Sam guides me into the garage and through the glass-shattered kitchen. The crack and pop sounds under my feet hurt my spine. I want to throw my hands over my ears and rock back and forth on the floor. Luke steps on a large chunk of glass behind me. It shatters into pieces, forcing my body to flinch. Sam feels my body tighten; her hand slides down my wrist and laces my fingers with hers. She squeezes my hand firmly. I squeeze back and the nostalgia of that feeling crushes me.
When I was eleven, Mom grabbed my hand in a grocery store parking lot and squeezed it three times, which meant I love you. We had our own secret language with hand squeezes but this time, I didn’t squeeze back. I was embarrassed. I tried to pull my hand away, but she held on to me. She squeezed my hand three times again. A boy from my class walked out of the automatic sliding glass doors with his mom and I ripped my hand away. She looked down at me, hurt and confusion in her green eyes. The boy said hello to me as we passed and then she understood. I wasn’t a little girl anymore. I didn’t need, nor did I want, to hold her hand. I remember that moment so clearly. The way she looked down at the ground and laced her hands together, filling the empty space where my palm used to be. She never tried to hold my hand again. Never. Not in public. Not even at home. But I’d do just about anything to hold her hand now.
“Why don’t you sit down,” Sam says, pulling me over to the deep gray linen couch in the den. I obey and take a seat. I stare at the dark grooves and slashes in the hand-scraped hardwood floor, still unable to speak, as Luke sits down next to me.
“What is going on, Sam?” Luke asks, his worried eyes still on me. He’s met Aunt Sam a half dozen times at my house or at a backyard barbecue. He was told she was Mom’s college roommate and best friend.
“Luke, I think it’s best if you leave right now,” Sam says.
“No way, I’m not leaving her until someone tells me what’s going on,” Luke replies, his voice frantic. He gently places a hand on the small of my back. “We need to call the cops, the FBI, something.”
“She’s not asking you to leave. She’s telling you to leave,” the Black Angel watcher says.
“Who are you, anyways?” Luke asks.
“I’m Cooper,” he answers, arms folded across his muscular chest, gun in his hand. “Look, everything is fine. We don’t need cops. We just need you to go.”
“Everything is not fine,” Luke says, raising his voice and motioning down the hall. “There are bullet holes the size of bazookas in the office, there is shattered glass all over the kitchen, and the MacMillans are clearly gone. Things couldn’t be further from fine.”
“Luke, it’s complicated and now a matter of national security. I think it’s best if—” Sam begins but I cut her off.
“He needs to stay,” I say. The words feel thick and heavy as they fall off my tongue. “They saw him with me at the school. He’s in danger now too.”
Sam looks over at Cooper. He nods. She lets out a long breath. “Fine, he can stay for now. Until we assess the situation and confirm he’s safe. Luke, I know your background. You want to be a cadet, right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Luke says, nodding.
“Well, your first code of silence starts this second,” Sam replies, her voice stern and serious.
“Okay. But what … how … who are you guys?” Luke stammers. He blinks wildly and shakes his head. His eyes search my face, my body, and linger on my right hand. I look down to see my pistol in my grip, my finger still wrapped around the trigger. I didn’t even realize I was still holding my gun.
The door to my secret life is swinging open. Part of me wants to run through it, embrace it, and be happy that Luke finally knows. The other part wants to slam the door shut, walk away, and pretend this never happened.
I tell my mouth to open and say something, but I’m still paralyzed. The only movements I seem to be able to master are blinking and breathing, and even those require some serious effort.
I feel Sam’s eyes on me. She’s waiting for me to speak. To answer Luke’s questions. But I can’t. So she begins.
Sam tells Luke about the Black Angels. That I’ve been training my entire life to be one of them. She tells him the basics about my parents and the double lives and the cover stories and the missions. But I’m only half listening. I fade in and out of the conversation as I stare at the corner of the ceiling. I let my body, my mind float there. Hide there. I hear Luke ask more questions. I hear bits and pieces of the answers. Danger. Protection. Secrecy. Code. I hear Luke ask how many people know about the Black Angels. My family. My mind comes back to my body, my eyes focus, and I speak.
“No one,” I say, my voice fighting to lift out of its fog. “No one in my life knows who I really am. If anyone knew, it would put my life at risk. Their lives at risk.”
“So the van, the guy at school…” Luke says, starting to put the pieces together.
“They were coming for me,” I answer and finally look up into his eyes.
“The last mission went badly,” Sam continues to fill him in. “Really bad. Revenge was promised and we think it was their mission to kidnap Reagan today.”