I glance at Wyatt. “I was there, you know. When he had her. Helped coach her through provoking the guard so she and Sam could get out.” I shake my head. “She had to sit across from that monster at breakfast and make conversation, knowing exactly what was hanging on the walls in the next room. She held it together better than most agents would’ve.”
Wyatt’s quiet for a moment. “You never told me that.”
“Never came up.” I check my watch. Thirty-five minutes until my appointment. “I have to go.”
Wyatt looks at me. Studies my face the way he does when he’s trying to read what I’m not saying. “You’ve got this.”
“Fill me in if anything else comes up?”
“Always.”
I stand. Wyatt does too, but I don’t move toward the door. There’s something caught in my chest—something that needs to come out before I leave this room and drive across town to sit in a stranger’s office and talk about all the ways I’m broken.
Wyatt watches me. Patient. Waiting.
I turn back and pull him into a hug that surprises us both. Not the quick, back-slapping kind we’ve defaulted to for years. Something longer. Something that lets me press my face against his shoulder and breathe him in—soap and coffee and the clean, familiar scent of his aftershave.
His arms come around me, solid and sure. He doesn’t ask what this is about. He just holds on.
I almost destroyed this. Thanksgiving night, when the ghosts got loose and I hurt him without meaning to—I could have lost him forever. Could have lost both of them. But Wyatt didn’t run. Didn’t write me off as broken beyond repair. He stayed. Gave me grace I hadn’t earned, understanding I didn’t deserve. Helped me see that healing wasn’t something I had to do alone.
“I love you,” I say against his shoulder. The words come out rougher than I intended. “You know that, right?”
“I know.” His voice is steady. Certain in a way that settles the last of the doubt I’ve been carrying. “I love you too.”
I hold on for another few seconds. Let myself have this—the warmth of him, the steadiness, the way he doesn’t pull back or rush me toward the door. Then I make myself let go.
“Go,” Wyatt says. “Dr. Reiner doesn’t like it when people are late.”
“You know her?”
“Nina’s mentioned her. Apparently she’s tough but fair.” He gives me a small smile. “You’ll be fine.”
I nod. Take a breath. Head for the door.
Behind me, Vicente’s voice comes through the speakers. “I can’t undo what I did to her. Can’t unsee the fear in her eyes when she realized what kind of monster she was dealing with.” A pause. “She lost someone to Gustavo too. When we were done with him, we put the gun in her hand. She’d earned that right.” He exhales. “But it doesn’t erase what I did to her. I can be patient. I can let her set the pace. However long it takes for her to see me as something other than the man who locked her in that room—I’ll wait.”
I pause with my hand on the doorknob.
I wait for the familiar tightening in my chest. The reflexive brace against the sound of Vicente Amador talking about patience and trust like he has any right to either.
It doesn’t come.
I think about Wyatt. About grace I hadn’t earned. About the long road between breaking something and rebuilding it.
Maybe that’s not just for me.
I head for the elevator, already running the math on traffic between here and Dr. Reiner’s office.
The parking garage is cold, that particular Los Angeles winter chill that never quite commits to being real weather. I slide into the driver’s seat and pull the door shut, sealing myself into the quiet.
My phone buzzes before I can start the engine.
I stare at Tatiana’s name on the screen for a beat. Last time I saw her was at the safe house, right in the middle of the chaos. It’s been two weeks of silence since then. Not long by operational standards, but long enough to wonder.
The message is brief:
TATIANA: Going dark. Got my way into the inner circle. Leaving tonight.
