Page 227 of Deep Cover

23

Annie

We flew back to Nevada three days later.

There's something inside me, some kind of control freak, maybe. Or not that. I'm not sure what it is. It's something that comes out and says I'm afraid and then even if I'm not anymore, it still insists I am and that things won't be all right until I get out of that situation.

So the second day in Paris with Cole the thing inside me said that Paris wasn't safe. It was, at least as far as anything ever is safe, because the things that made it unsafe specifically for me were gone. Kie was dead. Vincent was dead. They weren't coming back.

When the bullet had gone into Vincent's brain, I thought it overkill. Of course Cole was reacting the way he should. But I'd already killed Vincent. Or killed him at almost exactly the same minute Cole did.

It wasn't overkill. Even knowing I'd felt the resistance and then snap as Vincent's nose had broken and the end of the bone driven into his brain, it was the outwardly visible bullet hole in his forehead that helped.

I hung on to the idea of Vincent crying when he came after me, in order to believe that Kie was dead too.

But the thing inside me said This isn't safe, get home. If I had to guess, it's a powerlessness that drives that voice. If I knew that I could leave any time I wanted, which probably I could, I'd be fine.

I could leave. I could call my father and refuse to ever tell him a word about what had happened. Probably I could convince him I'd been so deep cover that, even as I came out of it, I couldn't talk about it.

There's that thing again, between fathers and daughters. Because Dad was a cop and because he wasn't always the most straight line kind of cop, I'm sure he'd figured out that if I was working narcotics, from time to time I'd prostituted myself in one way or another to get results.

He'd never said anything about it. And I could probably allude to something like that without ever lying and ask to not only have him bring me home but let me stay at their house and he'd do it. Probably he'd fly over to collect me if that's what I needed.

I couldn't ask that. I didn't want him around me. Not until I magically felt completely clean.

Mark would come. Mark, my incurable romantic. It was time to cut the ties between us. I would, as soon as I was strong enough to go home for any amount of time.

Once I was convinced that this new sobriety would hold. I'd finish my criminal justice work and take the classes I needed to in order to get the degree then apply to the DEA. I thought I'd get in.

And meanwhile for the first day I fretted, still here in France, against my will. Until a different little voice (it was busy in my head) said kind of clearly: Oh, poor you.

One of the most amazing cities in the world. What was I complaining about? When I didn't have an answer, I fought down as much of the anxiousness (and really some of that might have been PTSD getting an early and opportunistic grip) and asked Cole if we could explore.

I expected my Master to reply. Or the Cole who enjoyed such things.

But this Cole barely responded until we were already underway.

I began to wonder if he too needed help to get through this.

We spent the next two days touring Paris. We were tourists. I tried to believe I was getting back at Vincent this way. I was seeing Paris on the arm of one of the most eligible bachelors in the world.

But the truth was, I never escaped the knowledge that Vincent was dead. I'd wanted him dead while he held me, and I was glad he was dead.

That didn't mean there weren't things I'd never get closure on. Things I'd never feel I'd won.

There was also an unpleasant probability that eventually Cole would understand that Vincent couldn't be reached and that I was the reason. Because I'd killed Vincent at the same time he did.

And because I'd been snatched, taken, and he'd come to rescue me and killed Vincent in the process.

Cole would never know for certain that Vincent knew who had shot him.

Unless I told him. Because I was pretty sure that the second the bullet lodged in his brain, it was one second after the lights went out. He might have lived through what I did to him – might have – but even then I doubt he'd have known Cole was responsible for his death even if Cole stood over him with a pillow held in both hands and coming down slowly over Vincent's face.

I didn't like that it mattered to me that Vincent hadn't known.

I didn't like even more that when this finally occurred to Cole or when he allowed himself to dwell on it, that I'd be the only one left that he could blame.

And the only one left who could be punished for taking away his chance for revenge. Twisted, yes, but likely.

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