“Don’t let them put on a show,” she says.
I raise an eyebrow. “I’ve done this before. Maybe not with men of their caliber, but you’d be surprised how many DEA agents are cut from the same cloth as the men they hunt.”
“Then you’ve got this,” she says.
And then she’s gone.
I smooth the hem of my blouse. Somewhere beyond the walls, a system I don’t control is already running. The room is live. The recording started the moment I walked in, maybe before.
I know exactly where the cameras are. I helped Lucia place them.
The books arrived yesterday. Three boxes, packed with Wyatt’s meticulous care—each spine wrapped in tissue, heavier volumes cushioned with bubble wrap. My name in his careful handwriting across every label. Office / Personal. Not Nina’s Books or Misc. Just the quiet acknowledgment that some things matter beyond function.
I unpacked them myself. Couldn’t let Darius or Lucia touch them, couldn’t explain why my throat went tight when I opened the first box and found The Body Keeps the Score nestled against my battered copy of Gift from the Sea. Books I’d referenced in a dozen sessions, passages I’d quoted when clients needed language for things that lived too deep for words.
Now they sit between the CIA’s sterile references—Behavioral Analysis in High-Stress Populations, Trauma-Informed Interviewing Techniques—like seeds planted in concrete. My weathered copy of The Left Hand of Darkness leaning against a pristine DSM-5. Adrienne Rich’s Of Woman Born tucked between compliance manuals. Small rebellions that no one will notice but me.
Wyatt couldn’t have known what it would mean. Having pieces of myself in this curated space. Proof that I existed before this room, this assignment, this careful façade of competence.
But he did know. The man who noticed when I needed space before I asked for it, who packed my entire apartment like he was handling archaeology.
I sit in my chair. Breathe in. Hold. Release.
My body still doesn’t feel like mine, not completely. The ache is dulled now, but it’s still there, tucked under the skin. I’ve showered. Slept. Eaten. But the weight of it—the memory of the bathroom floor, of Callie’s voice pulling me back—is still stitched into my spine.
But I know what to do with this body in this room. I know what I’m here for.
I need this to be real. I need to remember what it feels like to help someone. I need to know I can still be useful. Still be trusted. Still be whole.
The intercom buzzes once.
“Your ten o’clock is here,” Darius says.
I stand, smooth my skirt.
I cross the room and open the door before they have the chance to linger. My mind is already on the first ten seconds: tone, posture, eye contact.
“Mr. Flores. Mr. Amador. Come in.”
Their security detail stays in the hallway—two men flanking the door, broad and still. They don’t follow their principals inside.
I know who is who from the photos. Vicente steps in first—darker hair, darker skin, clean-shaven with a playful expression that almost distracts from how quickly he assesses the space. His gaze sweeps past the bookshelves, lingers on the tall east-facing windows where morning light spills warm across the rug, the jacaranda swaying outside. He moves like someone used to being welcomed, like charm is his natural currency. But there’s something measured behind it. A coiled readiness.
Arturo follows. He’s broader through the chest and shoulders, with salt-and-pepper hair and a trimmed goatee that sharpens rather than softens his features. His eyes are hazel—light-catching, unreadable. They give his face an edge that makes you keep looking, even when you know better. He doesn’t smile. His expression holds.
Together, they read like contrast and design. Vicente sleek and velvet-edged, Arturo all gravity and watchfulness. One to pull focus. The other to make sure you don’t mistake stillness for safety.
I gesture toward the seating area. “Please, wherever you’re comfortable.”
Vicente moves toward the sofa like it’s his, one fluid step after another, no pause, no scan for alternatives. He claims the left cushion without looking to Arturo, crosses one leg and settles in.
Arturo doesn’t sit right away. He scans the room—the sealed windows, the door they came through, the deep blue sofa and armchairs. His eyes move along the trim, the track lighting. Looking for the cameras. Then he follows Vicente’s lead and sits, but keeps his feet planted wide and his hands resting on his knees. Ready to stand, if needed.
Vicente leans back like he’s settling into an interview. Arturo doesn’t lean back at all.
They don’t speak to each other or share any overt signal. But the choreography is there. Practiced. Intentional.
I just watch. Everything I need to know starts here.
