“Does it matter?”
I give a careless shrug. “Maybe.”
He waits a moment and then says, “The NSA.”
“Ah,” I say casually, like it means something. He could be a special agent of crazy spies, and I’d say, “Ah,” like I know shit I don’t know. “And you’re part of the team that arrested Lowell?” I add the question to keep up my façade of relaxed boredom.
His eyes flash amusement.
So, he finds me funny?
Funny ha-ha or funny peculiar?
Who cares, Enya? Just get through this and get home so you can cry your eyes out…and then move on.
“Ms. Cahill,” Agent Ruiz speaks evenly, “for the record, can you confirm your full name and date of birth?”
“Enya Jane Cahill.” I rattle off my date of birth. My voice sounds distant to my own ears, foreign. I don’t speak like this, like I’m some high-powered bitch in a spy movie.
He makes a note on the tablet he’s carrying.
Does he have a checklist? Is he marking the checkbox against, ‘Gullible target knows her name and DOB’?
“You were in a romantic relationship with Nick Smith. Is that correct?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Define romantic.”
His lips almost twitch. “Were you dating this man?”
I consider asking him what he means by dating, then discard the thought. It would sound theatrical when what I want is to seem casual, detached, and unbothered.
“I was fucking him.” I proudly don’t stumble on the F word. I don’t swear much, but if I can’t do it today, which is a terrible day for me, when the hell else can I?
“For how long?”
Agent Ruiz doesn’t react. His face stays perfectly neutral—professional to the bone.
He’s like Nick, isn’t he? Men who only show emotions they’ve chosen in advance.
There is nothing authentic about Agent Ruiz. There was nothing authentic about Nick Smith, either.
Smith? I should’ve known a last name like that is just trouble. But naïve as I am, I thought, he’s a simple man, coming from a simple family in the south, hence the slight—and what I thought sexy—drawl. His interest in art told me he didn’t care who my father was. If there’s an award for world’s dumbest woman, I’d be nominated for sure…and I’d win it, too.
“Oh…I don’t know.” I look up at the ceiling. “Five-six months?”
One hundred and eighty-three days, four hours, and fifty-five minutes since we met, and Maggie came home to tell me he wasn’t who he said he was.
But who’s counting, yeah?
“And during that time, were you aware that Mr. Smith was operating under an alias?”
“Agent Ruiz, you use the strangest terms. Why would I care why and how Nick was operating? What I cared about was his dick, and that operated just fine.” I didn’t know I could be this snarky. But I am a woman scorned, so maybe my “snark” gene has been activated.
Agent Ruiz keeps writing, unbothered by my crudeness.
I’m not. My words leave a residue I can’t shake—a sharp, ugly sense of being exposed. This isn’t who I am. I want these clothes off, my skin scrubbed clean. I want my apartment, a blanket,and a version of myself that doesn’t remember how it felt to be wrapped up in Nick.
“Were you aware Nick Smith was employed by the National Security Agency or acting on behalf of a federal task force?”
