Page 15 of Rogue Hope
Finn Novak was dead.
No way she’d just seen him in that crowd.
Zara closed her front door with a quiet click that felt like deliverance. The absence of noise—no cheerful bands, no children squealing, no loudspeakers announcing events—created a silence so profound it seemed to have physical weight. She leaned against the door for a moment, eyes closed, absorbing the blessed coolness of her air-conditioned condo after hours in the relentless July heat.
The parade, the judging ceremony, the community picnic—each had demanded a performance of normalcy that had depleted her reserves completely. Now, in the sanctuary of her home, she could finally let the mask slip.
She pushed herself away from the door, wincing as her knees protested. She kicked off her shoes and padded across the hardwood floor in stocking feet. The familiar shapes of her furniture offered comfort in their solidity. Real. Present. Unlike hallucinations of dead men in parade crowds.
The thought brought her up short, hand freezing halfway to the refrigerator door. Had she actually seen Finn Novak today, or had her mind fabricated him from stress and medicationside effects? Kenji had warned her that hydroxychloroquine occasionally caused visual disturbances. Could that explain what she’d seen?
She abandoned her quest for water and sank onto a kitchen stool instead, too weary to remain standing. The memory of that moment replayed with disturbing clarity—the glimpse of a familiar profile, the shock of recognition that had ricocheted through her body before she’d even had time to process the image.
She made herself retrieve a bottle of water from the refrigerator, drinking deeply before pressing the cool container against her forehead. The rational explanation was simple. The medication, combined with heat exhaustion and the stress of the anonymous threats, had caused her to project a face from her past onto a random stranger in the crowd. Classic psychological displacement, assigning a concrete identity to an abstract threat.
She considered texting Izzy about the incident. Her friend would provide a reality check, remind her of the psychological impact stress could have on perception. But Izzy was enjoying a well-deserved vacation with her six-year-old, and Zara was reluctant to intrude with what was essentially an emotional crisis. More than that, she hesitated to make herself that vulnerable, to admit she was still affected by a betrayal seven years in the past.
Her team knew about the “Paris Disaster,” of course. It was documented in her official file, accessible to anyone with the appropriate security clearance. The technical details, at least. What they didn’t know—what no one knew—was how thoroughly the experience had shattered her confidence. How it had made her question her judgment about people, about relationships, about trust itself.
That was a conversation for another time. Probably one she should have with her Savior, rather than colleagues. Her spiritual journey since becoming the CIA liaison to Ronan’s SEAL team had been hesitant but meaningful, guided partly by the guys’ gentle examples and partly by her own growing recognition of a force greater than herself at work in her life.
Her phone buzzed, interrupting her introspection. Then buzzed again. And again, in rapid succession. The distinctive pattern indicated the team group chat rather than an individual message.
Relief flooded her. She hurried to retrieve the device from her pocket, grateful for the distraction. The screen displayed a series of messages, each more dramatically outraged than the last.
Izzy: I heard about the float competition. Bummer. Maybe next year.
Deke: BETRAYAL AND CORRUPTION AT THE HIGHEST LEVELS.
Griffin: I demand a congressional investigation.
Maya: I had FIVE 8-year-olds tell me our ship was “not as cool as the unicorn” WHO RAISED THESE CHILDREN?
Axel: Fifth place. FIFTH. Behind the senior center’s “Decades of Dance” float. Are they SERIOUS?
Deke: Technically we tied for fifth with Original Knight. So there’s that.
Ronan: Evidence that the head judge is on the Girl Scouts’ payroll.
This pronouncement was followed by a slightly blurry photo of the head judge, Gladys Perkins, accepting a box of what appeared to be Thin Mints from a triumphant troop leader.
Kenji: Forensic evidence confirms those are Thin Mints. Case closed.
Deke: Recount demanded. Justice for pirates.
Despite her exhaustion, Zara laughed and typed a quick response:
Zara: Next year we bribe Gladys with Samoas. Clearly superior cookie.
Maya: SHE SPEAKS TRUTH.
Griffin: Blasphemy. Tagalongs forever.
Deke: BBQ still on for 8 pm. Bring your grievances and appetites. Cookies, too.
Zara set the phone aside, her smile fading. The team gathering at Deke’s cabin—normally something she would look forward to—now loomed as another performance to endure. Another evening of pretending her body wasn’t betraying her, that she wasn’t being threatened by an unknown entity, that she hadn’t possibly hallucinated a dead man in a parade crowd.
Her phone buzzed again. Expecting more cookie debate, she glanced down casually—then froze, ice spreading through her veins.
