Of course, it hadn’t been that difficult because she didn’t have much of anything. When she’d gone into the academy, she’d left most of her own belongings in storage in Richmond; she hadn’t arranged to have her bed, sofa, TV, books and other belongings sent to her new town house yet. It would take a phone call and a day of being there to receive them, but at the moment, she thought the place was rather sad. It was empty; it wasn’t home yet.
Her room at the academy had been home.
Saying goodbye wasn’t easy. Most of her class would be in their rooms for a few more days. The friends she was able to see were both sad and excited; some were headed off to field offices in other states, but they all had encouraging words for one another. “It’s the agency. We never know where we’ll end up, do we?” Or “It’s never goodbye in the agency. We’ll meet again somewhere.”
And they might. And some of those who’d been with her for the four months might well meet again. But then, they might not. That made every goodbye sad.
Still, everyone was curious. Fascinated that she’d been selected to join the “special” unit that held a certain mystique and seemed almost like a secret society.
Everything had happened quickly; Angela had called her that morning. Since she’d be going off for a few days with Special Agent Bosworth, it might be best to get her moved now. She shouldn’t worry about logistics, Angela had said; she’d have all the help she needed.
And she had. She’d been out in a remarkably short time.
“I put your perfume bottles on that side table,” Angela told her, looking around the parlor of her small town house. “Makes it seem a little more like home. Jackson and I combined places so we have furniture you might like,” she offered. “Do you want to come over and look at it?”
Meg understood that a number of agents in the Krewe were married or living with or seeing one another. The FBI didn’t disallow agents from having relationships, but they weren’t customarily permitted to work in the same units. Here, it seemed almost par for the course. She’d rather awkwardly mentioned the ease of fraternization within the Krewe.
“Maybe we find it hard enough to develop relationships on the outside. Most people will never really understand us. And then again, the closer we are as partners, lovers, friends, whatever, the more successfully we work together. It’s almost as if you begin to get a sense of what the other person is seeing or feeling—or even where he or she might be. We’re still exploring, of course. Our special units aren’t even a decade old. But for the moment, we’re not trying to fix what isn’t broken.”
That made Meg think about her own life.
About her own problem with relationships. She’d always told herself that her dating life suffered because of her passion for law enforcement. She was young and she had plenty of time to figure out who she was before adding another person to her life. But she’d never really believed that was true.
She might have believed that she was a bit of a freak. And every time she dated someone, it was an act because she could never really make it work. Anyone who understood the truth about her would walk away. And so, she always did so first.
“You okay?” Angela asked her.
“Yes, of course, why?”
“I asked you about needing furniture. You’re just staring at me.”
Meg flushed. “Sorry. Thanks. And I do own furniture. I have to call the storage and moving people. I’ll do that when we’re back.”
“Well, if you need anything else—or you need stuff before then, let me know,” Angela said.
She stood by one of the windows. The town house had come with drapes so she was all right as far as window coverings went.
Angela peered down at the street. “I wonder if that’s one of ours,” she said.
“One what?”
“There’s a black sedan down there...” She paused, shrugging as she turned back to Meg. “Government vehicle of some kind. They all seem pretty much identical.”
Meg went to look out the window, too. The car in question was just like the black sedans the Bureau—and other government agencies—often used.
It was parked about a block down the street in a legal parking spot, too far away to see if it had any special insignia or some kind of marking.
But before they could take another look, the sedan jerked out of the parking place.
It sped down the quiet street.
As if the driver knew he’d been seen.
“Strange. The license is covered with...”
“Mud,” Meg finished. “It looked like mud, anyway. As if the driver had spent time out in the woods or something.”
“Or as if the license plate had been purposely covered. As if someone was watching.”
“Watching what?”
“Us,” Angela said, pointing at Meg. “Or, more specifically, you.”
5
When Matt was a college student, he’d worked at a local pub in Richmond. The owner had been an Irishman and Matt—with Irish in his own background—had been certain he’d have a great time working there.
It didn’t happen. He quickly realized that a man’s background didn’t always mean very much. Some people were good and others were jerks—no matter where they came from.