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“Well, that’s D.C. for you,'' I say as I finish my coffee quickly. Feeling on edge, I stand and say my goodbyes, no longer able to sit still at the counter and make small talk. I walk up the street to the hardware store and grab the things I need, before getting in my truck and driving back to the cabin, suddenly feeling rattled and not like my usual calm and collected self.
Marriage proposal. If she is engaged, where the hell was the guy at the funeral, because he sure as shit wasn’t there for her. I pull up into my driveway, parking next to the cabin, and slam my door closed with pent-up frustration. I am feeling agitated, annoyed, a little angry even. It has started to rain slightly, so I unpack the truck of the new tools and materials I purchased from town and put them in the shed, then make my way inside.
I kick off my boots and take a big, calming breath. I am not sure if it is the lack of sleep, or the thoughts of not ever seeing Isabelle again, but I am on edge and feel like I could punch something, or someone.
With that thought in my head, I run up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and go into my small control room. Almost identical to the one we have in Boston for the Marshalls, this control room looks out of place here at my cabin in the woods. But given my job, I need to be contactable at all times. I need to have my eyes and ears on the boys daily and have access to the latest technology. So, I mirrored the Boston set-up and made my own control room, along with satellite dishes on the roof for uninterrupted connection 24/7.
I have wall-to-wall screens, five different keyboards and computers, and even a small, separate server room, because I work from three different servers and they operate from multiple different locations. I have another wall covered in maps, notes, and photographs of different people, all depending on who we are looking for or looking after and why. Right now, it is adorned with Marco, Frankie, and her brother, Sebastian, and his known associates, because I want to understand the entire Mafia world now that I have been plunged directly into it.
Behind me and next to the server room, is another room which is my own personal armory. Guns, ammunition, bulletproof vests, survival kits; you name it, I have it. The room is also reinforced with steel so it becomes a panic room. Not that I will need it out here in Hancock, but it was fun to install.
Danny helped me put it together. I remember the day vividly as he shook his head at the lengths I went to in order to have it in the house, but it gave us something to work on together during a time when we were both struggling with the nightmares of battle. So, it was worth it.
I sit down in my large, black leather desk chair and hit the keyboard on my personal laptop so the large screen above me comes to life. I am tech savvy and have spent a lot of time searching for people and monitoring them, so looking up people and finding out details that are usually off limits has never been an issue for me.
But right now, for the first time, I feel like a stalker. Like a teenage boy looking up a girl on social media before he asks her out. I feel awkward, and I hate that she makes me feel like this. I am always in control. I am always fearless, but right now, my heart is jumping out of my chest, and I can’t stop it.
Typing in her name and latest news, I hit enter and sit back. The screen comes alive with photo after photo of Isabelle. I knew when I saw her at the funeral that she was beautiful, but looking at these photos now, I realize that she is absolutely stunning. Images from events, candid shots of her out on the street, grabbing coffee, photos of her laughing in the park, she is clearly a celebrity of sorts in D.C.; the photographers have every type of photo of her.
Then there are ones from this week. She is dressed in black, leaving the house, arriving at the cemetery for Danny’s funeral. It gives me pause, and I sigh, rubbing my face in my hands. I am about to close it all down before another image catches my eye. This one is dated from yesterday, so I click to enlarge it. Sure enough, she is at a fancy restaurant, and there is a guy down on bended knee. I click on it again to zoom in, and I realize that the guy is none other than the douche from the funeral. The one that she looked rather uncomfortable with.
Now I have seen it, I can’t stop, so I click to read the article. The headline jumps out at me.
Washington D.C.’s most desirable woman, still single as proposal goes pear-shaped after brutal rejection.
What the fuck? I start to scroll and read the article, now totally committed to learning what has happened.
Washington D.C.’s darling, Isabelle Connors, made a very public statement last night to her ex-boyfriend Richard Richardson. Pictured having dinner at Fiola Mare, Richard went down on bended knee, and received only rejection from our beloved bachelorette.
Witnesses say that the ring, purchased from Harry Winston New York earlier in the week, was a massive 5.5 carat emerald cut diamond. We can only say that any woman to reject such an amazing diamond must truly be a strong woman indeed.
I sit back in my chair, a small grin sneaking onto my face for the first time since Tony broke the news to me this morning. Issy is strong, all right. Sounds like she knows exactly what she wants too, and it ain’t him. And who the fuck calls their son Richard Richardson? I knew he was a douche the minute I spotted him at the funeral.
I proceed to look over other articles featuring Isabelle and learn that she is a successful businesswoman and is very popular in the D.C. scene. Danny never spoke in detail about what she did for work, but you could tell he was very proud of her, and after reading a few articles, I can see why. I also learn that Richard is the son of Seymour Richardson, a small-time businessman who just retired, giving Richard his small law firm.
I continue looking at images of Isabelle. Photos of her at every event, looking fucking drop-dead gorgeous. There are of course more photos of her at the funeral, and photos from last night at the restaurant. Gossip sites have been camped out at her house all morning, but it appears that she has not been seen since fleeing the restaurant.
Articles outline that her scumbag ex, Richard, is saying no comment. The society circle is backing Isabelle, many women saying that Richard is not the man for her. I also read that they actually separated a few months ago, so I wonder what possessed him to propose marriage if they weren’t even together?
Many articles comment that she is still heartbroken over losing her dad, and that is the first line in any story that I know is the truth. Because so am I.
7
Isabelle
I pull up to the cabin and sit in the Jeep, not able to go in. It is raining, just like the day we laid him to rest. The cloud cover is grey and gloomy, and even though I have been sitting in this car driving for the past six hours, I can’t move. I can’t get my body out of the car. I am stiff and sore, but my feet remain stuck, like cement.
It has been a long time since I have been here, and I have never been here without dad. The pain of losing him, the memories, the feeling of remorse and regret for not spending enough time with him slowly creeps up my spine. Coupled with my disastrous night last night and my stomach is in knots of anxiety.
I knew the local media would grab onto the story fast, so as soon as I read dad's letter, I packed my bags, jumped into his Jeep, which he always had full of fuel, and drove straight to Kelly’s house. I spent the night, and together we dissected every inch of the evening, ascertaining that Richard is insane, before we moved on to talking about the funeral guy again and how dreamy he is. Who he is will be a mystery we just will not be able to solve.
I got up early and left around 8am, and I am glad I did. Kelly called me during my drive to tell me the local press flew in like vultures around the office, and no doubt, camped outside the front of my house.
The rain drops splatter on the windshield in a steady motion and blur my view as I look at the small log cabin my dad enjoyed so much. Here in Hancock, this was his haven. Surrounded by tall fir trees, green grass, and forest floor full of leaves and nettles, with a lake nearby; it is beautiful. He purchased this place when he retired from active duty, and he would often come here, mostly on his own. He needed the space, because living in the city full-time once you have had so much time by yourself in the military can be too much for some people.
That certainly was the case with dad, and many of his team. I know Tony and his wife, Maggie, have a place here where they spend all their time, and many of the other veterans do too. It is like their sanctuary. When I was younger, he brought me here many times, but once I started university and got caught up in event management and building my business, dad took more and more solo trips. Guilt overwhelms me at the thought. I should have been with him more.
I have vivid memories of attempting to catch fish in the lake, watching dad build the outhouses, chopping wood—dad taught me everything when we came up here. You wouldn’t know it to look at me now, all prim and proper, and a lady of the social scene in Washington D.C. I’m not sure I could even remember how to chop a log, and I sure as hell don’t have the upper body strength for it.
