Page 23 of Stay Close
“Unlikely,” I say.
Edie is smart. I don’t want to scare the light from her eyes. I want to tell her it was nothing and that I’ll take care of it. But I need her help to do that.
“The threat was potentially lethal,” I say, sliding her a glance. “A threat rarely comes from a coordinated gang of attackers, all wearing dark clothes. He had a hook. That kind of weapon is meant to do maximum damage. Edie…” I grit out. “That was too close.”
I look down at my hands. I’m bleeding along three knuckles and need to get some ice on the swelling.
Black Swan is the best of the best when it comes to private security, but we all have stories about near-misses and slowreflexes. Every tale of failing to protect a client is engraved in my memory. Edie could have been one of those.
A cold spiral bores through my chest, unearthing the deepest, most intense desire I’ve ever felt. I can’t allow this woman to ever be hurt.
I grip the steering wheel tightly, wishing I could write this off as a simple reaffirmation of a professional ethos that makes me willing to throw myself into the path of danger to protect corrupt politicians, professional musicians, and ruthless CEOs alike. But Edie is different. I feel it in my bones.
“You did well,” I say, pushing these feelings aside, promising to turn them over when we are safely behind the walls of the palace. “You had good instincts, and you listened to me perfectly.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” she retorts. “You’ll always keep me safe.”
“Mmm.” My hand shakes, and I drop it to my lap, pressing it flat against my thigh. Her trust is terrifying.
When we return to the palace, I tell Edie to get some rest and head directly to Caroline’s office, tapping the doorframe. She concludes a call and gives me a smile. “How may I help?”
I drop into a chair and lean forward, elbows on my knees. In brief, clinical terms, I describe the attack at the harbor, staring at my hands, willing them to stop shaking. I clench one into a fist and wrap it with the other. “I need the footage collected by the news team at the harbor, but my name will get me nowhere.”
“What will you use it for?” she asks. “Prosecution?”
An American news organization wouldn’t be constrained to surrender such footage, but this is Sondmark. I’ve been briefed on the laws governing speech, and these lighter protections will serve me well. I vow to eat three helpings of apple pie and recite the Gettysburg Address from memory on the Fourth of July to make up for it.
“I suspect most of the protestors were run-of-the-mill partisans—there because they were relatively close to the harbor and were active on a few message boards. Nothing to worry about. But Edie—” I stuff my hand under my arm, hiding the evidence that I care too much. “Edie could have been seriously harmed, and I need to identify the assailant as well as run the images through some facial recognition software. We might find the ringleaders faster.”
Caroline nods. “I’ll make some phone calls and see what I can do.”
I notice that she doesn’t promise to use the full weight of the queen’s office, which is fine. Edie would hate that. But Caroline is a force in her own right—a trustworthy person to have in a tight spot.
I’m on high alert, but the rest of the week is quiet, following the usual pattern of fruitless talks and a frustrating lack of cooperation. On Tuesday evening, I take a video call from my parents. Dad is in his recliner watching FEB Sports. Mom is snuggled up next to him, and he keeps nuzzling her, kissing the top of her head. She probably smells like cookies.
“Will you be home for Easter, m'ijo?” she asks. “Your cousins are coming.”
I grin. Easter will be a big cookout and an egg hunt in one of the fields. Ridiculous amounts of music and food, a bouncy house. Bougie, Edie called us. I grin and wonder if she would like it. I think of other holidays. Cinco de Mayo, Juneteenth, the Fourth of July where, evidently I’ll be performing a monologue as Abraham Lincoln. There isn’t a holiday when the Castillos aren’t cooking. I want Edie at all of them. My face flushes, and I jostle the phone to hide it.
“You’re not sick, are you?” Mom asks, filling the screen.
“No, Ma.”
“Your little room looks tiny. Show it to me.”
I flash the camera around the space, relieved to have to focus somewhere else for a time.
“I’m not here for very long,” I say. “Usually I work in the same room as my client.”
“Do they shove you at a tiny desk in the corner? Are they disrespecting my baby?”
“It’s fine, Mom. She’s nice.”
“Those BLUSH girlies were nice,” Dad butts in, “but look what happened. Now you’re babysitting a rich, old diplomat.”
I smother a grin. Edie is neither rich nor old nor a diplomat.
“What is that? What is that face, Lucas Joseph Castillo? What aren’t you telling me?” Mom asks.
