something catches my eye. Something black, tucked into one of the shoes. I know what it is even before my fingers curl around it.
It’s a gun.
I pull it out by the grip and look at it. The black metal slide, the wide trigger. A Glock. I move the slide, see brass inside.
It’s loaded.
Matt has a loaded gun in our closet.
I hear Ella downstairs, calling for me. Hands shaking, I place the pistol back in the shoe, close the lid, stack the boxes back on the shelf. Give them one last look, then turn off the light and head downstairs.
—
MATT COMES HOME THREE HOURS LATER. Bustles in, removes his jacket, gives me a smile, apologetic and embarrassed. Then he comes over and wraps his arms around me. “I’m sorry,” he says into my hair. He’s still cold from the air outside. Cold hands, cold cheeks. A shiver runs through me. “I shouldn’t have said all that. It’s not fair for me to be upset with you. This is my fault.”
I pull back and look at him. He looks like a stranger, feels like a stranger. All I can picture is that gun in our closet. “Did you do what you needed to do?”
He drops his hands, turns away, but not before I see the expression on his face. Tense. “Yeah.”
“So…Are we okay?”
In my mind, I see the gun again. It’s been hours now, and I still don’t know what to make of it. Is it proof that he’s not who I think he is? That he’s dangerous? Or is it a way to protect us, his family, from the people who really
are
dangerous?
He’s very still, his back to me. I see his shoulders rise and fall, like he’s taken a deep breath and exhaled. “I hope so.”
—
I GET TO MY DESK the next morning and see the little red flashing light on my phone. Voicemail. I flip through the call history. Three calls from Omar, two yesterday and one this morning. I close my eyes. I knew this would come, didn’t I? Or should have, at least. If I’d thought it through.
I pick up the phone, dial his number. I need to get this over with.
“Vivian,” he says when he answers.
“Omar. Sorry I missed your calls. I left early yesterday, just got in this morning.”
“No worries.” There’s a pause.
“Look, about Yury’s computer.” My nails are digging into my palm. “It’s not looking very promising. I’m afraid there’s nothing there.” I hate this, lying to him. I picture the two of us, all those years ago, commiserating over the Bureau’s rejection of his op plan. And all the times since, at O’Neill’s and our offices and even our homes, sharing our frustrations about our inability to find anything worthwhile. Our conviction that the sleepers are a genuine threat, and we’re powerless to stop it. A friendship cemented over a mutual feeling of futility. And now I finally have something, and I have no choice but to lie to him about it.
He’s silent on the other end of the phone.
I close my eyes, like somehow it’ll make the lies easier. “Obviously we need to wait for translation and exploitation. But so far I haven’t found anything of interest.” My voice sounds surprisingly confident.
Another pause. “Nothing?”
My nails dig in even harder. “There’s always the chance there’s something embedded in the files, steganography or something like that. But so far, nothing.”
“You always find something.”
Now it’s my turn to pause. Disappointment I understand. But this is something more. This is unsettling. “Yeah.”
“With the other four. You found something with each of them. Enough to warrant expedited translation.”
“I know.”
“But with this one, you didn’t.” It’s a statement, not a question. And there’s an unmistakable tone of skepticism in his voice. My heart’s racing now.
“Well,” I say, and fight to keep the tremor out of my voice. “Haven’t come across anything yet.”
“Hmm,” he says. “That’s not what Peter said.”
—
I FEEL LIKE I’VE been punched in the gut, the wind knocked out of me. It’s got to be the
It’s a gun.
I pull it out by the grip and look at it. The black metal slide, the wide trigger. A Glock. I move the slide, see brass inside.
It’s loaded.
Matt has a loaded gun in our closet.
I hear Ella downstairs, calling for me. Hands shaking, I place the pistol back in the shoe, close the lid, stack the boxes back on the shelf. Give them one last look, then turn off the light and head downstairs.
—
MATT COMES HOME THREE HOURS LATER. Bustles in, removes his jacket, gives me a smile, apologetic and embarrassed. Then he comes over and wraps his arms around me. “I’m sorry,” he says into my hair. He’s still cold from the air outside. Cold hands, cold cheeks. A shiver runs through me. “I shouldn’t have said all that. It’s not fair for me to be upset with you. This is my fault.”
I pull back and look at him. He looks like a stranger, feels like a stranger. All I can picture is that gun in our closet. “Did you do what you needed to do?”
He drops his hands, turns away, but not before I see the expression on his face. Tense. “Yeah.”
“So…Are we okay?”
In my mind, I see the gun again. It’s been hours now, and I still don’t know what to make of it. Is it proof that he’s not who I think he is? That he’s dangerous? Or is it a way to protect us, his family, from the people who really
are
dangerous?
He’s very still, his back to me. I see his shoulders rise and fall, like he’s taken a deep breath and exhaled. “I hope so.”
—
I GET TO MY DESK the next morning and see the little red flashing light on my phone. Voicemail. I flip through the call history. Three calls from Omar, two yesterday and one this morning. I close my eyes. I knew this would come, didn’t I? Or should have, at least. If I’d thought it through.
I pick up the phone, dial his number. I need to get this over with.
“Vivian,” he says when he answers.
“Omar. Sorry I missed your calls. I left early yesterday, just got in this morning.”
“No worries.” There’s a pause.
“Look, about Yury’s computer.” My nails are digging into my palm. “It’s not looking very promising. I’m afraid there’s nothing there.” I hate this, lying to him. I picture the two of us, all those years ago, commiserating over the Bureau’s rejection of his op plan. And all the times since, at O’Neill’s and our offices and even our homes, sharing our frustrations about our inability to find anything worthwhile. Our conviction that the sleepers are a genuine threat, and we’re powerless to stop it. A friendship cemented over a mutual feeling of futility. And now I finally have something, and I have no choice but to lie to him about it.
He’s silent on the other end of the phone.
I close my eyes, like somehow it’ll make the lies easier. “Obviously we need to wait for translation and exploitation. But so far I haven’t found anything of interest.” My voice sounds surprisingly confident.
Another pause. “Nothing?”
My nails dig in even harder. “There’s always the chance there’s something embedded in the files, steganography or something like that. But so far, nothing.”
“You always find something.”
Now it’s my turn to pause. Disappointment I understand. But this is something more. This is unsettling. “Yeah.”
“With the other four. You found something with each of them. Enough to warrant expedited translation.”
“I know.”
“But with this one, you didn’t.” It’s a statement, not a question. And there’s an unmistakable tone of skepticism in his voice. My heart’s racing now.
“Well,” I say, and fight to keep the tremor out of my voice. “Haven’t come across anything yet.”
“Hmm,” he says. “That’s not what Peter said.”
—
I FEEL LIKE I’VE been punched in the gut, the wind knocked out of me. It’s got to be the
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