I like it. Most men don’t have a problem with my preference.
Something about this, though—I don’t like it. Not one bit.
We’d left Geoffrey’s friend’s house at four in the morning with directions to a house outside Paris. Lincoln hadn’t been able to nail down an official safe house, he’d explained. This was a friend of a friend.
I didn’t remind him that we, in the CIA, don’t generally have friends, instead deciding to be thankful we had somewhere to go.
The people we are to stay with know very little about our business. Only that it’s a matter of international security and they shouldn’t ask questions. They are expecting us for breakfast and will put us up for a few days while Lincoln works with headquarters to plot our next move.
It took two hours to drive there. The sun rose at our backs as we rode. The first hour took us through the sprawling suburbs of Paris, one unfolding to the next. It got to the point that I wondered if the houses would ever thin. But they did.
The second hour was spent driving through farmland which, save for the cute French cottages and the French road signs, resembled rural Wisconsin with its vast greenery and rolling hills. It amazes me how different each culture is, having its own architecture, customs, and beliefs. But when left on its own, the earth seems to resemble itself over long distances and across oceans. We might be different, but the earth only knows one way to be.
The people who put us up, the Franks, are a young couple who live in a country cottage surrounded by nothing but wilderness on all sides. The nearest neighbor is just barely in sight through a field and on the top of the next hill.
The Franks’ house is a little one-story three-bedroom, with a guest room above the garage.
As they welcome us into their home , my eyes scan the space and I almost lose my shit. Sitting on the sofa in front of the television are two small children, a girl who looks no more than three, and a boy of maybe five. I turn on my heel and rush back outside.
“Lori,” Geoffrey calls out after me. “Where are you going?”
I don’t want to answer. I can’t answer—I can only think about one thing. I hate thinking about it, and most of the time I manage to keep those memories buried, but now they rise up and I have to remember the day I lost my parents. The day they didn’t come home.
The embassy bombing killed two hundred and twelve people, and injured over four thousand. It was one of the most lethal U .S. embassy bombings in history. That’s what the news said. They reduced my parents to a number. I was only nine when I lost my mom and dad. Just a little older than the Franks’ kids.
“Lori, are you okay?” Geoffrey puts his hand on my shoulder, but when I turn to him he takes a step back, and won’t look into my eyes. The distance between us is still there, but he needs me.
I can’t let him think I’m vulnerable. I’m his protection. I need to be strong. I take a deep breath and force my memories back down into the dark place they reside. I nod. “Yeah, I just needed to get some air. I guess it’s been a long day.”
Geoffrey doesn’t look convinced, so I smile, trying to reassure him.
I’m not sure if he believes I’m okay or just understands that I need space, but he doesn’t push it. We head back inside, because even though I don’t like the idea of putting this family in danger, we need a place to hide, and until I get ahold of Lincoln we have nowhere else to go.
After they load us up with breakfast, Mr. Frank takes the older kid to school on his way to work. Mrs. Frank, sensing how exhausted we are, sends us up to our room.
The room has one small window that looks out into the surrounding fields. The light from the window, even in the daytime, is so minimal that the room feels more like a cave with its low ceiling. There’s a double bed, a chest of drawers, and a large comfy chair set near the window. We both stare at the bed.
Being
Something about this, though—I don’t like it. Not one bit.
We’d left Geoffrey’s friend’s house at four in the morning with directions to a house outside Paris. Lincoln hadn’t been able to nail down an official safe house, he’d explained. This was a friend of a friend.
I didn’t remind him that we, in the CIA, don’t generally have friends, instead deciding to be thankful we had somewhere to go.
The people we are to stay with know very little about our business. Only that it’s a matter of international security and they shouldn’t ask questions. They are expecting us for breakfast and will put us up for a few days while Lincoln works with headquarters to plot our next move.
It took two hours to drive there. The sun rose at our backs as we rode. The first hour took us through the sprawling suburbs of Paris, one unfolding to the next. It got to the point that I wondered if the houses would ever thin. But they did.
The second hour was spent driving through farmland which, save for the cute French cottages and the French road signs, resembled rural Wisconsin with its vast greenery and rolling hills. It amazes me how different each culture is, having its own architecture, customs, and beliefs. But when left on its own, the earth seems to resemble itself over long distances and across oceans. We might be different, but the earth only knows one way to be.
The people who put us up, the Franks, are a young couple who live in a country cottage surrounded by nothing but wilderness on all sides. The nearest neighbor is just barely in sight through a field and on the top of the next hill.
The Franks’ house is a little one-story three-bedroom, with a guest room above the garage.
As they welcome us into their home , my eyes scan the space and I almost lose my shit. Sitting on the sofa in front of the television are two small children, a girl who looks no more than three, and a boy of maybe five. I turn on my heel and rush back outside.
“Lori,” Geoffrey calls out after me. “Where are you going?”
I don’t want to answer. I can’t answer—I can only think about one thing. I hate thinking about it, and most of the time I manage to keep those memories buried, but now they rise up and I have to remember the day I lost my parents. The day they didn’t come home.
The embassy bombing killed two hundred and twelve people, and injured over four thousand. It was one of the most lethal U .S. embassy bombings in history. That’s what the news said. They reduced my parents to a number. I was only nine when I lost my mom and dad. Just a little older than the Franks’ kids.
“Lori, are you okay?” Geoffrey puts his hand on my shoulder, but when I turn to him he takes a step back, and won’t look into my eyes. The distance between us is still there, but he needs me.
I can’t let him think I’m vulnerable. I’m his protection. I need to be strong. I take a deep breath and force my memories back down into the dark place they reside. I nod. “Yeah, I just needed to get some air. I guess it’s been a long day.”
Geoffrey doesn’t look convinced, so I smile, trying to reassure him.
I’m not sure if he believes I’m okay or just understands that I need space, but he doesn’t push it. We head back inside, because even though I don’t like the idea of putting this family in danger, we need a place to hide, and until I get ahold of Lincoln we have nowhere else to go.
After they load us up with breakfast, Mr. Frank takes the older kid to school on his way to work. Mrs. Frank, sensing how exhausted we are, sends us up to our room.
The room has one small window that looks out into the surrounding fields. The light from the window, even in the daytime, is so minimal that the room feels more like a cave with its low ceiling. There’s a double bed, a chest of drawers, and a large comfy chair set near the window. We both stare at the bed.
Being
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