Blood and Bone(74)
Rory slaps him on the arm. “Your secret is safe with us.”
The officer laughs, but I can tell he wishes he hadn’t told us that detail. We make people nervous—uncategorized military personnel with a higher security clearance than the head of the CIA make everyone nervous. But we don’t belong to the United States; we belong to everyone. A joint task force of nations with everyone from Interpol to the UN at our disposal for information and assistance.
We make people nervous. If they knew what we could do, they would be far more than scared. No one wants to know a person can crawl inside them, rifling through their secrets.
He drives us down a dusty road through the woods.
She was hot and dusty when she came down this road. He turns at a spot I wouldn’t have. The road looks rugged. When he stops I am stunned. It takes a lot to surprise me, but the lake is shockingly beautiful. It’s not how I pictured it. I never saw it in her head, but I wish I had. It would be more beautiful without the mass of law enforcement and medical staff everywhere.
We jump out, running immediately for the line of blue tarps on the side of the rocky beach. I pause, shaking my head when I see them all lined up. There are over twenty now. Rory stands next to me, whistling. “You hit the fucking jackpot.”
“Stop cussing.” My words are blank, but my heart is aching. The pretties who are different, who didn’t talk anymore or look at her, line the beach, each one tied with rope in varying states of decay.
A man in a white forensics suit comes walking over. His face is gray, and his eyes are heavy. “Quite the tip you got there. Can’t say I ever saw this many bodies in one place.”
I nod. What else is there to say? I have seen this many bodies before. I have seen them in Italy—Turin, to be exact. They never lined a beautiful shore. They lined a bunker in the hills, and they weren’t corpses any longer. They were skeletons. I glance up at Rory, wondering if he is reliving the events from that place. His haunted eyes suggest he might be.
18. THE BACKSTORY
When I walk into my town house the black-and-white fiend who stalks the halls comes running. I lift him up, taking a deep inhale of him with my eyes closed. “I missed you too, Binxy.” He purrs, rubbing his head against mine. His thick fur tangles in my fingers, and I notice he’s heavier. “Someone has been milking a certain nice old lady for treats.”
He purrs innocently, ignoring my accusations. If it weren’t for those treats he’d be clawing at me, so we are both grateful. He gets mean when he’s alone too much.
I place him down, noticing the smell in the house. She’s left me food again. Mrs. Starling is the best neighbor a girl could have. She bakes and cooks and cares for my cat when I’m away. Her children live all the way in Seattle, running the family company there. She’s alone in DC, like me. We make for the very best neighbors. She likes to give, even when you don’t ask, and I like to pretend we are family. She is the one person in the world I have. I take the dish of piping-hot chicken Parmesan, my favorite, out of the oven, and start to heat up the noodles in the microwave. Leaning over the top I smell the spices and herbs mixing with the cheese and sauce. It’s a perfect food, really.
There’s a knock at the door, interrupting my worshipping.
I turn, sketchy for a second, but then I remember I am not Samantha Barnes and walk to the door, lifting Binx up so he doesn’t run away. I nearly gasp when I see the green/gray eyes staring down on me. He lifts my lipstick-red bag into the air. “You forgot this.”
“Thank you.” I take it from him, trying not to imagine us writhing against one another, trying not to be obvious that I am in love with him. He glances down, his glasses and fluffy hair making me smile. There’s no way they can hide the perfection of his face and expressions. He’s a Clark Kent.
He looks behind him at his silver Mercedes in my driveway. “Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I point behind me, mimicking him, and blurting, “I have dinner prepared. Do you want to come in?”
“I’d love to.” He nods, saying it too quickly. “What did you make?”
My cheeks light up. “Oh, I don’t cook. My neighbor cooks, but she’s diabetic and can’t eat much of anything she makes, so she leaves it here. She knows I eat like a horse.” I’m an idiot. I can take down an entire cartel alone and sharpshoot like I invented it, but I can’t talk to him without saying ridiculous things.
He grins. “I like girls who eat.” He scowls, and I imagine we are suddenly on the same page, the uncool page. He clearly regrets saying it and tries to fix it. “I mean, instead of girls who pretend they don’t eat, or go to the bathroom. You know, they always look too perfect, too skinny.”