Behind Closed Doors (Rochester Trilogy 3.50)

But not for long. We leave the inn, and we’re signing up for a lifetime of being hunted. Those are the stakes in games like these. I swore not to hurt her, and somehow it’s turned into a hit on a civilian. The chain of command has already decided she’s a risk, and they’re concealing their reason from me. I don’t know what’s happening. Staying alive is going to be complicated as hell if the CIA is after us and if I’m after her at the same time.

Is that what we’re looking at? Marjorie, free in the country, and me trailing after her to try to keep her safe?

“Did he say anything else to you? Make any comments?”

“No, he never has much to say. Why? Was he chatting your ear off?”

“Yes. Something’s different about the job. People are getting nervous.”

People like the fucking handler. People like me.

“That’s the impression I got.” A pause. “You don’t fuck up on jobs, though. That’s the part that doesn’t fit.”

“I don’t fuck up on jobs, and he doesn’t get emotional.”

“I’m sorry I can’t help you.” Fuck. “I could call him, but—”

“No. Don’t do that.” That’s not what I want out of Ellen. A phone call like that will put her in danger in more ways than one. “Don’t draw attention to yourself.”

“See? This is how I know you’re loyal. You’re a fucking prince in this line of work.”

“You got any ideas for what’s next?” It’s not like me to ask another agent for help. We don’t have collaborative jobs. We don’t get together and trade stories. We don’t tell anything to anyone. We don’t talk to each other long enough to learn anything personal. Even if we did, there’s nothing to learn. We don’t have homes. We don’t have families. I thought I could get through my career without any of that, but now I need one conversation with another person.

“Disappear.” Ellen’s firm. “Disappear and never look back.”

“How am I supposed to do that if—”

If Marjorie has a home. That’s what I don’t say to Ellen. It doesn’t matter if Marjorie has a home in Eben Cape. I’ve never had anything of the kind. I tried to find it in college. I tried at the CIA. I’ve done a damn good job at finding a replacement to take up my time and attention, but I always knew it would come at the cost of having any real life.

It fucking kills me to think about how hard Marjorie worked for her life. She was left with scraps, and she made the Lighthouse Inn. It’s incredible. I know. Because I know everything about her. I know everything that happened to her.

It matters.

What Ellen is suggesting would be like burning the inn to the ground, and I don’t want to do that.

It might be the only way to survive.

“You know any good vacation spots?”

“There’s a place in Italy,” Ellen offers. “Been there a couple times. Should be good for a short stay, at least. But you know. The treaties.”

“Yeah.” Countries work together on this kind of shit. The CIA is made up of solitary agents who have to travel across the globe. They have connections with other agencies. Countries have various diplomatic treaties. If any of those other agencies were to locate me, they’d have incentives to deport. “How are the reviews?”

“Mostly positive.”

Ellen’s offering me something good. A place to hide. A little piece of her own network. Connections like this are rare and secret, made up of people who never give up names, never give up locations….

Unless somebody else makes it worth it for them.

I could go to Italy with Marjorie. We’d have to fly. We’d need passports. IDs. I don’t have any of that shit. Marjorie doesn’t have a passport, either. She was never planning to cross any international borders. I could get new documents, but it would take time, and I’m not sure we have enough of that to spare.

“I’m thinking about a chance,” I announce to Ellen. “Another line of work.”

“You didn’t mention that. I guess we won’t be talking any time soon. Nice of you to say your goodbyes.”

“It was good working with you.”

“It was good working with you, too.” She laughs. We never really worked together. Solo jobs. Sometimes in the same country. Ellen’s the only number I’ve got in my phone, besides the handler.

“It was nice to hear your voice. Hey, forget you ever heard about me, okay?”

“I don’t know who this is.” Ellen’s voice turns brisk. “You must have had the wrong number.”

The call clicks off.

I’m on my own.

Chapter Fifteen

Marjorie

Sam’s on the phone again, and that’s what gives me the courage to run.

Not far down the beach is a dock. The boat’s not mine, but I’m friendly with the old couple who own the house. They leave the keys in a little box under the dock. I fumble for the keys and jump into the boat. The bag I tried to pack earlier was too much. I left it behind and took the black purse that’s been my go-bag since I turned eighteen.