Page 86 of Jonesing for a Spy

We’re flying down Highway 98, heading for Foley. Apparently, Mom’s errands include a little shopping. At least it’s not Black Friday and most of the tourists are heading home. Snow birds are a different animal, but they won’t be competing with her for, well… anything.

“How’s your case?” she asks over the wind and Wilson Phillips’ “Hold On.”

“About that⁠—”

Her head whips my way in shrewd assessment. “What did you do?”

There it is. Assumption. Judgment. Reduced expectations. Why is it only me? Some moms live vicariously through their daughters cheerleading, dancing, or pageants. Why must mine live vicariously through my job? It’s not glamorous. It’s a job.

But I know the answer. She got pregnant with Charlie earlier than she planned. She was going to be a career spy something like James Bond—only American, female, with less sex appeal and more sarcasm. She doesn’t blame Charlie. Or any of us, but getting her fix through me is her jonesing for a rewind.

“How about you don’t assume the worst?” That sounds too small when I mean it to be more defensive. “Also, for this moment can you be my mom first and not some spokesperson for your former agency?”

She yanks the car into a parking lot of a western wear store and throws it into park. If she could’ve fishtailed it into the spot and walked out with the tires still smoking, she would have. Just for the effect. Hell, she had Dad write that scene into a movie about her life.

“Talk to me, Mirren.”

“I’m trying, Mom. And to be clear, I need someone to talk with, so I’m asking you to leave your credentials and accomplishments outside.”

She twists sideways in her seat and puts her back to the door. “I can do that. Tell me.”

I do. I tell her about Charlie knowing Strider, her throwing me into his chest, and him renting my house. That part she knew—it’s the only way I could convince her not to come up to my apartment that day. She’d have blown her cover and mine if he’d seen her and met her.

I tell her about Price O’Neill or Sal Smith, whatever his name is, and him losing his shit on Strider, and the jailbreak.

“I know Sal’s family, actually. I know stories about him. Yeah, he has a temper, but nothing like that. I bet he’s on administrative leave over that stunt.”

That stunt? I sigh, because I haven’t even gotten to that part.

“I’m dating him.”

“Mirren! He’s married. And the Smiths? No!”

I extend a palm her way. “Stop. No. Strider Anderson.”

Her eyes pop wide, her brows lifting, and her mouth pops into a little ‘O.’ Surprising Mom, aside from pranks and tomfoolery is hard to do. Cartoon me slashes a one in the air. Real me resists with every bit of discipline in my body.

“Charlie’s friend? That the agency is actively investigating? Mirren, I⁠—”

I cut her off. “Do you trust your gut?”

“Unequivocally.”

“As I trust mine.”

“Oh. So…”

“So, they’re investigating the wrong man⁠—”

“Or they’re framing him,” Mom slides into the sentence, going where I never wanted to.

“Or they’re framing him,” I repeat quietly. “And since I had to recuse myself from the assignment…”

“Do nothing, Mirren. This is your career you’re messing with.”

She says nothing of my life they’re messing with.

Or Strider’s.