Page 72 of Jessica, Not Her Real Name
Daniel nodded seriously. “Pretty much constantly.”
‘Right. So I’m gonna need not just my own room but an entire half of the house to myself. And the walls will need to be completely soundproofed?—”
Daniel shoved his brother out the door and slammed it behind him. “Jesus Christ, do I look like a fucking realtor today or what?”
* * *
They finally let her out of that room in the dingy warehouse in Holman Square over two hours later. While being escorted out, she asked to use the bathroom, and Weck guided her to one at the end of a hallway. It was small, just two cubicles and one metal sink. Fluorescent lights buzzing eerily overhead. She turned on the tap, pooling water in her hands and dashing it against her face.
At some point, she realized she was crying. The hot tears mingled with the cold water, so at first, she couldn’t feel them. She turned the tap off and allowed herself half a minute for self- pity, her head bent over the sink, her knuckles clenched into fists against the metal bench top, weathering each sob like a passing storm. Then she straightened, dried her face with a paper towel and inhaled shakily through her teeth. Her reflection floated in front of her like a mirage. Her skin looked waxy and taut, and her eyes were set in dark sockets. She balled up the paper towel and chucked it in the bin.
When she reached her car in the parking lot, she saw that dusk was settling in.
He’d be waiting for her. She pushed the speed limit all the way back to Lake Forest, her hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly her nails dug into her palms. Images kept flicking through her mind. Daniel’s head resting on the pillow beside hers, wearing his soft smile. Sasha Sokolov’s head, with its neat, blackened hole and watermelon innards. The bloody lump of Floyd Monaghan’s head in the bottom of the black trash bag. And she had to grit her teeth against another wave of nausea.
At the end of the lane up ahead, she saw him. Leaning against the hood of the parked ’Cuda, between the shafts of light coming from the headlights. Legs crossed in front of him. White singlet, tattered jeans. The glow of the lit end of a joint illuminating his perfect face.
Sight for sore eyes didn’t even begin to cover it. All the other images faded into darkness, leaving just him. The man she loved.
She abandoned her car in the middle of the lane, engine still running, and sprinted towards him.
He stood up, tossing the joint. She launched herself at him and he caught her as if she weighed nothing at all.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face against his shoulder.
When she looked up, she saw Sebastián sitting in the ‘Cuda’s passenger seat. The door was open, his legs hanging out. Tequila sat panting at his feet.
He smiled and gave Julia a wave.
Her heart crumbled some more. “I’m so, so sorry,” she sobbed.
“Why?” He kissed the side of her neck. “’Cause you’re a little late? Who gives a fuck?”
She could feel the vibration of his voice in his chest. She tried to permanently record this moment, absorbing each detail. The scent of his skin. His stubble against her cheek. The pressure of his firm hands wrapped around her body.
“I love you,” she whispered. “Please don’t hate me.”
He cupped her head, tilting it back to see her face. He smiled. “I could never hate you, baby.”
You will, she thought, and with a certainty that felt like a knife wound to the gut.
She kissed him, hard, like it was the last time she ever would. He kissed her back, just as urgently, but then he seemed to sense something was wrong and pulled away.
Behind him, she noticed shadowy figures drawing near. From the beach, from the woods on either side of the lane. In the gloom, all she could make out were the bright white letters on their dark jackets. CPD. DEA. DOJ. FBI. A mob of three letter acronyms converging on them. She remembered their acronym for Daniel.
CPOT. Consolidated Priority Target.
He dropped her like she was hot. Then backed away from her until his legs hit the fender of the ‘Cuda.
The acronyms were all yelling things at them: “Hands where we can see them!”
“Get on the ground!”
“Slowly!”
Julia lifted her hands, but Daniel did no such thing. He reached behind him, and she had a sudden fear he was going for the gun he sometimes carried in his waistband.
“Daniel, no!” she screamed.
