Page 3 of Aftermath
“Agent Stone,” the man with the tattoo started.
“Beck,” I countered—I hadn’t been Agent Stone in seven months.
“I’m sorry, another agent said-”
“It’s Agent Beck,” I interrupted. “And I’m late.”
It wasn’t entirely true. I was antsy to get out of the classroom and finish my work. Teaching trainees was uncovering old memories I wasn’t ready to face from my time in the academy, and I was ready to spend my night with my books.
“I was wondering if I could shadow you,” the man said. “I’d like to learn as much as I can at the academy. I’m aiming to be assigned to the Boston field office, so I’ll need top recommendations.”
“No,” I said, stopping his ramble.
“I just thought-”
“That because you knew a single question, it would earn you my favor?” I asked, raising a brow. “Not how it works. It was a good answer, but not enough for you to earn my respect on day one,” I answered, keeping my tone flat.
Was I seriously this bitter? That wasn’t the Agent Stone most of the FBI knew.
He started turning away, and I saw his shoulders slouch. I tried to hold my tongue. I promised myself I wouldn’t let myself get dragged down into this hole again. There was nothing for me on this path, but he reminded me of someone.
“Long sleeves next class,” I called after him, unable to stop myself.
“Huh?” he asked, glancing back.
I needed top agents, not trainees with more self-doubt than when they started. I kept telling myself that was why I did it.
“Cover the tattoos. They make you too identifiable in the field. Start the habit now if you want a shot at field agent.”
I saw the way he stood tall again, a slight grin on his face as he turned back toward the exit.
What was I doing?
I was smart enough to recognize the signs.
I was falling back into old habits. I groaned internally, realizing my supervisory special agent knew what he was doing. He knew how easy it would be for me to slip back into my ways, back to the days when I felt like we were truly producing a new generation of special agents who had a shot at making a difference, when my fellow trainees and I stuck together to make it to the top.
That all felt like a distant memory now. One choice had changed everything.
I had no intentions of going back into the field, not after everything I had done. My mind was of more use at Quantico, passing the knowledge on.
People had died, and it was my fault.
I shook my head, the classroom clear and the rest of my day empty.
Much to my chagrin, my supervisory special agent had hounded me to work my way back into the field. It’d been seven months already. Sticking me in the FBI Academy and giving me small tasks was never going to convince me to get back into the field. He just knew I couldn’t resist at least passing on the knowledge I had. Maybe my past mistakes could prevent future ones.
It was logical, I reminded myself.
I had been the best, but even those at the top could eventually fall from grace.
I grabbed my brown leather messenger bag full of paperwork I knew needed to be finished before the end of the day and slung it over my shoulder.
It was almost 2:15 p.m., which meant I had approximately fifteen minutes to grab coffee before the café closed for the day.
I hurried out of the classroom toward where the café sat closer to the entrance of the building.
The line was long, but the moment the barista caught sight of me, she gave me the usual nod. I didn’t deserve preferential treatment, but no matter what came of me, my name preceded me.
