Page 134 of Antihero

She was on the job. Always.

Like her, the building was from another era. A Second World War wood-frame structure with a gable roof and narrow windows.

It was set apart from the training grounds and the hangars to the north, nestled cozily into a stand of black cherry trees stripped naked by winter. Branches clawed skeletally outward, red-tinged black, bark scaly and unforgiving.

Evan parked, got out, walked around, and opened the door for Anca. She emerged, the wet breeze lifting her hair. Templeton waited on the porch, unmoving.

As they approached, Evan braced himself for a thunder of Black Hawks, a storm of Counter-Assault Team members swathed in black BDUs, an incoming volley of less-lethal projectiles. But the world did not crash in on him. There was just Naomi Templeton on the porch, keeping her word.

Once they’d mounted the steps, Templeton peeled herself off the wall and offered her hand to Anca. “Ms. Dumitrescu, I’m Naomi. Thank you for meeting us here.”

Evan appreciated Templeton introducing herself by first name.

“It takes courage and grit and you have the respect of all of us here,” she said. “We have some folks ready to talk with you. The federal prosecutor, Gretchen Barton, is a longtime friend. You’ll have support in there, too, an interviewer specializing in trauma, a victim advocate—”

“I am not a victim,” Anca said. “I was victimized.”

Naomi took a moment to reset, admiration clear on her face. “I understand,” she said. And then, again: “I understand.”

“Thank you, Naomi. I am ready.”

Anca walked past her through the doorway, paused in the front room with its cozy assemblage of armchairs. Her head oriented toward the neighboring room, and then she strode in.

Evan entered in time to catch a glimpse of a conference room and several folks rising to greet Anca as the door swung shut behind her. He stood looking at the closed door.

Naomi’s footsteps creaked up behind him. “It’s a great team. She’ll be okay.”

Evan stared at the raised square panels of the door. “If she gets stuck or scared, they need to ask her to describe what happened in the third person.”

“We got it.”

“She has seizures, too. Can’t control them—”

“You said.”

“If it happens when she’s in there, someone let me know.”

“X.”

She touched his arm, barely. He turned around.

“It’s okay. We got it. We can wait right here.”

Two armchairs by a fireplace, a small table between them.

Evan sat. Naomi sat.

They studied each other.

“So this is what you look like when you’re not in restraints,” she said.

“Easier to see without a spit hood over my head.”

“Oh, come on, princess. I took the spit hood off.”

The fire leapt behind a wrought-iron screen. It smelled good, birchwood exhaling wintergreen and a trace of mint.

“She’s a tough broad,” Naomi said.