Page 83 of Philly
He let go of her and stepped away. “I’ll get dinner started.”
“Thanks,” she said, brushing a quick kiss over his cheek as she headed toward one of the bedrooms he’d turned into an office. They hadn’t talked decorating or upgrading or anything like that, but maybe after Aiden Nolan was behind bars.
He stared out the back window as he chopped an onion for the Bolognese sauce he planned to make. Nights fell early this time of year and with the cloud cover, he only glimpsed the occasional ripple of the river at the bottom of his property.Theirproperty.
Glancing at the sky, he wondered if they were going to get their first snowfall. Thanksgiving was around the corner, and it wasn’t unheard of to get a good storm before then.
The murmur of her voice filtered down the hallway, although he couldn’t make out the words. By the time he slid the onion into the pan with the sizzling meat, she’d ended her call and moved to their room. He grinned.Theirroom.
Settling into this new life wouldn’t be all smooth sailing, but a piece of him had clicked back into place now that she was a part of it again. He had his best friend back, and although they’d both been through a lot in the intervening years, they were stronger now. Adults who knew what they wanted and, perhaps more importantly, had trust in themselves, in each other, to make it happen.
“Smells good,” she said, padding into the kitchen. She’d changed into leggings, a thick sweater, and a pair of fuzzy socks.
“Bolognese,” he said. “There’s wine if you want some.” He nodded toward a small wine rack behind her.
“How did you end up buying this house from Laura’s parents?” she asked as she pulled a bottle out and read the label.
“When I helped her disappear, I couldn’t let them live their lives in that kind of limbo—waiting every day, wondering if she’d ever come home or if she was dead somewhere they’d never find her,” he replied, adding one can of tomato sauce and one of chopped tomatoes to the pan. He preferred using fresh when he could, but no way would he find fresh—tasty—tomatoes in November. “Laura gave me a letter to give to them, explaining everything. Once things quieted down, I managed to get it to them.”
“They don’t know where she is?” Callie asked, uncorking the bottle.
He shook his head. “No one does except me and one other person. And Laura, of course. I’m their intermediary. Have been since I handed over Laura’s note.”
“Intermediary?”
He bent down to smell the sauce, inhaling deeply. Satisfied with the results, he straightened and explained. “Her parents send a letter every month along with a donation to the work the Falcons do. I then send that letter to the other person who knows where Laura is, and she delivers it to Laura. The same happens in reverse, only the letter I sendtoLaura’s parents looks like a thank-you card from the club. We do the same for Rian. It’s the only communication they’ve had since she ‘disappeared.’”
“A small price to pay to keep her alive, but still rough. How’d that turn into a house sale, though?” She handed him a glass as he stirred the sauce.
“They built this place when Laura and her brother were kids and part of the ski program at the resort. It was their second home for a couple of decades. Even after Laura stopped competing and her brother moved on to a more serious training program than what Mystery Lake offers. As they’ve gotten older, they came up less and less. Then one day, they wrote a note and offered to sell it to me.”
“At way below market because of what you were doing to help Laura?”
He nodded, then tasted the sauce. Grabbing the salt, he added a touch more. “They’d owned it outright for over a decade, didn’t need the money, and wanted to reduce the taxes on the sale. I got the better end of the deal, but it worked out for them, too. How’d your day go?”
She spent the next few minutes updating him as he cooked. By the time he plated their pasta and she tossed the salad, he was up to speed. Not on the nitty-gritty details, but he didn’t need those. He just needed Callie to feel good about the progress she was making.
As they sat down, the conversation shifted to Mystery Lake, and they chatted about the community—now her home—and what it was like living there. They made plans to travel to DC in a few months to pick up her things from storage. But when he broached the subject of doing work on the house, she surprised him by telling him that she thought they should live in it for a while before making any decisions. Her logic made sense—it would be good to have a feel for how they used the space, or didn’t, before they made any big changes. But the curling linoleum floor in the kitchen and wood paneling in the living room were already getting to him. Not to mention all the dark cabinets. Despite being only thirty years old, the house had been designed with the aesthetic of a ski cabin from the fifties—cozy and easy for weekend use, but not ideal for year-round living.
Callie insisted on cleaning since he’d done the cooking, and rather than watch her—which was tempting—he meandered into the dark living room and started a fire. By the time she joined him on the couch, curling into his side, flames roared in the cast-iron insert.
He thought about asking her more about her day, about the information she’d uncovered and how she felt about thepossibility of an FBI insider, but held off. Instead, they enjoyed the quiet, steady presence of each other and the dancing fire warming the room.
It was still darkwhen his phone vibrated on his bedside table. Philly rolled over and grabbed the device, noting the time, four forty-five, and the name, Mantis.
“Yeah,” he said without preamble. A call this early in the morning usually only meant one thing.
“I hate to ask…”
“When and where,” Philly said, already sliding from bed. The club often extracted people from abusive situations, but they played other roles as well in helping the network engaged in the work. Including transporting people, taking on one leg of a much longer journey. In some ways, “relay transports” were almost harder than extractions. People didn’t need to be moved across the country unless their situation was more than just bad.
“Neverland Diner outside of Placerville, you know the one?” Mantis replied.
He did. He hadn’t been before, but the new owners had joined the network after it had helped their granddaughter the year before.
“I do,” he said, keeping his voice low as he grabbed his clothes from his dresser. “What time?”
“Seven thirty.”
