“Perfect. Thank you.”
He pauses at the door. “You okay? You look a little pale.”
I manage a smile. “Just reviewing my session notes. I’m fine.”
After he leaves, I pick at the poke while reviewing the Petrov file. The fish is fresh, perfectly seasoned, but I can barely taste it. My stomach is still tender from the last two days, and the wasabi makes my eyes water.
The file on Tatiana Petrov is thin. Too thin. Three pages of basic biographical data, criminal associations, and a terse summary of her extraction circumstances. Former Serbian mafia. Worked for Bogdan Corluka before his arrest. Cooperating witness status. High-value intelligence asset.
But nothing about her psychological state. Nothing about trauma history. Nothing about what broke her enough to flip on her former associates.
The photo shows a woman in her early thirties with sharp cheekbones and pale eyes that seem to look straight through the camera. Dark hair cut in a messy bob. No expression. She looks like someone who learned early that showing nothing was safer than showing anything.
I’ve seen that look before. In the mirror, sometimes. In clients who’ve survived things that shouldn’t be survivable.
My phone buzzes. A text from Callie:
CALLIE: How’s the first day going? You holding up okay?
I stare at the message, throat tight, even though I’m used to the twice-a-day check-ins. She was with me through everything just two days ago—the bathroom floor, the tears, the drive to Dr. Keaton’s office. She held my hand through the worst of it and didn’t leave until she was sure I could stand on my own.
I type back:
NINA: First session went better than expected. Clients are complex but genuine. I’m okay. Really.
CALLIE: Good. Call me tonight if you need anything. Anything at all. Also Mason’s talking about doing his famous carne asada sometime next week if you want to come. Nothing fancy, just family dinner in the backyard. In case you want some normalcy for a change.
NINA: Sounds perfect.
I set the phone down and return to the file. Three pages. Twenty minutes until she arrives. I need to be ready for anything.
The intercom buzzes.
“Your one-thirty is here,” Darius says.
I glance at the clock. She’s early. I close the file and stand, smoothing my skirt, checking my reflection in the dark computer screen. Professional smile in place. Ready.
I walk to the door and open it, expecting to see a sharp-featured woman with black hair and pale eyes.
Instead, Chris Longo is sitting in my waiting room.
He looks up when the door opens, and for a moment neither of us moves. He’s in a dark suit, crisp white shirt, no tie. His hair is slightly longer than it was at the wedding, and there are shadows under his eyes that weren’t there before. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days.
“Hello, Nina,” he says quietly.
My professional composure cracks. Just for a second. But I feel it happen—the careful mask slipping, my heart rate spiking, my breath catching in my throat.
“Chris.” I manage to keep my voice steady. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
He stands slowly, hands at his sides. “I know. I’m sorry for the surprise. Can we talk?”
13
Chris
I told myself this was about Petrov.
I’m still telling myself that. But I knew the second I took Tatiana from that junior agent what this was really about. Professional oversight had nothing to do with it. I manufactured the thinnest excuse I could to get myself in the same city as Nina Palmer.
