With Heather’s parents watching my every move, I accelerate painfully slowly down the street, heading toward The Hill. Apart from the odd teenagers parked there and steaming up car windows, it’s an isolated spot.
The evening is slightly balmy, glorious colors smudging the sky. I purposefully set an easy speed, enjoying the feel of Heather’s body resting against mine. Reaching The Hill, I find a place to park and cut the engine. No one else is here. I wait until Heather gets off the bike before I dismount.
Heather takes her helmet off and simply stands there. A chorus of cicadas echoes around us. Sighing inwardly, pretending it won’t cost me, I close the distance between us and wrap my arms around her, tucking her under my chin. For the briefest of moments, she resists, her body stiff, but then she sags against me. Burying her head in my chest, she clutches the front of my shirt and begins to cry, great racking sobs that shudder through her body.
“It’s okay,” I murmur over and over again, rubbing her back, wishing I was as skilled at soothing as I am at inciting trouble.
After a while, she quiets. Sensing the worst of it has passed, I press a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in the honeyed scent of her hair. “You okay?” I ask softly.
With her cheek still pressed against my chest, she shakes her head, giving a violent and indelicate sniff.
Still keeping an arm around her, I kick aside a collection of empty beer bottles and clear a spot for us on a large rock, tugging her down to sit next to me.
We sit for a while in a silence that isn’t uncomfortable, taking in the night air and the breath-catching view of a suburban sprawl of millionaire homes.
The soft notes of her perfume wrap around me as I rest my forearms on my knees and wait for her to speak.
Heather fishes out a tissue and blows her nose. “I keep seeing the monkeys in their cages, watching their companions leave and not return.” Her voice is hoarse and shaky. “One of the lab techs said that on necropsy days monkeys are unusually silent, as if they know what’s coming.”
I intertwine my fingers with hers, giving her my warmth. “You’re not alone in this, Heather.”
A shadow of a smile crosses her lips. “That’s the first time you’ve said my name.”
“Guess I’m not such an unredeemable villain.”
“No, you’re not,” she says quietly. “Although you put up a good front.”
While I absorb her statement, Heather removes her glasses and uses her free hand to wipe at her face, trying to repair the damage her bout of crying caused. Then she squeezes her eyes shut and I’m guessing she’s seeing that video again, reliving the scene of the necropsy technician cutting into a still-alive monkey.
“Hey, come on, get out of your head,” I tell her. “I need you here with me.”
She opens her eyes, drawing in an unhappy breath. “I suppose you want to hear all the details.”
“You suppose wrong. I’m not here to debrief you. I’m here because I’m worried about you.”
She puts her glasses back on. “Worried I’m going to quit? That I’m going to do something to jeopardize the operation?”
“No,” I say patiently, understanding she’s angry, and I’m the closest target. “I got your email. I know what you went through today.”
“No, you don’t,” she says dully. “You have no idea.”
I pull my hand out of her grasp and start to peel my T-shirt out of my cargo pants.
Heather’s eyes widen. “Is this your plan? To distract me with a striptease?”
I laugh. “I want to show you something.”
I pull my shirt over my head. Her breathing snags, and while I’m enjoying the effect my body is having on her I have to remind myself there’s a purpose to this. Turning, I present her with my back.
“You have a tattoo,” she remarks, surprise in her voice.
“Read it,” I instruct. “Aloud.”
She does. “Tell me and I’ll forget. Show me and I may remember. Involve me and I’ll understand.”
“It’s an old Chinese proverb, sort of an unofficial motto for Kane and me.” I slip my T-shirt back on and face her. “I’m involved, TT. I worked undercover for a racehorse trainer. I watched thoroughbreds being injected so they could run when they were crippled with pain. I watched these magnificent animals shipped off for slaughter when they were no longer considered commercially productive. I had to go home and rage at the cruelty and my helplessness. And every day for six months, I had to remind myself there would be an outcome.”
“I didn’t know,” she says in a more subdued tone. “What happened?”
