Cast the Cards

This job could get to you if you weren’t cautious. Spending so much time up to your neck in the worst-case scenarios caused erosion on your soul and mind. It was why she never got too serious with anyone. They wouldn’t understand, and she didn’t want the vulnerability that came along with love.

Her mind turned to the event that had shattered her life. Most people were fortunate enough to live under the assumption they were safe from the horrible tragedies that happened in the news. She’d learned at twenty-one that was bullshit.

Quantico was close enough to her hometown to get back within a couple of hours—the perfect amount of miles to keep her distance while remaining involved. She loved her parents, but they expected her to return to the person she’d once been, before Clark’s death. She never could.

It was painful having to choose between whom she needed to be and who they wanted her to be. Marriage and kids weren’t even a blip on her radar. There was too much to do. How could she ever be truly happy when Clark’s murderers were still on the loose, he was in the ground, and the world seemed to go to hell a little more each day?

When she reached her black SUV she placed her satchel in the passenger seat, slipped behind the wheel, and started the car. She connected her MP3 player and pulled up the playlist simply titled Clark. “Lost Prophets” came through the speakers and she was taken back to that golden time when the Three Musketeers were untouched and happy.

As the music lulled her into a full-blown case of nostalgia, a fresh wave of regret and guilt broke over her. She did Carey dirty, abandoned him when he needed her most. The cowardly act haunted her. Ironic I can hunt down hardened criminals but can’t apologize to my childhood friend and move on.

AC/DC exploded over the speakers and she laughed. This would forever remind her of the Carr boys. They inherited their father’s love for classic rock and by proxy passed it on to her. She couldn’t listen to anything pre-1980 without thinking of them.

As the tires ate up the road, her happy reminiscing turned somber. The question she never found an answer for her snaked its way to the forefront. Why did I survive when Clark didn’t?

Despite how bad it made her feel, she couldn’t stop picking apart her life. Had she done enough with the extra time she’d been given? Clark gave his life for hers. Did she prove her worth? By the time she pulled into the city limits she was a frazzled mess. Her hands trembled and her stomach churned like the water in the sound.

Parked outside the local florist, she stepped from the car, her wraparound black sunglasses still in place. The last thing she wanted the people to be flapping their gums about was poor Savannah West and her puffy, red eyes.

The scent of freshly-cut flowers and the cheery atmosphere were lost to her as she scanned the area from behind the safety of her lenses. A large, bright bouquet caught her gaze from inside the refrigerated case on the far right. The mix of yellows, reds, and oranges called to her like a homing beacon.

She opened

the case, removed the bundle, and turned on her heel. Chill bumps broke out over her skin. Déjà vu hit. This extra sensory perception had occurred that night she’d been kidnapped. Her internal compass had become the catalyst that led her to her position in the F.B.I. Training kicked in. She did a sweep of the area from her peripheral, careful to maintain a regular gait and lax body language. When she came up empty, she chalked the unease up to the anniversary.

I hate being off my game. After the dust from the explosion of life as she knew it settled, she put Savannah West back together, piece by piece, and decided to dedicate her life to helping victims of crimes and their families. The work was hard and climbing the ladder was a nasty, no-holds-barred fight among the ranks.

Still, she had an affinity for reading people, getting into their psyche and under their skin. It was a gift she’d previously taken for granted. The nagging feeling in the back of her head that told her when a situation or a person was safe or not, the one her mother called her inner voice, served her well. Coached to listen to her inner voice from the time she was young, she never imagined it would come in handy. If only she’d listened that night.

Disgusted by the cycle she allowed to happen each year, she kept her face a blank canvas when she reached the register.

“Will that be all for you, dear?” the older woman with salt-and-pepper hair that curled around her ears asked.

“Yes, ma’am.” She was a Dale transplant. It gave her the anonymity she craved.

“That’s going to be $54.30.”

Savannah handed over her card, lost again in the recesses of her mind. She signed the receipt, took the flowers, and walked back to her car on autopilot.

The day was gorgeous. She scowled as she parked her car on the gravel road. It should at least be overcast. Summer in Dale had always felt wrong after Clark was taken. It was a big part of why she’d switched colleges. The town that had once been her cornerstone became stifling and oppressive. The looks, whispers, and accusing stares from those who blamed her for the tragedy had become too much.

She pried her fingers from the steering wheel, grabbed the flowers from the passenger seat, and opened her door.

Then she made the walk she could probably do in her sleep. The sun beat down on her black sports coat, spreading heat across her shoulders and onto her back. The black pants, practical for work, were sweat-soaked and stuck to her upper thighs.

There was a time when she used to get dressed up for this. Now it was too damn maudlin. She rounded the last curve and paused fifty yards away. The gravesite was well-tended, the dark gray slab that bore Clark’s likeness waited patiently, like an old friend. I halfway think you’re here with me, Clark. It was why she continued to come. For these brief moments every year she stood in his presence.

Her pulse raced. The air filled with anticipation. On the cusp of an intangible event, she moved forward. In front of the grave she almost expected him to appear, the sexy smirk that made her forgive all on his lips. A strangled laugh escaped from her clogged throat.

“Only you could get me out here talking to the wind.”

“Seems to me you used to do that sort of thing all the time.” The deep voice made her want to cover her ears. Pain splintered her heart and water rushed to her eyes.

No. Frozen in place she held her position. There hadn’t been anyone around for miles. She spun, her heart in her throat. A moment of disappointment preceded the anger. It was Carey. The years had been kind. His shoulders were broad, and his muscles appeared sinewy in the khaki pants he’d paired with a dark blue polo. The hair that used to fall into his eyes had been tamed into a spiky style reminiscent of a faux hawk. Tattoos covered his forearms. It shocked her system. In her mind’s eye he’d still been that lanky boy she’d grown up with.

How could I not have heard him approach? That’s not like me.

Silence stretched between them like a shaky rope ladder that needed to be traveled upon with care. She licked her lips. It was her mistake to make right. Time to man up.