Page 90 of The Love You Fight For
My father starts to walk toward the sitting room, but then he stops and turns around.
“Set the alarm on your way out, would you? It will have a new code tomorrow.”
I listen as he greets his finance manager. They speak in hushed tones, and then she laughs airily as their footsteps disappear up the stairs toward his bedroom.
I let myself out like he said. Set the alarm. Walk several blocks,and then I pull out my second cell phone. I send the recording, and then I pull up Agent Sexton’s contact and send two words.
Me:Rebecca Casper
I ordera lavender latte and a scone, then take my order to a table in the back corner.
This café is adorable. There are books everywhere, the soundtrack is a bunch of 2000s pop punk tracks, and hundreds of paper origami stars hang from the ceiling. The barista, a monster of a guy with a manbun, told me there’s also an origami dinosaur hidden amongst the stars, but I can’t find it. I scan the ceiling the whole time I sip my latte and wait.
My father has a rally today in Chicago, and another tomorrow in Northern Indiana. I managed to get a few hours of free time by saying I wanted togo shopping, hence the shopping bag at my feet, but I had to leave my phone in my hotel room since Ashton has taken to stalking my every move. I managed to snag a copy of Robert Frost poems off one of theLeave a Book, Take a Bookshelves, though, so it’s keeping me occupied while I wait.
The poems make me think of Chris.
He’s been texting. He’s tried calling. Since my run-in with my dad, though, I haven’t responded.
What would I even say?
Oh, hey, my dad is the reason your mom left, and your sister is right to hate me?
I never find myself at a loss for words, so this is new for me. I don’t want to hurt him. I don’t want to cause him pain. I cannot stomach the thought of him looking at me differently when he learns the truth.
The truth abouteverything.
I just need to get through this. One day at a time. I need to get through it, and then I can worry about everything else.
I’m halfway through a poem about fences when the doorchimes, and I look up to find a tall woman with short-cropped red hair striding up to the café counter. I scan her body. Simple dress slacks. Simple light blue button-down. Simple black shoes. Simple black leather satchel. Everything about her is understated, but she still looks like a fucking badass.
As she orders, she flicks her eyes to me and gives me a subtle nod before turning back to the barista. She pays. She waits while the barista fills her order—large Americano with a dash of almond milk—and then she makes her way to me.
Surprisingly, instead of sitting at the table behind mine, she sits with me. When she notices my raised eyebrows, she shrugs.
“We’re seven hundred and sixty miles from headquarters, and I’ve got a guy on the door. We can swing a little less cloak-and-dagger for today.”
I release a small sigh of relief, and she smiles.
“Ms. Harper,” she greets with a nod.
“Lynnette,” I greet with a nod back.
I’m not allowed to call her Agent Sexton when we’re in public. We usually barely interact at all because she doesn’t want to blow my cover. My safety has been her top priority. Agent Sexton wants me to play it safe, and she really doesn’t like that my safety is something I’ve always been willing to sacrifice.
“How are you holding up?” she asks, taking a sip of her coffee.
I shrug.
“I feel like I’ve swallowed a gallon of bleach and am bleeding to death from the inside out, but otherwise, I’m fine.”
I laugh, but she knows I’m not joking. Her green eyes bounce around my face, and she purses her lips.
“Don’t ask,” I say before taking a sip of my latte. “The answer is still no.”
Agent Sexton has been trying to convince me to see a Bureau-approved psychiatrist for the last year. I’ve refused. I told her that when I finally get my ass into therapy, it will be with someone I choose, who has zero ties to the government. Until then, I’m going to rely on my best friend reading me classic literary novels.
Agent Sexton nods and takes a sip of her own coffee.
