarro.” In typical McGovern fashion, she gave nothing. Not an extra word.
“Just checking in.”
“Good. From where?”
“I’d…” He paused, unsure how to go about saying it. How did you tell your boss you didn’t trust anyone, not even her? “I’d prefer not to say.”
“Wh—Hold on.” He heard a muffled sound, then voices, followed by what was probably the door closing. Probably at home with family on this sunny Fourth of July, like everyone else in the whole goddamn nation. “Where are you, Navarro?”
“With all due respect, ma’am, I’d rather not—”
“Cut the crap. I told you to take time off, lay low for a while, not to drop off the face of the earth. What am I supposed to say to DOJ when they need you to—”
“I’ll check in every week or two. This case matters to me, you know that. But my life matters even more.”
“That’s not gonna—” She paused, cleared her throat, and appeared to change tacks. “You checking in with the shrink?”
“I’ll be fine, Boss.”
“Don’t mess around with PTSD, Navarro. Dr. Levitz said you need meds, therapy, and—”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re a—” She gave a harrumph, then a resigned sigh. “I understand it’s been rough, Navarro. Recovery and trying to get back into the swing of things. But you’re not undercover anymore. You’ve got to stop acting like one of those bikers and be an agent again. Just tell me where you are, and I’ll—”
“Sorry, Boss,” Clay said before ending the call and pulling the battery out of his phone.
There, ties cut. Clean slate.
Sort of.
* * *
George took in a big, fat breath, pasted a smile on her face, and dropped the knocker on the door. The sound was full and warm, like the woman who welcomed her with a smile.
“You came!” Uma Crane said, throwing her arms around George in a way George both loved and didn’t quite feel comfortable with.
“I came!” she couldn’t help but blurt out with a laugh. Uma was… She pulled back, admiring the woman’s smile, her face round and glowing and so clearly happy. Her arms, nearly clear of ink, were pale for midsummer. “Thanks for inviting me.”
“I was sure you wouldn’t come.”
“It’s not like you gave me a choice this time, Uma,” George said, smiling.
“No. Three times, you’ve refused me. No way you were getting away with this one.”
“Yeah. I kind of got that.”
From the back of the house, a child’s voice whooped and someone laughed. Down the hall, a large figure emerged, massive and intimidating, and George’s breath caught in her throat—until she recognized the man. Ive. Ive Shifflett, Uma’s boyfriend.
Not Andrew Blane, her new project. George wasn’t sure if the big breath she expelled was relief or disappointment, although it felt more like the latter.
“You remember Ive, right?”
“Yes, of course. Hi there. Good to see you again,” she said, letting her hand be engulfed in the big man’s.
“Doc.”
