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Two weeks later
The whole FI team—plus Hutch, Aidan, and Madeline—was gathered around the main conference room table.
Casey carried in the cake, which was chocolate frosted, decorated with yellow buttercream flowers signifying friendship, and bearing the scripted words: Welcome Home, Emma.
Not welcome back. Welcome home.
Casey placed the cake in the center of the table, which was decorated with a bright yellow tablecloth, napkins, plates, hot cups, and plastic silverware, along with an enormous urn of freshly brewed coffee and a large cake slicer.
“This one’s all yours, Emma,” Casey told her. “You can share or eat the whole thing yourself. We’re so happy to have you back we’ll all forfeit our pieces, right, guys?”
There was a chorus of enthusiastic agreements.
Emma stared from the cake to her teammates, and tears filled her eyes—eyes that were no longer swollen or haunted but had yet to boast that Emma sparkle. “Thank you,” she murmured. “Of course I’ll share. What all of you have done for me—it means more than I can say.”
“You mean more than we can say,” Claire replied, gently squeezing Emma’s hand.
“Yeah, we missed your mouthy quips,” Ryan informed her. “It was way too dull around here.”
“I’ll remind you of that when I’m myself,” Emma responded, her lips curving into a smile that hadn’t come for two weeks.
The welts on her face had gone down, the cuts on her body were rapidly disappearing, and her bruised ribs were healing. She was sore and shaky but physically on the mend. Emotionally, she was, and would be, going for counseling for months, dealing with the deep-seated scars of her trauma.
Still, little by little, Emma was starting to be Emma again.
Over the past two weeks, the team had taken turns sitting with her at her apartment, helping her through her recuperation period—a period that had been ordered by Emma’s doctor and by Casey. Madeleine had visited, too, both as a friend and as a nurse, checking out Emma’s wounds and refreshing her bandages as needed.
The FBI, of course, had come to interview her, both at the University of Vermont Medical Center and here in New York. With the help of Marc’s coaching, she’d told them everything—except the identities of her rescuers. To that question, all she said was that the two men who saved her were dressed totally in black with night goggles and hoods, and that they hadn’t spoken to her, only brought her to the hospital and vanished. She assumed they were heroic FBI agents.
No one at the Bureau had countered that.
“Are you up to cake slicing?” Casey asked now, gazing uncomfortably at the knife. “Or do you want me to do the honors?”
For a moment, Emma eyed the slicer. Then, she said, “I’ll do it.” With a determined look, she stepped forward and cut generous helpings for everyone, her hands steadier than expected. “Go for it, gang,” she urged.
They all complied, beaming as they watched Emma scarf down her piece of cake and cut a second. Finally, her appetite was returning.
“This is the absolute last thing I’m eating until the wedding,” she declared. “It’s only a few days away. I have to fit into my dress.”
“Why does every woman say that?” Patrick asked, shaking his head in bewilderment. “I’ve heard Adele utter those same words a thousand times over the past thirty-five years. And she’s never had a problem fitting into anything.”
Casey laughed. “It’s a female thing.”
“Yeah, Marc,” Ryan said cheerfully as he polished off another forkful of cake. “Get used to it. You’re about to enlist for life.”
Marc put down his plate and wrapped his arm around Maddy’s waist. “I’m a willing recruit.”
“Even if you have to give up lap dances?” Maddy’s eyes danced, as she reminded Marc of the unexpected and unappreciated part of his bachelor party—a part that he’d been bitching about all week.
“No comment.” Marc glared from Aidan to Ryan to Hutch.
“Kudos to us, Aidan,” Ryan said. “He’s still pissed off. “Yeah, the arrangements did have their benefits. Which reminds me…” Aidan dug around in his shirt pocket and produced a slip of paper. “The lovely Yvonne—lap dancer number one—asked me to give you this.” He offered the paper to Marc. “It’s her cell phone number. She said that anytime you get bored, give her a call, and she’ll give you more than a lap dance.”
Maddy reached over and snatched the scrap of paper, tearing it into a dozen pieces and tossing it into the trash. “Problem solved.”
Everyone burst out laughing.
“Pardon me, Casey.” Yoda’s voice echoed through the room. “My data scanner has just alerted me to a national press conference that’s about to air on all major networks. It’s being held by the FBI and pertains to Maxim Lubinov. Shall I display it for you?”
