Page 5 of Close Your Eyes and Count to 10

“You’ve said that before.”

“But you don’t believe me.”

Something flashed across his face. Empathy maybe. “Love is complicated.”

She gave him an assenting nod. “I haven’t heard from him. And I couldn’t swear that the man in your footage is him. It could be anyone.”

He froze the image and zoomed in on the man on the lonely, gray street.

“Are you sure?”

She tried to call to mind an image of her husband: his fine features, his strong body, his carriage. Instead, all she could remember was his scent, the feel of his arms, the timbre of his deep voice, how loved, how safe he had always made her feel. Those were the things that she missed, even now, desperately. The image on the screen was ghostly, distant. Possibly Miller. Maybe not.

Where are you?she wondered for the millionth time, the question more physical ache than words.

“I don’t know if that’s him,” she said, rubbing at the fatigue behind her eyes. “I don’t think so? I’m sorry.”

She wondered about Agent Coben, not for the first time. He seemed young, no wedding ring. Polite, not hard like some of the others; he didn’t appear to judge her. There was something about his quiet but determined way that put her at ease. She wanted to ask him questions.Why this work? This case? How did it get assigned to you? Do you think you’ll find him?But she stopped short of that. The next time the bell rang, it could be someone else there.

“Are you sure I can’t get you anything?” she asked, chronically polite. “Coffee?”

He shook his head. “Thank you. No.”

One last look at the image on his screen. She shrugged again. Coben nodded, then took his device and got up to leave.

In the foyer, he stopped and turned around. “Most people get caught, you know.”

She didn’t say anything.

“Life on the run is no life. There’s no comfort in it. People start to miss their families. Regret sets in. Usually it’s weddings or funerals where we get them. Calls on birthdays or anniversaries. Even people in witness protection, whose lives depend on staying hidden, can’t always stay away forever.”

Adele found herself shaking her head. “Miller won’t come back.”

Now it was Agent Coben’s turn to stay silent.

“He doesn’t care about us,” she said. “If he did, he never could have done this, or stayed away so long.”

Upstairs she heard heavy footsteps down the hall, a slammed door. Blake had been listening in. Maybe he needed to hear it.

“I’ll be in touch,” said Agent Coben. Then he was gone.

* * *

In the garage, Adele wrapped her hands to protect her knuckles underneath the boxing gloves. The heavy bag hung from the rafters.

She thought about going live for her followers.

Her WeWatch channel where she had chronicled her journey back from loss, losing weight with a nutrition and workout routine of her own creation, and a return to competing in half-marathons and the Tough Be-atch obstacle course competitions was steadily growing.

Once upon a time, she used to be a marathon runner, before she had her kids and had slowly allowed the tide of life and motherhood to take her away from the physical strength and fitness she’d once considered her birthright. Then, after the brutal months of grieving and trying to convince the FBI that she hadn’t been an accomplice in Miller’s crimes, terrified that she would go to jail, leaving her kids all alone and devastating her elderly parents,she decided to channel her fear, anxiety, and rage into getting her body back.

Blake, her WeWatch fanatic, did all the setting up of her account, teaching her how to post and go live. She thought it was silly at first; she wasn’t native to living her life online. But it turned out that her message of reclaiming yourself and coming back from adversity resonated. And having that virtual community of supporters, helping people who had suffered even worse fates than hers, kept her focused.

Instead of going live, she decided to record for later.

She propped up her phone, pressed Record, donned her gloves.

“This is a great way to blow off steam and burn some major calories,” she told the camera. “Jab. Cross. Hook. Upper Cut. Again.”

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