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She couldn’t sit in her idling car forever. It was almost midnight, and if the glow of lights in the house were any indication, Helen was still awake, waiting for her to come home. She studied her hands; they were holding onto the steeringwheel so tightly that her knuckles were white. She released her grip and felt the tingle of blood returning to her fingertips.
Everything about this situation would be easier if she didn’t like Helen. If she hadn’t grown fond of her children, her cozy little Inglewood home, the way she smiled at Annie first thing in the morning when all Helen’s pretty hair was piled up on her head.
Her last words to Frank Clifton during that last debrief, right before she’d left her letter of resignation in his inbox, echoed in her head. “I got too close,” she’d said. “I cared.”
She couldn’t always turn off the caring, and that particular personality flaw had once more reared its ugly head. She cared about Helen and Zach and Kevin and Ashley. She should sneak around back, put whatever she couldn’t live without into her trunk, and drive off into the night.
Running had worked before.
She scoffed. Now she was just lying to herself. If running had worked so well, she wouldn’t be tied to an electronic pager like it was a ball and chain. If she were really so cold, she’d have told Clifton to shove it, not caring who he hurt in his pursuit of her. She wished she could be that cold. She wished she’d figured out how to be the kind of agent who was both exceptional at her job and ruthlessly indifferent to the results of her actions, but she’d only ever figured out the first half.
She turned off the engine, and the car went dark. It was cold tonight. She’d told her mother not three days ago that she would come home for Christmas and that she was spending Thanksgiving with Lori in Northern California.
“I won’t be alone, Mom,” she’d promised.
It wasn’t cold enough to see her breath in the air, but she needed more than the thin flannel jacket she had on. She could also use a real coat and a pair of jeans not worn through at the knees. But then, she’d expected to be home hours ago.
Walking up to the front door, she turned the knob. It wasn’t locked.
Helen was sitting in the living room, staring at the television. The sound was turned down so low that Annie could barely make out what they were saying, but it looked to be the late news. They probably wouldn’t have a story about the Russian ambassador or the body of a little girl on a flight back to Moscow. No, they’d bury that. Americans didn’t have sympathy for Russian casualties anymore.
Annie slipped her backpack off and dropped it onto the floor. “Have you got anything besides wine in this house?”
“What do you prefer, Annie?” Helen asked. “Vodka? Is that what you learned to like while you were over there?”
“You can’t be mad that I didn’t tell you about things I wasn’t at liberty to tell you about,” Annie said. She’d had the same argument more than once with her father, her brother, and anyone she’d let into her bed more than once.
“I thought you were a prostitute!”
“I know.”
“You let me think it!” Helen hissed. “I could have lived without the emotional struggle of thinking a hooker was living in a cop’s garage.”
“Don’t be mad because you drew your own conclusions. I wasn’t bringing men home. Besides, it’s not like you told me you were a cop.” She moved into the kitchen.
Helen followed her in and stood in the doorway. “You never asked. It’s not a secret!”
“I thought you were a professor!”
“I am. I thought you were a student!”
“I am!”
Helen’s lip twitched just a little.
Itwasrather ridiculous. Annie would laugh if she weren’t terrified of being kicked out of the first place she’d thought of as home in a long, long time.
“I’m glad you’re not a prostitute, Annie. That really is an enormous load off my mind.” Helen dragged a chair over to the refrigerator and climbed up to reach the cupboards over it.
Annie stared at the black leggings that clung to her thighs and calves and the long cream-colored sweater that rode up just a little as she reached up and retrieved a bottle of vodka.
“I do like vodka,” Annie said. “More than white wine.”
“Zach’s asleep, and the kids are at Sal’s,” Helen said. “So go for it.” She handed the bottle to Annie and then pushed the chair back to the table.
But instead of pouring a glass, Annie set the bottle on the counter and crossed her arms with a sigh. Alcohol was rarely the answer for Annie, even when it seemed like a good idea at the time. “You don’t really have to liquor me up, Helen.”
“I’m not…” She stopped. “It’s been a long day.”
