“Fine. Six o’clock.”
“Good. It’ll be nice to have everyone together again.”
Everyone. Which means Nina. And now Wyatt.
“Yeah,” I say. “Nice.”
She chatters for a few more minutes about Zoey’s new words and plans for the house Mason’s building them before hanging up with a cheerful “See you Wednesday!”
I set the phone down and stare at the ceiling.
Wednesday. The barbecue where I’ll have to face Nina and Wyatt, pretend I haven’t been stalking her all week, pretend I’m fine when I haven’t been fine since I left her bed.
My phone buzzes.
TATIANA: Check your email. Early Christmas present.
I open my secure account. She’s sent an encrypted file—names, dates, financial records. A comprehensive breakdown of the emerging Serbian power structure, including connections to Mexican trafficking routes.
It’s exactly what McIntyre wanted. More than enough to keep me on the case.
I should feel relief. Instead, I just feel tired.
CHRIS: This is solid. How?
TATIANA: Told you I’d deliver. You’re not the only one with something to prove.
Three days until Wednesday.
I close my eyes and try not to think about how much can go wrong in three days.
18
Nina
Tuesday morning arrives with a marine layer so thick I can barely see the jacaranda tree from my office window. The fog makes everything feel muffled, suspended—appropriate for a day where I’m supposed to balance therapeutic integrity with intelligence gathering.
I’ve been up since five, reviewing the CIA’s “suggested conversation prompts” for the third time. They’re even worse than I remembered:
“How do you assess reliability in your professional associates?”
“What contingency plans exist for operational disruptions?”
“Describe your current business infrastructure.”
They read like an HR exit interview written by someone who learned English from technical manuals. I set the list aside and check my phone instead.
Nothing from Chris. Nothing from Wyatt.
They’ll both be at Mason’s tomorrow night. I’ll have to tell them about the pregnancy, the abortion, the sterilization scheduled for Friday. The weight of that conversation sits in my chest like swallowed glass.
But Friday is relief. Finally closing a door I should have locked years ago. The consultation was yesterday, straightforward and judgment-free. Dr. Keaton’s colleague, Dr. Cruz, went through everything carefully. Tubal ligation. Permanent. Irreversible.
“Are you certain?” she’d asked, not in challenge but in professional obligation.
“I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”
Three days. Then this particular sword stops hanging over my head.
