Page 1 of Penny for Your Saints

The weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas feel like some of the coldest of my early morning runs.

Not because it’s actually the coldest time of year, be it in my hometown of Lexington, Massachusetts, or in my current stomping grounds near Quantico; but instead because my body—no matter where I’ve spent the holidays—hasn’t quite gotten used to that winter chill yet.

This was my fifth year returning to what had been my childhood home in order to celebrate the holiday with my Uncle Martin and my paternal Grandmother.

I’ll be leaving Lexington tomorrow, hopping a flight to DC to attend the retirement party of my mentor and exiting Section Chief of Behavioral Sciences at the FBI, Susan Lowry.

Six days; Thanksgiving, Black Friday, and the following three glorious cycles of twenty-four hours where I am not constantly bombarded by the spine-chilling whispers of the looming threat of a mysterious and sinister chemical weapon that spirit through the hallways of FBI headquarters.

Though me and my kind—the kingdom Susan leaves behind in Behavioral Sciences, are not directly involved in any pursuit, profiling, or hostage negotiations; the tales of a man-made virus affecting only omegas and sigmas with deadly symptoms, while making alphas asymptomatic carriers and leaving all other designations unharmed, have bubbled up even into our modest offices.

Not officially, though, of course.

Even though I have my few days of rest, of freedom—my morning run has yet again taken me from the Penny family home—through the center of our picturesque New England town, adorned with evergreen boughs, red velvet ribbon, and warmly glowing twinkle lights; past the park and the pond—all the way through the iron and stone gates to Westview Cemetery.

I never seem to know I’m doing it until my carefully architected running stride gutters to a stop in front of the polished pink granite slab that bears the name of my dearly departed parents: Landon and Margot Penny.

Even though I know the stone will be biting cold, my fingers reach for its glossy surface—the pads of my index and middle fingers tracing the words “Loving Mother and Father, Brilliant Minds, Devoted Husband and Wife.” The cut stone is ice beneath my touch.

My breath diffuses in tiny clouds of steam as I tuck my hands back into my pockets, little packets of iron and other chemicals oxidizing and toasty warm.

I kept my eyes on the aisles and access roads on my way in. My only other company, a hobbled old woman in her champagne sedan monstrosity with a tattered wreath in her hands to lie on the grave of her late husband. I didn’t think I’d slipped too deeply into my own thoughts, but I almost jumped when I heard the snap of a twig behind me. For a fraction of a second, I long for my duty piece—my running tights, micro fleece, andfeatherweight running shoes, my only current defense against the cold or any other threat.

Then I catch his scent; peat, orris, and wood-smoke. My uncle Martin Penny, ex Department of Justice special agent, turned assistant section chief of the Department of Reproduction. He’s also been back in town for the holiday, staying at his own place in town along with his mother, my grandmother; on leave from the residential memory care unit.

“I find myself here on every run when I’m home, too,” he sighs thoughtfully, reaching out a gloved hand to rest atop the headstone fondly. My father, his ‘baby’ brother, laid to rest beneath the frost crisped grass under our feet.

“I’d say it’s a good loop , but we both know that’s bullshit.” I scoff a gallows laugh and Uncle Martin returns it in kind, cuffing me on the shoulder lovingly.

“God, you remind me so much of your dad—your mom too, but sometimes you make a joke, and I swear…” His chuckles taper off into a clearing of the throat, keeping the waiver of tears from his voice.

Most people probably think I’m cold for my stiff upper lip, my steadfast expression of dutiful grief. The truth is, I nearly fell so completely apart after losing my parents—I simply have not fully put myself back together.

Loss isn’t even the right word. Youlosepeople to illness, horrific injury, or age. Accidents can give the feeling that someone is taken from you—long before their time. When someone is murdered? It is something so entirely beyond.

“Are you going to the send-off for Lowry?” I nimbly steer us back to safer territory. If I play my cards right, maybe I can swing a seat on the exec jet with ol’ ‘Party Marty’. Lord knows that Compton would have made me drive the damn Lincoln to and from Quantico for the holidays if he could have. Thankfully,the transportation office at least sprung for nonstop tickets, even if they are in coach.

“I’m trying to see if I can beg off. You know how much I loathe parties and command performances,” he groans, dropping into a low squat to clear away some of the more scraggly looking dried grass at the base of the headstone.

Now it’s my turn to be reminded of my late father, despiser of parties and small talk—ever in motion, in pursuit of the next big project or idea—like a hammerhead shark, eternally fiddling with or fixing something.

Even though Uncle Martin is only a handful of years older, I can’t help but feel a swell of affection as I notice the spot at the crown of his head where his hair has begun to thin gently—a glimpse of shiny scalp in the gray winter morning sunlight. My dad had still looked so youthful when he and my mother had their lives stolen from them, only just approaching his sixtieth birthday.

“Yeah, if it were anyone other than Lowry—I would have tried to move heaven and earth not to be there.” I shake my head, shifting my weight from foot to foot with a bouncing rhythm to keep my muscles from cooling down too much—I still have to run the rest of the loop home after all.

“Of course, there’s no way you could miss it.” He nods sagely, polishing away my greasy fingerprints with the soft fabric of his gloved thumb. “Is what's-his-name going with you?” Martin adds casually, as if it's an afterthought—even though I know he’s clocked the fact I haven’t mentioned Tom, the alpha investment banker with whom I recently had a blowout breakup.

“Tom and I decided to call it quits two days before Thanksgiving,” I admit with a wince.

“Because you finally realized he was a turkey?” Martin snipes back, not missing a beat.

I let out a surprised laugh.

“Yeah, something like that. Lucky me, I’ll be drawing even more looks of consternation from the old men who already think that a sigma in her mid-thirties should be prioritizing bonding and babies before her career. Even Lowry was really hoping that I was going to start making plans to get the whole business out of the way early,” I groan.

“Easy with the ‘old men’ talk—I resemble that remark!” Martin chuffs a warm laugh as he rises from the cold ground, and I’m grateful for this lifeline—what’s left of my family.

“My mistake, sir.” I play at the professional deference I’m forced to offer him whenever we overlap in bureau settings.

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