“Then I need your help even more. Please.” Her voice drops, almost a plea. “If I can’t prove this, I’m a criminal. Ineed to clear my name. I need my life back. I can’t do this alone.”
She can’t, can she? And gazing up at her, looking down on me, I realize I could never leave her. She wouldn’t be safe.
She believes there’s too much good in the world, when I know otherwise.
“What’s your plan?” I ask instead of answering.
“I need to find evidence. That proves the money is moving drugs and weapons into this country. That proves what I found is real and that I was framed and I’m innocent.”
"What you have is pretty thin," I say, keeping my voice neutral. "Shadows on the wall. Money trails that don't make sense. A name of a place that doesn't exist."
"But think about the fact that it wasn't classified, and then suddenly it was. They sent agents to kill you. To set me up to send me to prison."
“I’m not saying I don’t believe you. I’m saying it’s not enough.”
“I know.” She doesn’t say it with any form of defeat. It’s a tone that says “yet.” It’s not enough, yet.
“So where are we going to find this evidence?”
“At El Centinela.”
“But we gotta find El Centinela first.”
She nods. I study her face: the determination in her eyes, the set of her jaw. I don't believe in my country anymore and haven't for a long time. But looking at Naomi, I realize I don’t just believe her. I believeinher.
I pull out a phone I had packed with my bug out gear a long time ago. Given to me by maybe my only friend left on the planet. I never thought I’d ever use it.
“As a CIA agent, I can say with some confidence you shouldn’t use a phone. They’re too easy to track,” Naomi says, watching my hands work.
“This ain’t a normal phone.”
Her eyes narrow. “What do you mean?”
“An old colleague gave this to me. It’s a break-glass-in-case-of-emergency kind of deal. And I’d say that glass has already been smashed to pieces.”
I push a button on it. And I signal that I—we—need help.
I hold up the box of hair dye from the small pharmacy bag I'd packed with the clothes. "I got you something else, too. Hair dye. It’s a cheap trick, but people do it because it works.”
Naomi nods. “What color?”
“Medium brown.”
Naomi takes the box, examining it with a slight nod. "Perfect. Brown works."
I watch her turn the box over in her hands, feeling a strange pang at the thought of that golden hair disappearing. It suits her: bright and vibrant, the fallen ringlets that kissed her cheeks caught the waning light even in the dim forest. But it's also too memorable for someone whose mug shot is going to be everywhere.
"I had an adventure with red hair once in high school.” A wry, wistful grin blooms on her face. "It ended too close to a traffic cone for my liking."
"Well, you'd be pretty no matter what color your hair," I say before I can stop myself. The words just tumble out, honest and unfiltered, in a way that makes me suddenly feel exposed.
Her eyes dart up to mine, surprise flashing across her face. "Thank you," she says softly, then quickly retreats to the bathroom, but not before I catch the bloom of pink spreading across her cheeks.
I stand there for a moment, feeling like an idiot. Christ. I haven't felt this awkward around a woman since high school. Maybe before.
I need air. And I need to get rid of evidence.
I gather her prison uniform, the socks and underwearshe'd been wearing, and even the hair ties and small plastic clips from the packaging of her new clothes—anything that might connect her to the woman running from the law.
