“And I’m the one who put a bullet in his brain.”
Austin opens and shuts his mouth, then shakes his head. “Fine.”
We sip our beers in silence until I can muster the courage to ask the one question I can’t get out of my head. “How’d Dani take it?”
Austin huffs out a breath, then winces and wraps his arm around his ribs. “She didn’t cry. She never cries. After I told her…she hugged me, then shut me out. Like always. Said she was fine.”
“Dani’s...always fine.” The spirited girl I met in high school never let anyone in. Except me. Once. For one beautiful, perfect week. The first year Gil failed to contact her on her birthday. I found her crying behind the Pritchards’ barn, and she let me comfort her. A few days later, we shared a kiss I’ve never forgotten.
But then I broke her heart. All because of Gil. And Dani never opened up to me again.
“Don’t ask me how,” Austin says. “Or what she hides behind that smile of hers.”
Anything that can hurt her.
She’s a product of the system. Just like me. The first thing you learn? How to survive without letting anyone else see your pain.
“Austin, if you need to talk…” I say. The beer sours my stomach, and I slide it to the center of the table.
“Nothing really to say. You saved my life. The rest…I just want to put it all behind us.” He doesn’t look at me, and I don’t push. If he wants to keep his emotions locked away, that’s his business.
I drop a twenty between us. “I’m leaving Langley tomorrow. Heading up to Boston. I know a guy up there who runs a security and investigation firm. Second Sight. He’s been trying to get me to interview with him for a year. I figured I’d finally take him up on it. Anything to get out of this life.”
Austin nods. “You know how to reach me.” As I stand, he adds, “Take care of yourself, Trev. I mean it.”
* * *
Dani
After the five hour drive from New Haven to my apartment outside of Washington DC, all I want is to crawl into bed and hide away from the world. We didn’t have a funeral for Gil. Just a little gathering at home. He hadn’t truly been part of our family for years, and though we were close until the Pritchards adopted us, after that…it was like he wanted to forget I even existed.
Despite my exhaustion, I pause on the way in to check my mailbox.
The package slip makes my heart skip a beat. It’s fromGil. He must have sent this just before the mission that took his life.
My eyes burn, but I don’t cry. I never do. The package locker contains a fat United Express mailer, and I tuck it into my bag as I climb the stairs to my apartment.
It feels so empty. Not that Gil ever visited. I’ve lived here three years, and he never once even came to dinner. Austin drives up from Fort Bragg once a month.
Inside, I set my electric kettle and fill a mug with licorice root tea—something Betsy Pritchard—the only mother I’ve ever known—introduced me to when I was in high school. The sweet scent calms me and gives me an emotional and physical boost at the end of a long day. There’s nothing that will make me feel even close to normal tonight, but my nightly tea ritual brings me a semblance of normalcy.
With a steaming cup in my hands, I sink down onto my couch and run my fingers over the envelope.
Daniella Rosa Martinez.
I haven’t been Dani Martinez since the Pritchards adopted us. And Gil’s the only one who ever called me Daniella. To everyone else I meet, I’m Dani.
I don’t understand why he sent me something now. Before his death, I hadn’t talked to him in five years. Why?
My hands shake as I tear open the envelope. Inside, there’s a letter dated three weeks ago, a flash drive, and a small stack of photos.
Daniella, mi hermana. I’m sorry I stayed away for so long. My next mission will be dangerous, and there’s a chance you won’t want to speak to me if I return. So I left this with someone I trust and asked him to mail it for me if the worst happened. Not long after I joined the CIA, I traveled to Venezuela and found my father. I have never felt such a connection to another person.
I glance at the top photo. It’s Gil, standing next to an older man who looks just like him. Plus thirty years or so. The next picture is that same man, many years ago, holding a baby. The photo’s a little grainy—age and perhaps emotion have wrinkled it—but I can see Gil’s birthmark on his left arm. The crescent shape stands out bright red against his skin.
There are four pictures of Gil as a child. In the last, he looks to be close to six. It must be one of the final photos taken at his father’s home.
Setting the pictures aside, I return to the letter.
