Page 1 of The Handler
ONE
Amy
“Amy?”
I look up when the new president of the Alabaster Bed-and-Breakfast Association calls my name. Except I’m not Amy. Amy is the namehegave me when I agreed to testify in a racketeering case three years ago. Three long years. I never expected to be in hiding in a tiny Colorado mountain town this long. Whatever fire I had in my belly to see justice done has cooled in the past few months. Now I just want to live a normal life, have friends, participate in the community, and meet a man who could love me—be my life partner—make a family with me. If he likes to spank my ass occasionally, that’s even better.
I twist the plain gold band on my left hand. I was alone even before I moved to Colorado. Now, being alone feels lonely. An unfamiliar heaviness has settled in my heart. My dream of running an inn is vastly different from the reality. The long days on my own rush by in a blur of years. I used to have all the time in the world, or I thought I did. I haven’t had an adventure or done something new, something just for myself, since the day I got brave enough to join the club in St. Louis. My heart races like it did the first time I opened that dungeon door. Like it did the first time I saw him. The first time I let him—
“Amy, dear? Are you okay? You’re flushed.”
I rush back to the present in a flood of regret. Deborah Budnek is a sweet lady who’s run an inn for twenty years. I can only imagine her expression if I answer honestly. Instead, I smile. “Too much coffee this morning. Are we ready for the meeting? Need me to do anything?”
“We’re all set, as long as you have the treasurer’s report.”
“Right here.” I pat my laptop bag. Deborah’s jaw would hit the floor if she knew I used to be a certified accountant. She thinks I’m an innkeeper with basic bookkeeping skills. According to my witness security agreement, I’m not supposed to do anything with numbers. But what my handler doesn’t know won’t hurt him. It’s just a teeny-tiny not-for-profit I’m volunteering to help. Not like I offered to start doing the members’ taxes.
I move behind the oblong folding table set up for us in the community room of the Aspen library. Alabaster’s library is as small as the town and doesn’t have room. Not that I mind the large windows and modern space, but the traffic in this elite tourist town is a nightmare, no matter the season. It’s the reason I use to explain why I rarely make the drive if anyone asks. The truth is, if anyone ever recognized me—
“Am I late?” Katherine, my New York heiress friend, dashes in, looking like a million dollars in jeans and a silk top with her blond hair in its signature twist. I’m pretty sure her outfit was custom-made for her, unlike my jeans and boatneck top from the outlet stores in Castlerock. But I’m supposed to blend in, something Katherine could never do—even if she wore cheap outlet clothes.
Several women and a few men sitting in the folding chairs organized in rows turn and greet the woman who has helped them save their businesses. My friend is a magician with marketing and websites.
Before I can greet her, the secretary and vice president take their seats, and Deborah calls the meeting to order.
* * *
“That was short and sweet.”Katherine tucks her arm into mine as we walk out into the late summer sunshine. The sky is cobalt blue, and a few white fluffy clouds lounge around with no intention of providing rain.
“Vastly different from when Betty was in charge,” I agree. Betty Keppel was a horrible leader, but nowhere near as awful as my last boss. A chill runs up my spine. “I don’t miss the shame sessions.”
“Lunch?” Katherine asks. “My treat. I have to babble about the wedding plans. And Gabe will back out if I keep harassing him about colors and flowers.”
I laugh. Gabe—a former soldier and Katherine’s fiancé—is a total sweetheart. “Yeah, he’s made it very clear he is not into decorating or making things pretty.”
“Fortunately, he has me.” Katherine tapped her chest. “And you. The wedding will be perfect.”
I’ll do everything I can to help make sure Katherine has the fairy-tale experience she deserves. My own wedding wasn’t notable. A judge and a piece of paper. I haven’t seen my “husband” in almost a year. He usually calls me about every six weeks, but I haven’t heard from him in…three months?
The afternoon sun glints off my gold band, heavy on my finger. The void of longing that I keep carefully closed off gapes open for a brief second, spiking pain through my chest.
Maybe he’s forgotten me.
If only I could do the same.
TWO
Tyler
I setmy coffee on the coaster and settle into my ergonomic black mesh chair. With a flick of the switch, my computer comes to life. Thank god maintenance fixed the air-conditioning. Summer in Missouri is a killer. I’m definitely going to grab lunch in the cafeteria so I don’t have to go back out. The St. Louis FBI field office might look like a concrete and mirrored-glass bunker out of the sixties, but it has its perks.
I double verify my identity and dig into my latest security briefings. Occasionally, there’s a nugget, a detail I haven’t considered in my templates for a mass casualty response. Humans are damn creative, and every time a security hole is closed, they dig a little deeper and find the next tiny crack in the facade to exploit. Today, each file reassures me that my plans are tight. While nothing is ever completely quiet, I might be able to make it through the weekend without a significant event.
After twenty-five years, first as an investigative specialist, then a victim specialist, and most recently as a mass casualty response team coordinator, quiet routine is a welcome friend. Done with the briefings, I check the analog clock on the wall. Not quite time for lunch. I could take care of some office tasks or chat with a co-worker, saving the rest of my email until the afternoon. Before deciding, I scan the list of senders. One name pops—John Clemmons, a friend and a federal marshal.
Hey Tyler,
Heads-up. Enzo Brambilla bought the farm. Not going to be a trial. Your special guest will be removed from the program at the end of the month. Nothing I could do. Budgets.
