"It's fine. At least, they are not alive. I'd be more upset if they were alive and didn't care to look for me."
"Your father wasn't a good man. It says here he had substance use disorder, multiple arrests. He was in prison for three years for possession. Multiple domestic violence calls to the residence. Physical abuse suspected for both children and wife."
I paused, looked up from the paper and at him.
He'd shifted on the bed. Just a little. His gaze was now on me.
"You had a sibling," I continued. "Older sister. Priscilla."
He closed his eyes. A muscle jumped in his jaw.
I read on, but my voice shook. "When you were six, your dad set the house on fire…with the family inside. That's when your parents died." I stopped again to give him a chance to digest all this. My gaze dropped to his burn scar. I imagined how he felt as a child trapped in a burning room. My stomach churned. I returned my attention to the text. "It says right here that your sister pulled you out. You both went into the system but were separated."
The final page was a photo. Not a baby picture, but a scanned Polaroid. Two kids—a boy and a girl with the same dark hair. The girl was of high school age, all skinny limbs and hard eyes. The boy was maybe five, perched in her lap, cheeks smudged with dirt. They weren't smiling.
"You have a sister," I whispered as I handed him a scan of the photo.
He took it from me and stared at it for a long time.
"How old would she be right now?" he asked.
I checked the second page. "Thirty-eight."
"I don't even remember her face."
I didn't know what to say. There was nothing I could say. I scooted over and just leaned against him, wrapped my arms around his body and held him.
"Do you want to find her?" I asked eventually.
"Not yet. I'm not ready. We need to finish the target first."
I got up from the bed and went to the bathroom to grab the pendant with the camera. When I returned to the bedroom, I put it in Seven's hand.
He closed his fist around it like this was the answer to all his questions.
49 seven
The rain was coming down so hard it made the roads look like a river. The wipers barely kept up, and even then, the view ahead was just a blur of taillights and road shine.
My jacket was zipped to the chin, collar turned up high.
My face had been hidden behind the bandana again, but the inside of the car felt too hot, stifling. My skin itched, wanting to be free. I rolled the window down two inches, just to suck in some air, but the storm found the gap and spat in my face.
I left it open anyway.
My pulse was loud in my ears. It was the same pulse I'd felt just a few hours ago back at the safe house, when Kimmy's mouth was on mine and her hands were clawing my back and her voice was begging me not to stop.
Fuck.
It was never supposed to be anything. She was the client, and I was the operative. She was the job. And I was the tool. The Bureau had rules about this.
Don't get attached or emotional.
Don't let your guard down.
Don't let them know who you are.
The secrecy surrounding your identity ensures the success of what we do.
