Nods of assent line the table. But Mags doesn’t hide her disappointment.
“Self-imposed exile, then?” Wilton says, more statement than question.
“Change of perimeter assignment. New focus.”
“And Reyes’s granddaughter?” Mags asks.
I fight the ache behind my sternum. “The raid was a blow. Can’t imagine she’ll stay much past this.”
Or much past what happened at the rocks today. My total loss of self-control.
“In other words, control maintained. Containment restored,” Clay states.
I take a deep breath. “There were sketches and notes. Photos among her personal papers that could be cause for concern.”
Mags’s eyebrows lift.
“A photo of you from nineteen ten. One of me from nineteen sixty-six.”
“Anything else?” Clay asks.
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Nothing that isn’t already present in public records,” Mags chimes in. “Can’t be old enough to shoot and rope for Buffalo Bill’s Wild West andnotleave a mark or two.” She winks.
Clay doesn’t move. But Wilton nods.
“And as for the granddaughter? She never suspected anything?”
“I can’t say that. But she won’t tell anyone.”
“How can you be sure?” Wilton asks, leaning forward.
“Because she’s a college-trained archaeologist preparing for her doctoral program. She won’t risk that for conspiracy.”
“Very good,” Clay says, dismissing me back to my chair.
Heat still pours off me, steaming against my rain-drenched clothes. Body aching for what I tasted.
Instead of satisfying me, it only made the need more acute. I press my fingers into my temples, rubbing them slowly.
Mags notices.
Afterward, she pulls me aside. “There’s much you left unsaid.”
I nod once. “Better that way.”
“You sure about that?”
The kiss flickers again. The peace that came with it. Breaths synced, hearts in time. Can’t go there anymore.
“Certain. She’s too human. Too analytical to understand. It would be a psychological rupture. A containment failure.”
She stares at the ground for a long moment. “How long will you stay away?”
“As long as it takes.”
Worry creases her forehead, mouth working without speaking. Her hand comes up, flattening the lapel of my damp Carhartt. “Oh, my dear boy. I’m sorry.”
