listening device or a concealed camera. I have often wondered if Dr. Mewton has thought of monitoring even this area, but no one comes here often enough to make it worth the effort.
And yet her news has driven me to this place. I have family, she says, an aunt, a woman who knows who I am and is trying to find me. If that’s true, this woman knows more about me than I know about myself. She knows where I come from, who my mother was. She knows my father.
Maybe she knows why I’m here.
I scramble up the side of the uneven stone wall and peer out over the edge, allowing my eyes to fill with the sight of sun, sea, sky. My hands, resting against the jagged rocks, warm with ambient heat as a long-abandoned yearning seeps out of a locked crypt hidden deep within me.
I close my eyes and hunch forward as an odd pain makes me catch my breath. I can’t allow myself to hope, to wait, because I’ve hoped and waited before. I’ve searched the night skies for reindeer that never came, for angels that never sang, for saints who never appeared.
Now Dr. Mewton says I have family, an aunt. If only this woman would come; if only she would look at me…and not wince.
If only… I have whispered those words so many times.
If only I had parents.
If only I had been born in America.
If only I had a face like everyone else’s, I might be loved.
Chapter Thirteen
Renee
I halt in the parking lot outside Panera Bread and lift my face to the breath of a sweet eastern breeze. Becky, who’s keeping an eye on the clock, stops on the sidewalk, a question on her face. “Did you forget something?”
I shake my head. “It’s just—Isn’t it a beautiful day?”
“Gorgeous,” she says, rolling her eyes. “May I remind you that we don’t have time to appreciate the weather? You have a patient coming in at one, so we have less than an hour for lunch.”
“I’m coming.” Reluctantly, I lower my head and follow her into the store, where we stand in line with dozens of other harried Virginians.
Becky and I decide on soup and sandwiches, then take our orders to a table. She’s been waiting all day for the opportunity to tell me about her son’s problem with his first grade teacher, so I listen, murmur sympathetically, and smile in what I hope are all the right places.
But I can’t help watching my fellow diners. We are only a few miles from Langley, which means that anyone in this restaurant could work for the CIA. The fluffy woman struggling to fit a lid on her supersized soft drink might be an analyst; the stubbly man tapping on his computer by the window might be sending a secret message to a Russian spy in the parking lot. The baby-faced guy who just dropped a cup into the trash can might be leaving a message for the Panera Bread employee who is coming over to empty the trash and retrieve the marked cup—
Becky taps my arm. “So…what should I do?”
“Do? About what?”
She rolls her eyes. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”
“Yes, I have. Your son’s first grade teacher is a bully.”
“And?”
“And you want to know if you should go talk to her.”
“And?”
“And…” At a sudden loss for words, I drop my chin into my hand. “Maybe you should start over again.”
“Renee Carey.” Becky slumps against the back of the seat and gives me an incredulous look. “Where have you been lately?”
I bite my lip. I want to tell her that since attorney John Lipps has been quietly advancing my case in the intelligence community, I’ve been reading spy novels and nonfiction books about the CIA. I’ve been realizing that we live in a part of the country where nothing is what it seems and the Honda salesman next door may be anything but what he appears to be.
Instead, I smile and pick up my cup. “Tell me again about your son’s teacher,” I say. “I promise to listen to every word.”
“Forget it.” She digs in her purse, pulls out a tissue, and blows her nose. “Allergies. They drain me. I
And yet her news has driven me to this place. I have family, she says, an aunt, a woman who knows who I am and is trying to find me. If that’s true, this woman knows more about me than I know about myself. She knows where I come from, who my mother was. She knows my father.
Maybe she knows why I’m here.
I scramble up the side of the uneven stone wall and peer out over the edge, allowing my eyes to fill with the sight of sun, sea, sky. My hands, resting against the jagged rocks, warm with ambient heat as a long-abandoned yearning seeps out of a locked crypt hidden deep within me.
I close my eyes and hunch forward as an odd pain makes me catch my breath. I can’t allow myself to hope, to wait, because I’ve hoped and waited before. I’ve searched the night skies for reindeer that never came, for angels that never sang, for saints who never appeared.
Now Dr. Mewton says I have family, an aunt. If only this woman would come; if only she would look at me…and not wince.
If only… I have whispered those words so many times.
If only I had parents.
If only I had been born in America.
If only I had a face like everyone else’s, I might be loved.
Chapter Thirteen
Renee
I halt in the parking lot outside Panera Bread and lift my face to the breath of a sweet eastern breeze. Becky, who’s keeping an eye on the clock, stops on the sidewalk, a question on her face. “Did you forget something?”
I shake my head. “It’s just—Isn’t it a beautiful day?”
“Gorgeous,” she says, rolling her eyes. “May I remind you that we don’t have time to appreciate the weather? You have a patient coming in at one, so we have less than an hour for lunch.”
“I’m coming.” Reluctantly, I lower my head and follow her into the store, where we stand in line with dozens of other harried Virginians.
Becky and I decide on soup and sandwiches, then take our orders to a table. She’s been waiting all day for the opportunity to tell me about her son’s problem with his first grade teacher, so I listen, murmur sympathetically, and smile in what I hope are all the right places.
But I can’t help watching my fellow diners. We are only a few miles from Langley, which means that anyone in this restaurant could work for the CIA. The fluffy woman struggling to fit a lid on her supersized soft drink might be an analyst; the stubbly man tapping on his computer by the window might be sending a secret message to a Russian spy in the parking lot. The baby-faced guy who just dropped a cup into the trash can might be leaving a message for the Panera Bread employee who is coming over to empty the trash and retrieve the marked cup—
Becky taps my arm. “So…what should I do?”
“Do? About what?”
She rolls her eyes. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”
“Yes, I have. Your son’s first grade teacher is a bully.”
“And?”
“And you want to know if you should go talk to her.”
“And?”
“And…” At a sudden loss for words, I drop my chin into my hand. “Maybe you should start over again.”
“Renee Carey.” Becky slumps against the back of the seat and gives me an incredulous look. “Where have you been lately?”
I bite my lip. I want to tell her that since attorney John Lipps has been quietly advancing my case in the intelligence community, I’ve been reading spy novels and nonfiction books about the CIA. I’ve been realizing that we live in a part of the country where nothing is what it seems and the Honda salesman next door may be anything but what he appears to be.
Instead, I smile and pick up my cup. “Tell me again about your son’s teacher,” I say. “I promise to listen to every word.”
“Forget it.” She digs in her purse, pulls out a tissue, and blows her nose. “Allergies. They drain me. I
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