“Up late.” He struggled into a seated position, hand shielding his eyes from the sun spilling in through his blinds.
“I need to talk to you. It’s an emergency.”
“Okay. What’s up?”
“In person, Fletch. This isn’t a conversation for the phone. Can you come to the house? We have something to show you.”
We. He hated that term where she was concerned. Hated it even more that he actually liked Xander Whitfield. It would be easier if the man were a tool, but he wasn’t, not in the least. He was rugged and outdoorsy and smart and decent looking, if you liked the tall, dark and handsome set, which most women did.
He looked at his watch. He needed to be at the JTTF to embark on his suicide mission at 9:00 a.m. “Yeah. Give me fifteen. Make some breakfast, will ya? I haven’t eaten a proper meal in two days.”
Sam laughed under her breath. “Anything for you, Fletch. Now hurry.”
WEDNESDAY
Chapter 14
Washington, D.C.
Dr. Samantha Owens
Sam had used a couple of belts of Scotch to get back to sleep after Xander’s bombshell, and was feeling frachetty. She’d only managed two hours of sleep, had gotten up as soon as she woke to try and reach Fletcher again. Her mission finally accomplished, she was happy to fulfill Fletcher’s demand—a hot breakfast to soothe his tired bones. It might help give her and Xander some energy to make it through what was certainly going to be a long day.
She grabbed a quick shower, threw on a pair of gray summer-weight wool trousers and a cream short-sleeved cashmere T-shirt, and put her dark, wet hair in a bun. It was getting longer, her bangs growing out so they swept to the side and tucked behind her ears. She liked the new look, thought she’d go ahead with it for a while. When she was working back in Nashville, she kept her haircut appointments with military discipline; the shoulder-length bob she’d worn for years served her well, accentuating her heart-shaped face and staying out of her way while looking both chic and practical. Now that she wasn’t going to be spending her days bent over a dissection table, she could let things go a little, be freer. The professors she’d met thus far had long hair. They wore loose-fitting clothes, comfortable and roomy, sometimes even scrubs, and smelled faintly of patchouli. She wouldn’t go that far—she was too attached to her sumptuous fabrics and Chanel No. 5—but a bit of leeway wouldn’t hurt.
“Xander?” she called as she went down the stairs.
There was no answer.
She assumed he had gone for a run; he did that often when he was here in the city. Her house was close to the canal, which was his favorite path to follow. She’d gone with him a few times, but she knew she held him back. Years of daily PT made him strong, streamlined and seemingly unstoppable. He had reserves she couldn’t come close to emulating.
A canal run up the Potomac meant he’d come home starving, so she decided to make blueberry pancakes and eggs and bacon. That should sufficiently feed her men.
Her men.
She had a pang of inconsolable grief at the thought. She’d moved from daily, all-consuming sorrow to the sneak attacks, images and smells and memories that came at her out of the blue like snipers’ bullets. As much as she wanted to, Sam couldn’t replace Simon with Xander and Fletcher, couldn’t use the new people in her life to erase the ones who were gone.
Matthew and Madeleine, her twins, had adored blueberry pancakes. It was a Sunday morning ritual: after church, they would go to Le Peep in Belle Meade, just a mile from the huge house she’d grown up in, and have a family breakfast. Sometimes her friends Taylor and Baldwin would meet them, sometimes Simon’s parents. It was a tradition, built purposely so the kids would have a memory, a habit, to cling to as they got older. So they’d understand the value of a treat. Of family. Of togetherness.
Church. Sam hadn’t been back since they found their bodies. She couldn’t believe in a God who’d strip a woman of her family. She was surprisingly comfortable with the decision, considering she’d been a devout Catholic before the accident. It was freeing, not having to share all her little venial sins. Not taking the comfort she’d always found in communion, that feeling of magic watching the transubstantiation. She had believed in all of it. Believed down to her bones. Until she didn’t. She’d never known faith could be like a switch on a lamp, on one minute, off the next. When they died, she hadn’t even bothered trying to turn the switch on again. She never would. That ship had sailed while she scattered their ashes, the winds at the top of Xander’s mountain whipping their beings away into the ether, taking the part of her that believed in magic and mystery and faith along with them.
She put the pancake mix back in the pantry and retrieved two baking potatoes instead. Hash browns would fill them up just fine.