Tied Up in Knots (Marshals 3)

“Anything” was the answer from the other end.

Since Drake and Cabot were now officially out of the program, I could treat them like lackeys and no one could say a word to me. And they both knew all about WITSEC, and even though it was not protocol… I did it anyway because it was in the best interest of my witness.

The boys were in my office an hour later, both with visitor badges on, smiling and ready to help. By then I’d fed Josue again, explained how things worked—again—and realized that even though he was way more together than Cabot and Drake had been, he was still very young and very alone, and when I presented myself as a life raft, I had to be prepared for people to climb on and never want to leave. Sometimes I forgot the choices weren’t mine. They belonged to those I was trying to help. No one could tell you to walk; you did it when you were ready. I needed to make Josue ready, which meant the allure to jump had to be greater than the safety net I was offering.

I saw the boys come in and told Josue his new friends had just shown up.

He looked up and saw them crossing the floor, and Drake smiled and Cabot waved, and I saw Josue breathe like maybe everything was going to be all right.

“Hi,” he sighed when Cabot walked right up and gave him a big hug.

“Hey,” Drake greeted him happily, hugging him the second Cabot let go. “Did Miro adopt you too?”

Josue nodded, and I rolled my eyes because they were all annoying, but it was good. They started talking about the shirt Josue was wearing that was from some band they all liked.

I wasn’t listening. I didn’t care.

“Hey, Miro, Josue draws a webcomic, isn’t that awesome?”

“Not anymore, he doesn’t,” I informed them, because his online presence had been deleted. He had no links to digital portfolios, no Facebook account, no Twitter, nothing. He was gone from any and all social media.

“Well, yeah, no, but Cab’s working on starting one, so maybe they could do it together,” Drake said, all excited.

“Great, fabulous, go away now,” I commanded, using my hands to motion them toward the elevator. “I’ll see all you all on Thursday.”

They were talking again and I was thankfully forgotten as they walked slowly, noisily out of the bullpen and toward the hall. I went around them to go get a bottle of water out of the fridge in the break room. By the time I got back, they were gone.

When I sat down, I had a moment of bliss because it was quiet and still, and then I got a weird feeling, like something was off, hinky, and when I looked up, all eyes were on me.

Literally everyone in the room was staring at me.

“What?” I asked because it was creepy as hell.

“So,” Sharpe drew out the word. “What’re we having for Turkey Day?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Tell me what you want me to bring, asswipe.”

“What I want you to bring?”

“Man, how tired are you?”

Was I awake?

“What?” White called over to me. “You’re not just inviting the children over, are you?”

A quick glance around clarified it wasn’t only the two of them asking. Everybody was interested in my answer. You could hear a pin drop in the normally noisy space. “No?”

“That’s right, no,” White agreed. “Me and Pam will bring some booze and her world-famous cranberry salad.”

“Great,” I replied woodenly, because how was this happening?

“My folks are on a cruise this year,” Becker informed me as I did a slow turn in my chair to face the room. “And Olivia’s family’s in Portland, as you know.”

I had no earthly idea that his wife’s family lived in Oregon.

“What do you want us to bring?”

“I—”

“My family’s going to my brother’s place in Hartford,” Ching explained before I could answer Becker, “but Gail has an HR training to give that Monday, so we can’t go.”

I nodded.

“I’ll text her and see if she wants to make stuffing, and I make an ambrosia salad that’ll melt your face off.”

Was that a good thing?

“My mother’s cooking, and she’ll wanna pack a ton of it for you, so count on me for a crapton of sides,” Kohn promised, giving me a nod like it was all settled.

“My folks are going to see my brother Elliot and his wife this year, Jones, so after we drop by her folks’ place, Sandi and me are all yours,” Dorsey said like he was doing me a favor, and with his wife, he was. I’d take Sandi Dorsey; she was kind, funny, and down-to-earth. Her asshat husband was a whole other story. “She’ll wanna make this broccoli cheese casserole for you. It’s real good.”

I had no doubt.

“Olivia makes a pecan pie that’s to die for,” Becker chimed in. “She won’t make it for me because I’ll eat the whole thing, but I bet I could get her to make it for you.”