“Don’t worry, it feels worse than it looks,” he joked. “So, best man, really?” Jonathan didn’t want to keep talking about his previous job when he’d just been extended an honor that could be taken as the epitome of male friendship. Mark clapped him on the shoulder.
“Who else would I pick? Now go put your stuff away and we’ll talk bachelor party ideas.” Mark wiggled his eyebrows. Once again it reminded Jonathan of how much happier his friend had become in the past year of being with Kelli and her daughter. Life, according to him, had become more enjoyable than even he had imagined.
A mixture of longing, sadness and regret exploded in Jonathan’s chest as he set his pack down behind his desk. From the open door he could see Kelli take Mark’s hand even though the two were in separate conversations.
Looking back Jonathan would realize that it was in that moment that he made his next decision, but while he was still in the moment he would think it was when Nikki walked into the room to give him a new client file.
“I don’t want to be a field agent anymore,” he responded, surprising the two of them. “I’m missing out on life, Nikki, and I don’t want to anymore.” She took a seat. Jonathan continued, “Mark’s getting married and already has a little family. Oliver has a kid on the way. I—” He struggled to find the words.
“Want to grow roots,” she supplied.
“Yes, but I can’t do that if I’m never in one spot for long.”
“So you want a desk job,” she added.
He nodded.
Nikki Waters wasn’t an easy woman to ruffle. She pursed her lips but didn’t try to sway his decision.
“Okay,” she said instead.
“Okay?” He’d half expected her to be angry. Other than Mark he was the highest-ranking field agent.
“When I started Orion, I knew it would be a lot of work, and you’ve been an integral part in helping me carry that workload. That’s included sacrificing your personal life, I’ve noticed. If you want to stay in one place, we can make that happen.”
“So...that’s it?”
Nikki held up her index finger.
“Now, I didn’t say that.”
Kate Spears sighed as she looked down at the letter covered in blood. It, like the handful of others before it, was folded and had been placed squarely on the middle of her doormat.
Her father, Deacon, a man who was made of worry more than anything else, was lagging behind her, talking on his phone. His current worry that his wife, her stepmother, was having a less than good day at work rated low on the stress totem pole. But like his ability to worry, he took pride in being a good husband. So there he paced across the sidewalk next to Kate’s mailbox, listening to his wife’s woes as his daughter tried to figure out how to handle the bloody stationery.
“If this isn’t a true case of the Mondays, I don’t know what is,” she muttered as she riffled through her larger-than-life purse. Unable to distinguish or adhere to the line between work and home, she found the pack of latex gloves within seconds and pulled one on. In another pocket of her purse she found a clean baggie. Being a scientist had its perks.
“Okay, honey, love you, too,” Deacon said, suddenly closer. Kate panicked and stuffed the note into the plastic bag along with her latex glove as quickly as she could. The bag was then stuffed into the purse. All within seconds. It made Kate momentarily feel like she’d gotten away with something. Though, in hindsight, she would realize there were few things you could get past Deacon Spears. “Are we going to pretend that I didn’t just see you shove several things into your purse?”
Kate let out another long breath. While she didn’t always leave work at work, she didn’t want to bring this conversation home. Especially not during lunch with her father.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she lied, finally opening the front door.
“And there’s the higher pitch to your voice,” he pressed, following her into the entryway of her town house. Normally she would place her purse beneath the table next to the front door, but she kept it close to her side this time. Or else her father would already be going through it.
“Can you stop analyzing me? I’m not data, you know,” she said, grinning. While Deacon owned a hardware store, Kate still insisted on cheesy jokes from her field of work. He usually laughed at them. Not now. The fake mirth didn’t dissuade Deacon’s determination. He crossed his arms over his chest and used the voice reserved only to scold his daughter. Never mind that she was twenty-nine, had a mortgage and had just completed a five-year project that could save countless lives.
“Kathryn Gaye Spears, I don’t know why you’re lying to me, but I do know you better cut the crap now.”
Kate physically shied away from the accusation by moving down the hallway and into the kitchen. Her hand clung to the strap of her purse as if the contact would somehow help it magically know it needed to hide until lunch was over.
“Dad, do you want some coffee?” she hedged. “I really need some.” Deacon followed silently and stood like a statue next to the refrigerator. From growing up with him, Kate knew it was a matter of minutes before his steely resolve broke hers, but Kate was also stubborn. She met her father’s blue-eyed stare with her own brown-eyed one and was reminded in full how the two of them looked nothing alike.
Short yet solid, Deacon had been blessed with a hereditary tan from his half-Hispanic mother, but had his father’s once blond-white hair—even though it was sparse at the crown around an almost shiny bald spot. Besides his overall look that just cried “retiring in Florida,” the fifty-six-year-old had a young, slightly rounded face. One that was partially hidden by another sun-bleached mustache he said his wife Donna thought made him look regal.
Kate, on the other hand, was the spitting image of her mother. Before her death, Cassandra Spears had been taller than her husband when she wore high heels—though she never did—and much leaner. In the same respect that was true for Kate. At five-nine, she could see over Deacon’s head with heels—though she also wasn’t a fan—and was lean but without the muscles that had been a necessary part of Cassandra’s job in law enforcement. Kate also shared the rich brown hair her mother had once sported, waving to her shoulders with thick bangs across her forehead, and her mother’s teardrop face and full lips. The only way she differed from either parent was the less than active tan that graced her skin. In the last five years Kate had resided in labs or over her computer screen during almost all waking hours. There was no time to go outside and play in the sun for her.
Though, as her father’s stare bored holes into her own, Kate thought a break for the park might be better than what was about to happen.
“It’s really not that big of a deal,” Kate finally conceded. “Can’t you just let me deal with it?”
Her father shook his head with a firm no.
Defeated, she put her purse on the counter and pulled out the baggie and its contents.
Alarmed wasn’t a strong enough word for Deacon’s reaction.
“Is that blood?” he asked, voice a mile past concerned. Careful not to rumple the letter inside, he took the bag and set it on the counter.
“It’s made to look like it, but if it’s like the last one it’s synthetic.” His eyes widened.
“The last one? You mean you’ve gotten one before this?”
Kate gave one more sigh. She’d hoped to avoid this conversation with her father until after her trip, when she was sure the letters would stop altogether. Sitting on one of the bar stools opposite him, she explained.