you plan to be home for a while?”
“That I do.”
If he hadn’t been in the middle of a left turn at that moment, I would have thrown my arms around him. Instead, I sighed with deep contentment. “How is it that I lived blissfully on my own for nearly two decades and now that we’re married I can barely endure a single day we’re apart?”
His smile was as wide as mine. “I don’t understand it, either. But I’m not about to complain.”
I settled deeper into the passenger seat. “Agent Romero is pleasant enough, but you’re far better company.”
“Speaking of your added protection,” he said, “did you get the locks changed?”
“I did.” I told him that a new set of keys awaited him at home. “You know that the Metro Police are convinced I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Gav took his eyes off the road long enough to give me a sharp glance. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know. I’d be willing to chalk it up as bad luck if it weren’t for the Margaret situation.”
Gav worked his jaw. “If the two incidents are related, we have to ask why they let you go.” He turned to me again, briefly. “It tears me apart to have to say it, but they could have killed you. They didn’t. Why not?”
“Maybe because I wasn’t targeted. Maybe because this
was
a mere purse-snatching.”
Gav stared ahead, accelerating as traffic cleared. “You have no idea how much I hope that’s true. But we can’t relax our guard until we know for certain.”
“Neville and Sargeant are pushing the two detectives to find out more. They aren’t thrilled, but seem willing.”
“I know. Neville briefed me.”
“Merely professional courtesy? Or is there more going on behind the scenes?” I studied him. “Seems unusual for the head of PPD to consult with you personally on this one. Unless there’s more to it.”
“You, my dear wife, are too sharp for your own good.” When he turned to me this time I caught the glint in his eyes that told me he was pleased by the question. “We can’t tie Margaret’s murder or your attack to any of the global issues we’re dealing with, yet. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t related.”
“Do you really believe such a thing is likely?”
“More than likely,” he said. “But suspecting a connection doesn’t mean one exists.”
I watched him navigate the busy roads for a minute. “You may not be able to answer this, but were you in Wisconsin? At the Cenga Prison bombing site?”
“I can answer that. Yes, I was.”
“And was Armustan behind the attack?”
“Joe Yablonski is still in Wisconsin, finishing up paperwork,” he said, not answering my question. Adopting afar-too-casual tone, he added, “He’s arranged to have our apartment building watched around the clock.”
“Whoa,” I said. “What’s going on?”
Grimacing, Gav made a right turn. “Let’s hope it’s nothing.”
* * *
Back at the apartment, we covered less-dire topics, including my frustrated attempts to hire Cyan’s replacement.
“You’ve been shorthanded for quite a while now,” Gav said as the two of us worked together to cobble dinner out of refrigerator leftovers. “She left almost immediately after the sequester ended, didn’t she?”
“The scare at Blair House was too much for her.” I peeled back the cover of a bowl. Green beans. How long ago had we made these? I sniffed. Not bad. Removing the cover completely, I set the bowl next in line for the microwave. “Cyan often lamented that the job takes everything from us: our time, our hearts, our lives. I think the terror she went through in fear for her life—literally—was too much to bear.”
As we warmed what was left of a roast, the last few helpings of mashed potatoes, and the green beans, I told Gav about Nick Dulkin’s interview and how the man had admitted to seeing himself as a kitchen-based warrior against terror.
“That’s what you are,” Gav said around a mouthful
“That I do.”
If he hadn’t been in the middle of a left turn at that moment, I would have thrown my arms around him. Instead, I sighed with deep contentment. “How is it that I lived blissfully on my own for nearly two decades and now that we’re married I can barely endure a single day we’re apart?”
His smile was as wide as mine. “I don’t understand it, either. But I’m not about to complain.”
I settled deeper into the passenger seat. “Agent Romero is pleasant enough, but you’re far better company.”
“Speaking of your added protection,” he said, “did you get the locks changed?”
“I did.” I told him that a new set of keys awaited him at home. “You know that the Metro Police are convinced I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Gav took his eyes off the road long enough to give me a sharp glance. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know. I’d be willing to chalk it up as bad luck if it weren’t for the Margaret situation.”
Gav worked his jaw. “If the two incidents are related, we have to ask why they let you go.” He turned to me again, briefly. “It tears me apart to have to say it, but they could have killed you. They didn’t. Why not?”
“Maybe because I wasn’t targeted. Maybe because this
was
a mere purse-snatching.”
Gav stared ahead, accelerating as traffic cleared. “You have no idea how much I hope that’s true. But we can’t relax our guard until we know for certain.”
“Neville and Sargeant are pushing the two detectives to find out more. They aren’t thrilled, but seem willing.”
“I know. Neville briefed me.”
“Merely professional courtesy? Or is there more going on behind the scenes?” I studied him. “Seems unusual for the head of PPD to consult with you personally on this one. Unless there’s more to it.”
“You, my dear wife, are too sharp for your own good.” When he turned to me this time I caught the glint in his eyes that told me he was pleased by the question. “We can’t tie Margaret’s murder or your attack to any of the global issues we’re dealing with, yet. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t related.”
“Do you really believe such a thing is likely?”
“More than likely,” he said. “But suspecting a connection doesn’t mean one exists.”
I watched him navigate the busy roads for a minute. “You may not be able to answer this, but were you in Wisconsin? At the Cenga Prison bombing site?”
“I can answer that. Yes, I was.”
“And was Armustan behind the attack?”
“Joe Yablonski is still in Wisconsin, finishing up paperwork,” he said, not answering my question. Adopting afar-too-casual tone, he added, “He’s arranged to have our apartment building watched around the clock.”
“Whoa,” I said. “What’s going on?”
Grimacing, Gav made a right turn. “Let’s hope it’s nothing.”
* * *
Back at the apartment, we covered less-dire topics, including my frustrated attempts to hire Cyan’s replacement.
“You’ve been shorthanded for quite a while now,” Gav said as the two of us worked together to cobble dinner out of refrigerator leftovers. “She left almost immediately after the sequester ended, didn’t she?”
“The scare at Blair House was too much for her.” I peeled back the cover of a bowl. Green beans. How long ago had we made these? I sniffed. Not bad. Removing the cover completely, I set the bowl next in line for the microwave. “Cyan often lamented that the job takes everything from us: our time, our hearts, our lives. I think the terror she went through in fear for her life—literally—was too much to bear.”
As we warmed what was left of a roast, the last few helpings of mashed potatoes, and the green beans, I told Gav about Nick Dulkin’s interview and how the man had admitted to seeing himself as a kitchen-based warrior against terror.
“That’s what you are,” Gav said around a mouthful
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