She closes the tab and sips her tea. The other option is that he walked away. Left the life. Became a civilian for real. Except people don’t just walk away from intelligence work. At least, not cleanly. She’s living proof of that.
She powers down the laptop and carries her tea to the living room, where her plants wait for their evening watering.
“Good evening, darlings. Let’s see how you’re doing.”
She’s tending to a droopy Easter cactus when there’s a knock at the door. She frowns at the sad plant. “You should be getting ready to bloom, friend. Would you like to move to a cooler spot? Somewhere with less sunlight.”
Another knock sounds.
She checks the time. 9:47 is late for a social call.
She crosses to the door and peers through the peephole. Ruth’s salt and pepper hair catches the hallway light, pulled back in the efficient low bun she’s worn for thirty years. Even through the distortion of the peephole glass, Linda can see the tension in her jaw.
Linda unlocks the door. “This is late, even for you.”
“I know.” Ruth steps inside without waiting for an invitation, bringing the smell of spring rain and the Metro with her. Her trench coat is damp at the shoulders. “I’m sorry. I need to consult the files again.”
The files. Not your files.
Linda closes the door, locks it. “Which operation?”
“East Coast. 1992.”
The Colonial Pipeline. Again.
Linda’s stomach tightens, but she keeps her voice neutral. “Didn’t you already look at that file a few months back?”
“Yes.”
“Still working on that paper?”
“Yes.”
Linda can’t read Ruth’s expression; then again, she never could. She wants to push her to answer why now, why this late, why the tension. But she knows from experience that pushing will only make Ruth pull back.
So she says nothing as she leads the way to the spare bedroom and pushes open the door to reveal a room is full of filing cabinets and shelves. Four tall filing cabines lined up against the far wall, two shorter ones flanking them. Industrial shelving holding neat stacks of document boxes occupies the other three walls. A small desk with a reading lamp. Everything meticulously labeled and organized.
Decades of files. Operations. Personnel records. Everything she saved when she left her official position. Everything they thought they destroyed in the purge of 1996.
She’d preserved as much as she could. Because she knew even then, when she was still young enough to believe in the mission, that someday this information would matter. That someday, someone would need to remember.
Ruth’s hand brushes Linda’s lower back as she passes. The gesture is brief, familiar, automatic. The touch sends a small current through Linda’s chest, even now. Even after all these years of kept-quiet dinners and careful distance in public.
She pulls the box from the middle shelf, the one labeled CONT-PIPE-92. “Operation Takedown. Pipeline sabotage. Everything’s in here.”
She places it on the desk and flips on the reading light. “Take your time. Leave the papers out. I’ll refile them.”
Ruth is already opening the box. “Thank you.”
Linda hesitates in the doorway. Ruth’s profile is sharp in the lamplight—the straight nose, the fine lines at her temples, the reading glasses she refuses to wear in public sliding down as she bends over the files.
“Ruth?”
“Hmm?” She doesn’t look up.
“You’d tell me if—?” Linda stops herself. If what? If you were planning something dangerous? If you were using me? She doesn’t even know what she’s asking.
Ruth glances at her, and her expression softens. “I’d tell you if it mattered.”
