Page 19 of The Fixer and the Fugitive

“Too bad I’m out of commission or we could play outside,” Sam said.

Celeste’s head swiveled slowly in his direction.

“What?” he added.

“You would play outside?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“I’m a grown human adult,” she replied.

He snorted a laugh. “A redundant one, apparently. Didn’t you love to play outside in the snow when you were a kid?”

She faced forward and stared at the snow, trying desperately to remember a time when she had ever played in it, happy and carefree. “Not that I remember.” Now it was his turn to stare at her. “What?”

He faced forward. “Nothing. Finish your meal, grown human adult.”

She pushed it away, suddenly not hungry. “Maybe pie will help.” She hadn’t meant to say the words out loud, but Sam laughed again.

“Celeste, pie always helps.”

She was inclined to agree, so it was with some sense of excitement that she unboxed the pretty pie, sliced it, and returned with a generous serving for each of them. As they ate their pie in oddly comfortable silence, staring at the snow, Celeste felt a feeling so unfamiliar it took her a while to identify it. When she did, she couldn’t understand it. Why did she feelcontentin this moment in this house with this man, eating this pie? Was it the moment? The house? The man? The pie?

“Why are you staring at the pie? Does it not taste good?” Sam asked as he watched her deconstruct a bite of pie, turning it over with her fork.

“It’s perfect,” Celeste said and even she could hear the slight melancholy in her tone. “How do you think someone makes something so perfect?” To her the act of making a pie was as foreign as the act of building a nuclear reactor. In fact with as much time as she’d spent with the bomb demo guys, she’d probably have better success with a reactor. How did ingredients—fruit and such—turn into a masterpiece like this?

“Probably like everything, lots of practice,” Sam mused. He didn’t stare at his pie; he demolished it in four bites and stared hungrily toward the kitchen. Celeste didn’t offer to refill his pie,her mind was still on its maker. Had the woman’s mother taught her to bake? Was it yet another life skill she lacked because she was, for all intents and purposes, an orphan? How much different would her life have been if someone had taken the time to invest in her, to teach her how to make pie, apply makeup, curl her hair, wash her clothes, cook food, place her napkin in her lap, and all the other things she’d missed out on by being a ward of the state? Some of the foster parents had tried. One taught her to make her bed and do the laundry. Another taught her to wait for others to begin eating and place her napkin in her lap. Those were little things, but she had used them proudly, glad for some training in a foreign world. The other kids as school, kids with parents, had seemed to know instinctively how to behave, what not to do in order to resist drawing unwanted attention or trouble. Celeste had been like a bull in a china shop, too loud, unable to chew with her mouth closed, always a mess of crumbs and dirt. Even as a kid she had felt less than, looked down on by the other kids and teachers who realized how sorely lacking in training she was. Her perpetual frustration in life, she later realized, was that she was aware of her lack and had no idea how to fill the void. Basic training had taught her how to be a soldier. Further training had taught her how to be an assassin. But there was no manual or training for real life. And every day in Paradise was a reminder of her inability to function as a grown human adult.

Unbidden, her eyes strayed to her journal, itching to unwind her deep thoughts. She no longer wanted to carry them around inside her. Too much of her life had been spent stumbling under the weight of them. Writing them in her journal allowed her to release a bit of the pent up rage, grief, and resentment. Each time she wrote about something, it felt like releasing a long-held and stale breath, allowing her to draw a much-needed fresh one. Could she write with Sam here? It felt odd to have him inher space, filling it with his warm eyes and thoughtful, studying glances. But his blinks were already growing heavy. Soon he would sleep, and then she would write.

Chapter 13

After Sam finally conked out, Celeste reached for her journal with some urgency. She could hear him snoring softly on the couch, but she darted him a glance in case, reassuring herself he was fully asleep. She could have taken the journal to her room, but she didn’t want to. The bedroom was for sleep; the living room was for writing. By keeping the two spaces separate, she allowed herself to reserve the bedroom for rest and sleep, two things she desperately needed after unburdening so much of her emotional baggage.

She picked up her pen and, as ever, the words began to flow, hateful, desolate words filled with bitter remembrance from her unhappy, chaotic childhood. In her haste to unscramble what flew out of her, she tried hard to think of one happy snow-filled memory, just one to add to the growing horror. Instead she could only remember the time she’d been locked out after arriving too far past curfew. Those caregivers had been strict and harsh, believing the children in their care had been too long without proper boundaries. Celeste had gotten caught up at a construction site, fascinated by all the concrete tunnels and towers she’d been able to commandeer. When she arrived homeand found the door locked, she prepared herself for a long night of no supper.I’ve been hungry before,she reminded herself. But as the temperature dropped rapidly and the wind picked up, she realized she was about to face something new: hunger in the snow.

It began to fall fast and hard and Celeste banged on the door, certain they would let her inside when they realized how cold it was, how much it was snowing. No one came, however. The door remained steadfast, a reminder of her punishment.

I’m going to die,she thought, her too-thin body wracked with shivers.

No I’m not,she argued, stumbling through the yard to find whatever she could assemble as a shelter. The family doghouse was empty, and celeste was small enough to fit. She dragged a piece of cardboard inside with her, using it to block the wind from the entrance. While not exactly warm, it provided some small measure of protection from the wind and snow. Celeste wasn’t comfortable, but she probably wouldn’t die. That night a new realization began to take place inside her. She couldn’t count on the grownups anymore. Until that moment she’d harbored a small amount of hope that someday someone would come along and save her. But no one was coming. She would have to care for herself and, inspecting her makeshift shelter, she could. And she would.I’m going to take care of me,she vowed.No matter how, no matter what.

With the vow came a small measure of security. From now on she would be okay because she would make certain she would be okay. But there was a strange loss of something she couldn’t pin down, a little piece of her heart that closed up and sealed itself away.

Celeste paused and stared into space, pen held aloft, trying to find the proper word to identify what she couldn’t back then. What had she lost that night, when she gained herindependence?Hope.She had tucked it away, replaced it with cynicism. Was it gone completely or, like her child self that night, was it simply weathering the storm, hoping for morning and a rescue?

There was an anemic little flutter in her chest, and she wondered if it was that long ago hope, locked away and trying to break free. But to what end? What if she found her hope again? What would she do with it? Could she safely bring it here, to this strange town and this sterile house where each day felt like fresh failure? What would she tell it?I survived my horrific childhood and had a great career.What would it say?Great, and now what?

Once again her life came full circle because she had no answer for any hope that might still be living in her. Her career had filled a fifteen year span of time, had spackled over a lot of fear and insecurity from her youth. Thanks to the government’s recognition that killing people for a living should be properly compensated, she had no financial worries any longer. As long as she lived reasonably and within her means, she never needed to work again. But did she want to? She was thirty three years old. Reasonably she might live another fifty years, unless her past caught up with her and someone decided to take a life for a life. For a moment she almost hoped that would happen because otherwise those five decades stretched before her like a gaping chasm. What could she possibly do to fill fifty years of time?

One thing she knew for certain, she couldn’t allow them to be worse than the first thirty. A dream presented itself before her, a functioning orchard with her at the helm, greeting customers and children who came to pick apples, retiring each night to sleep in this house, transformed to a cozy habitat instead of its current sterile wasteland.

She blinked once and the gossamer vision dissolved.Ridiculous.She’d never even had a houseplant. How did shepurpose to revitalize a hundred year old—probably dead—orchard? How could she hope to grow apples when she couldn’t manage more than the most basic life functions?

Suddenly she reached her limit of thinking and feeling for the day. As ever after she journaled, the energy drained out of her, leaving her depleted. She closed the book, shoved it back onto the shelf, stumbled up the stairs, and fell into a dead sleep.

The noise was slight but it was enough to wake Sam. He watched Celeste shove a notebook onto the shelf, turn off the light, and walk upstairs. Her gait looked odd, like someone who’d emerged from a coma and was having trouble using her legs again. He squinted, almost calling out in concern before thinking better of it. One thing he’d learned about Celeste, the only thing, was that she was private. His attempts to peer into her psyche and learn more about her—anything about her—had been a complete failure.

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