Atone (Recovered Innocence #2)(59)

“You’re welcome. They’re going to want the thumb drive and anything you can tell them about the organization and the murder of the councilman’s wife, including the crimes committed against you.”

“?‘The crimes committed against you.’ That’s the most polite way I’ve ever heard it put.”

“Cora and I have some things we’re putting together for you. The work Beau did was stellar. It builds an excellent picture that backs up everything you’ve said. The more of that we can gather, the better.” Mr. Nash rises and checks his watch. “He should be here in about twenty minutes.” He closes the door after him, leaving Vera and me alone.

“If you give me your motel room key I’ll pack up your stuff for you,” I offer.

She pulls the key card out of her bra and slides it across the table. That trick of hers catches me off guard every time. The only other time I’ve ever seen anyone use their clothing to store things was in prison.

“You should probably give me your guns and other weapons.”

She pulls pepper spray, brass knuckles, and a Taser from her bag and drops them on the table. She stands, propping a foot on a chair, and slides her skirt up. She unhooks her thigh holster and drops it on the table. Lifting her blouse, she removes the knives tucked in her waist. The blouse goes higher still, exposing the cups of her bra, so she can unclip the holster between her breasts. I try real hard not to stare and totally fail. Next comes the gun at the small of her back, then the switchblade from her panties. Last is the knife strapped to the inside of her thigh. I’m sweating by the time she finishes.

She stares longingly at her little pile of weaponry. Even naked, she always had a knife or gun within reach, strategically placed and easy for her to get to. It’s going to be hard for her to give up the ability to defend herself. Crossing her arms, she looks to me for direction.

“Are you hungry or thirsty?”

She sits down. “No.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No.”

Her walls are back up. I’m shut out. Just like when I first met her. She’s looking at me like I’m an annoyance, a mosquito she wants to flick off. And yet I see it. That spark, that tiny little flame for me she can’t turn off any more than I can turn off mine for her. I hold on to it. I have a feeling I’m going to need the hope it represents. And so will she.





Chapter 30


Vera


I’m taken to a room with a table and some chairs. It looks sort of like the conference room at the agency, except a lot nicer. The chairs are beefy leather and glide like the floor is buttered. The table is a thick, shiny slab of wood. There are a bunch of flags in the corners. The only ones I recognize are the California and American flags. There’s a TV hung up high in one corner and a whiteboard spans the width of one wall. The blinds-covered window looks out on a hall. The slats are open enough that I can see people walk past. Most of them don’t look in, but occasionally one or two will. I look for any familiar faces.

I’ve been told we’re waiting for my attorney. The one Mr. Nash set me up with. Mr. Nash’s FBI friend, Special Agent Carter, sits at one end of the table, babysitting me. He’s not so bad. At least he didn’t cuff me and make me ride in the backseat of his car. Beau and Mr. Nash are waiting for me in the reception area. They weren’t allowed to come back with me. I’m relieved about that.

Agent Carter gets a phone call. There’s not much talking on his end, nothing to give away what the call could be about. When he ends it he tells me that my attorney will be here shortly. Sure enough, a petite black woman in a fire-engine-red suit with matching shoes, lips, and nails enters the room. She breathes confidence the way fish breath water. Agent Carter gets to his feet. They whisper to each other and then the agent leaves, closing the door behind him.

“You must be Gwendolyn,” she says, holding her hand out to me.

I haven’t been called that name in so long it takes me a few moments to respond. I take her hand and she gives it a couple brief pumps.

“I’m Shayla Reese. You can call me Shay.” She takes the seat next to me and tosses her briefcase on the table like she doesn’t give a f*ck if she dents it.

“Nice to meet you.”

She opens her case and pulls out a couple files. “Ed gave me copies of his files for my records and copies for me to give the FBI. I’m fairly up to speed on what’s happening here.” Stacking her hands on the files, she turns to me. “But I want to hear it from you.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything. The condensed version. The Feebs are hungry to get in here and grill you.”

I give her what she wants. She asks a bunch of questions for clarification. All the while she takes notes. She smells like a fashion magazine. When I was about twelve I’d go to the pharmacy down the street from my foster home and rub the scent strips from the magazines on my wrists, dreaming of the day when I could buy perfume that smelled like that—expensive, beautiful, desirable. The kind of scent that would make men want me the way the male models in the ads seemed to want the females. That was when I used to dream of such stupid things. Huh. I hadn’t thought about doing that in a long, long while. It feels like forever ago.

Shay takes out her laptop and fires it up. She holds her palm out. “The thumb drive.”