Lib Novel Page 43
The couch creaked as we rose, our movements slow, deliberate. In the act of standing, it felt like we were leaving behind the weight of our earlier conflict, allowing ourselves the chance to seek refuge in the simple comfort of each other’s presence.
As we walked to the bedroom, I could feel the pull of my old self, whispering doubts and fears, telling me I didn’t deserve this reprieve. But Abby’s hand in mine was a lifeline, grounding me to the here and now—to the possibility of redemption I saw reflected in her eyes.
Tonight, there would be no nightmares, no replaying of past horrors. Tonight, I would allow myself to believe in the quiet promise of her company, in the healing power of just being together, even if it was only for a few hours before the dawn came to claim us once again.
Tonight, we could just be.
Chapter Twenty-One: Abby
It felt like I was pretending to be an FBI agent.
I checked the rearview mirror one last time, fussing with my collar to make sure it lay flat against my suit—a stark, official navy that made me feel like a fraud in my own skin. I’d only been to San Francisco’s FBI headquarters once before, fresh-faced and eager after my initial debriefing, but now, steering into the underground garage felt like driving straight into the belly of a beast I no longer understood.
“Keep it together, Harper,” I muttered to myself as I killed the engine of the Mercedes.
Everything hinged on maintaining my cover, even here–especially here.
My hands were steady—years of training will do that—but my heart? It hammered out a rhythm akin to betrayal as I reached for my badge. It was an old friend, picked up from the dusty corner of my drawer at my long-abandoned apartment, its weight unfamiliar yet comforting against my palm.
Stepping out of the car, I smoothed down my skirt and took a deep breath, letting the cool air of the parking garage fill my lungs, steeling myself. As I approached the security checkpoint, the clack of my heels on the concrete echoed like a march to judgment.
“Harper,” I announced crisply, offering the badge to the agent manning the desk. His eyes flicked to the photo, then up to my face, and he nodded, motioning me through with a practiced indifference that I returned in kind. The scanner beeped its approval, green light flashing, and I stepped inside.
The lobby loomed large and sterile, the buzz of fluorescent lighting overhead a dull hum against the low murmur of agents and officials moving with purpose. My poker face was a mask I wore like a second skin, but beneath it, nerves skittered like live wires. Each step was measured, my gaze neutral, even as my mind whispered warnings and the specter of what I had become—and what I was protecting—loomed over me.
“Play the part,” I reminded myself silently as I blended into the flow of agents.
I wasn’t one of them anymore, not really. The uniformed officers I passed by were part of a world I had once thought would be mine forever; the path my father had proudly walked, the path I had pledged to follow. But as their conversations buzzed around me, filled with codes and casework I should have understood, it sounded like static. I was an outsider now, an FBI agent in name only, my loyalties tangled and twisted in Nathan Zhou.
I had no idea what that meant, but that really scared me.
Reaching Diane’s floor, I paused for a split second, the familiar insignia on the doors and walls staring back at me with silent accusation. This floor, these people—they had been my goal, my future. Now, they were just obstacles, unknowing pawns in a game played in shadows and silence.
“Can I help you?” The receptionist’s voice pulled me from my thoughts, her smile practiced but genuine.
“Abigail Harper,” I said, my voice steady despite the storm inside. “I’m here to see Special Agent Diane Hayes.”
“Of course,” she nodded, tapping something into her computer. “She’ll be out in a moment—please take a seat.”
But before I could even consider the offered chair, Diane appeared. She was the epitome of an FBI agent: sharp suit, sharper gaze, and an air of authority that demanded respect. A small shock ran through me as our eyes met—a reminder of what I’d given up, and what I might never get back.
“Agent Harper, so glad you could make it,” Diane extended her hand, and I took it, feeling the firmness of her grip.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” I replied, mustering a smile that felt more like a wince.
“Let’s talk in my office,” she said, turning on her heel and leading the way.
I followed, her office a short walk from the front desk. The space was a blend of institutional gray and splashes of personal flair—a framed photograph of the Golden Gate Bridge, a potted succulent on the windowsill. No family, as far as I could tell–and I hated the relief I felt at that, because I knew she was treading in dangerous waters. Diane gestured to the chair across from her desk, and I sat, my posture straight, hands folded in my lap.
“Can I offer you coffee?” Diane asked, her tone professional but not unkind.
“Please,” I managed to say. “With cream, if you have it.”
“Coming right up.” She turned towards the small coffee maker in the corner of her office, giving me a moment alone with my thoughts.
The scent of brewing coffee filled the room, replacing the sterile chill of bureaucracy with something almost comforting. Diane returned, placing a steaming cup before me and then her own–black–sitting down with a soft sigh.
“We’ve been worried about you, Harper,” she started, her eyes searching mine. “You dropped off the grid, gave us all quite a scare when you disappeared like that.”