“Why is that a problem?”
“It matters,” is her only reply. “They’re paying you a million dollars to be here with me?”
“Yes. They are. Clearly you mean a lot to Michael Alvarez.”
“Silence means a lot to Michael Alvarez,” she counters, inferring she isn’t what’s important, but she’s already moved on. “Were you actually hired to protect me or test my loyalty?”
“Both.”
“If you’re testing me, then why would you tell me that?”
“Because if you fail their test,” I say, sliding my phone back in my pocket, “then so do I.”
Disappointment flares in her eyes, and quickly shifts to anger. “So this is self-serving.”
“This is what you call mutually beneficial. We both stay alive.”
“You assume I’m going to betray him,” she says, guarding herself as any survivor would.
“How long have you been with him?” I ask, despite knowing the answer.
“Why does that have to do with anything?”
“How long?” I push.
“A year.”
“Then you know him well enough to know that his definition of betrayal and yours might be different. And his is the only definition that matters. I’m not leaving this up to his interpretation.”
She inhales and takes a step backward, leaning on the wall directly across from me, several beats passing before she asks, “Why did he choose you over someone else?”
“My FBI background.”
“Because of my sister,” she says, her voice turning raspy.
“Yes,” I confirm. “Because they think I’m the right person to keep you away from her.”
“Well then, you’re going to impress them because I have no intention of contacting my sister now or ever,” she declares, her fingers curling into her palms. “She thinks I’m dead. I’m not going to give her any reason to start a new mission to find me again.”
“Because she won’t approve of Alvarez?”
“Of course she doesn’t approve. She’s FBI. Or…I guess you are too, and it doesn’t matter to you, but it would to her.” She hesitates. “Do you know her?”
There are equal parts hope and fear in that question, and I know that this is a moment of truth or lies that I will have to live with later, a decision thankfully delayed when a phone starts ringing in her pocket. She reaches inside her dress pants, removing it, but all too aware of the potential of Stockholm syndrome controlling her actions, I close the space between us and catch her wrist before she can answer the call. “Are you crazy?” she demands, her eyes and voice sparking with anger. “That’s going to be Michael, and the last thing either of us wants right now, I promise you, is for me to ignore him.”
“Tread cautiously,” I warn. “He wants to trust you and I’ve given you the resources to ensure he does. Understand?”
“Yes. I understand, so let me go before he starts thinking the wrong thing.” I want to know what the “wrong thing” is, but right now the content of her conversation with Alvarez is all that matters. Her phone stops ringing. “Damn it,” she hisses. “That’s bad. Let me call him back.”
“He’ll call back,” I say, “and we need to get our facts in line.”
“I heard the call with Juan. I know what to say.”
“You tell him that I told you that I was instructed to remove the recording devices.”
“I know,” she insists, and her phone starts to ring again. “I have to take his call.”
I study her for several more beats, assuring myself we’re on the same page, before I release her and when I expect her to quickly answer the call, she doesn’t. Instead, her gaze drops to her phone, and she stares down at it. One second passes. Two. “Answer it,” I urge softly, instinctively settling my hand on her waist. “You can handle this.” For the briefest of moments, that “something” that keeps passing between us is there again, a magnet pulling us together.