Lib Novel Page 49
Could Knuckles be involved in the fires? The thought was unbidden, yet it clung to me with the tenacity of truth seeking light. I had been trained to observe, to connect the dots, and while there was no concrete evidence, the instincts honed at Quantico whispered that there was more to Knuckles’ departure than met the eye.
“Something on your mind, Abby?” Nathan’s voice pulled me back from the edge of my musings, his gaze sharp, probing.
I smiled at him. “Nah,” I said. “Nothing up there but smoke.”
For the first time in what felt like forever, I thought I saw him smile.
Chapter Twenty-Four: Nathan
My head was still spinning as we left Chinatown in our separate cars—Abby going straight home, me heading toward a takeout place before I met her there.
The cool fall air swept over my skin as I pulled into the driveway, headlights sweeping across the front of the house as the garage door opened. Abby was waiting on the garage steps, hands clasped, a smile on her face.
“Got dinner,” I said, holding up the takeout bag as I got out of the car.
“Smells good,” she replied. I was sure it did, but all I could smell was smoke…and all I could see was Mr. Lao being put in a body bag. “I’m glad you’re back.”
I wanted to believe in her—believe that the woman who had infiltrated my life, my bed, wasn’t just doing her job but felt something real. Since that night in the kitchen, when passion and fury had collided, we hadn’t touched each other. Not like that. The memory was vivid, almost too much so, every sensation etched into my mind.
But it was the aftermath that haunted me—the realization that I could lose myself so completely in someone and still not know them at all.
“Let’s go inside. I’m starving…and we have a lot to talk about,” she said, her shoulder bumping mine softly, an echo of intimacy.
“Right behind you,” I murmured, watching her climb the steps before I followed, closing the distance yet feeling miles apart. We were back in my space—our space—but everything had shifted.
Inside, the warmth did nothing to ease the chill that had settled over me. The house was silent except for the sound of our footsteps and the soft rustle of the bag as Abby set it down on the counter. The air between us was thick with unspoken words, heavy with the weight of betrayal and desperation.
“Chicken lo mein?” she asked, glancing at me over her shoulder with a half-smile that once would have disarmed me completely.
“Thought I remembered you saying you liked it,” I managed, forcing a smile of my own. Trust was fragile, and mine was cracked—not shattered, not yet. Because despite everything, I couldn’t keep away from her. She was a magnet, pulling me inexorably back, time and time again.
We moved around the kitchen, a dance we’d performed countless times before, but now every step was measured, careful. I watched her, searching for signs of deceit, for the slightest hint that she was still playing me. But all I saw was Abby—the woman I knew, or thought I did.
“Everything okay?” she asked, her voice cutting through the silence that had stretched between us.
“Yeah,” I lied, “everything’s fine.”
But it wasn’t, and we both knew it. There was a gulf between us now, one week wide and a lifetime deep, filled with secrets and lies. And yet, here we were, trying to bridge it with small talk and Chinese food, as if that could somehow make things right again.
I wanted to trust her, god, I wanted to so badly. But wanting and having were two very different things.
I plucked a bottle of white wine from the rack, the cool glass feeling alien in my hand. It was an attempt to add normalcy, a veneer over the tension that seemed to thicken the air around us. I poured two glasses, and our fingers brushed as I handed one to her. The contact sent a jolt through me, reminding me of other times, other touches.
But now wasn’t the time for reminiscing; there were things we needed to face.\
“Shall we?” Abby gestured towards the living room with a nod, and I followed her lead, each step feeling like a decision I wasn’t sure I had fully made.
We settled on the couch, plates balanced precariously on our laps as we ate in silence. The TV played in the background, a low murmur that neither of us paid much attention to. Until a particular story caught my ear, and I looked up to see images of Chinatown ablaze, black smoke billowing into the sky.
“Turn it off,” Abby said softly, her eyes not leaving the screen.
I reached for the remote and hit the button, the screen going dark with a click. My head shook almost imperceptibly, a silent acknowledgment of the chaos outside these walls—chaos that felt too close to home, too entangled with my own life.
The silence returned, settling around us like a shroud. We continued to eat, but the food tasted like ash on my tongue. With every bite, I could taste the bitterness of uncertainty, the sour tang of suspicion. And beneath it all, the undeniable flavor of fear—for what had happened, and for what was yet to come.
In the quiet that followed, the only sound was the soft clink of chopsticks against the plates. Abby cleared her throat, breaking the stillness that hung between us like a thick fog. “Nathan, do you have any ideas who’s responsible?”
I felt my jaw tighten, the muscles working as if I were chewing on nails instead of rice. I set my plate aside, feeling the weight of her question settle in my stomach like lead. “I should,” I admitted, and the words tasted of defeat. “It’s been long enough at this point that it’s become clear I’m not doing my job.”