She pores through her cabinets, snaps her fingers, and exits the room—gone to retrieve something, no doubt.
On the car ride here, Brian was so beside himself in pain, there was no energy for chatter. But now, with whatever she gave him on board, his breathing eases. His face goes slack, like for the first time since he was shot, he can relax.
“So.” I stand from where I perched on the edge of a seventies-style green armchair tucked in the corner.
He levels his gaze my way, eyes a little wide, pupils dilated. He takes me in like he’s sizing me up, trying to figure me out. “So,” he replies.
I cross the room, wondering how this is the same man who a mere week and a half ago suggested we have another baby.
“You’re not a management consultant.”
The ghost of a smile crosses his mouth. “And you’re not an events planner.”
I tilt my head, shrug. “I plan certain events.” Like deaths.
“You know Ian.”
I give him a patient smile, shake my head, and lie by omission. “I was there to save you. Ian had you.” Minimizing my relationship with him. Spinning it to the positive. Not actually saying yes or no.
Brian exhales heavily, winces, his right hand crossing to press against his left shoulder, near the wound. “Right.Saveme by shooting at me.”
“That was a misunderstanding,” I say. “So. Let’s talk?”
He nods. “I’ll go first.”
My heart pounds so hard I can hear it—can he?—wanting to know the truth. Because if he is hurting people, I will finish the job. I don’t want to, but I promised Gran. I promisedmyself. Despite what I am, I will be a decent human being.
“Honesty,” he murmurs, like he’s testing the word. Experimenting with how it feels in his mouth. “I work undercover for the FBI.”
Brian glances up at me from where he sits on the corner of the cot, looking for a response. But I have my poker face on because, inside, my brain is calculating.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
FBI.A.k.a., the enemy of people like me.
“Okay,” I say, because he seems to expect me to say something.
“This is not the first time a professional killer has tried to—” He waves the hand of his good arm. “You know. Kill me. It’s the first time one has nearly succeeded though. And that guy—” His mouth stays open a second longer, like he has more to say about Ian. But then he snaps it shut, shakes his head.
That guy what?
“Anyway, I couldn’t tell you.” He looks up, meets my gaze. “It would have put you in danger. And I’d kept it a secret so long already. It felt worse saying something than saying nothing.”
“So you were in the FBI when we met?”
He nods. “Yes.”
“Your real name isn’t Brian Davis.”
I let that fact settle between us. Watch as his face goes from surprised to stoic, like he’s trying to not react. Like he’s going to deny it. But then he squeezes his eyes shut and sighs. “The real Brian Davis died. A year before you and I met, I was stalked. Nearly killed. They’re still out there somewhere, and it was safer for me to—” He shrugs. “Become someone new. New name, new location, new life.”
Maybe I’m a cover for him as much as he’s been a cover for me.
The doctor walks back in at that moment and we both lapse into silence, but this conversation is far from over. I retreat to myugly green chair, half of me relieved—he’s not trafficking people. He’s not a horrible person. The other half of me sits on the verge of panic, an emotion nearly alien to me. I squeeze my fists, try to ignore the pressure in my chest.
The fucking FBI.
The same people who, if they had their way, would imprison me for the rest of my life. Or worse.
