Suzanne’s hand. Starkweather had been consumed by his career, to the exclusion of his personal life. Tara didn’t wish that on Suzanne. “We don’t know anything for certain.”
Suzanne dabbed at her eyes. “Have you ever been married, Ms. Sheridan?”
“No. No, I haven’t.”
Suzanne’s mouth was set in a hard line. “Don’t get involved with a man who works in shady government business, who works with secrets. You’ll wind up being alone. You do everything alone—fixing the furnace, making sure the kids’ report cards get signed, taking them to the emergency room.” She shook her head. “It’ll only bring you suffering.”
T ARA DOZED IN H ARRY’S CAR . I T HAD BEEN ALMOST TWO DAYS since she’d snatched more than an hour or two of sleep, and it had begun to drag at her. She’d wrapped her arms in her jacket, feeling the warm night air blowing on her face, when Harry spoke over the click of the turn signal:
“Um. So, do you want to stay with me while you’re in town?”
Tara opened one blue eye. Illuminated by the green dash lights, she could see a shadow of worry over Harry’s eye. This was awkward for him. And her. It had been months since they’d been together, and it felt like they were renegotiating boundaries all over again.
“I mean, you don’t have to.” His words tumbled over each other. “Special Projects will put you up at a hotel. I just thought …” He trailed off, floundering, as he changed lanes on the freeway.
“Sure,” she said, winding her fingers in her sleeves. “Thanks.”
She’d often wondered where Harry lived. She wondered if he lived in a posh neighborhood with nightlife, like Old Town Alexandria, with a view of the Watergate lights playing on the Potomac. Or did he find a place near a college, like in Georgetown? On the phone, he’d never really talked about where he’d moved to.
Harry exited south of DC, just over the line into Virginia. He wound down some residential side streets, past a donut shop, a nondescript grocery store, and several fast-food places, and into an apartment complex with tan vinyl siding, a pool, and a freshly paved parking lot under yellow streetlamps.
“It’s not fancy,” he said, shutting off the engine in a numbered parking spot. “But, as far as short-term leases go, it was a good deal.”
“Why the short-term lease?” she asked, keeping her voice neutral.
Harry lifted Tara’s suitcase from the trunk. “I don’t know what’s in store for me at Special … at the Little Shop of Horrors. I’m still on temporary transfer. No telling where they’ll send me next.” He slammed the trunk and frowned. Tara left it alone.
Harry led her up the steps to a second-floor apartment. His keys jingled in the lock, and he opened the door. “Home, sweet home.”
The light clicked on to reveal a living room with plush tan carpet. The vanilla paint on the walls still smelled new. A black leather couch was pushed up under the living room window, tags still dangling from the back, facing a flat-screen television. Cardboard boxes stacked neatly up against the walls, along the line of the living room wall into the galley kitchen.
Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, I haven’t really unpacked.”
Tara nodded. “No worries.” Deep down, she suspected what Harry did: that he wouldn’t be here very long. “It’s a nice place.”
“Thanks. I call the décor ‘Overworked Federal Agent.’” He bent down to pick up the mail scattered on the floor that had accumulated through the mail slot.
“It’s attractive. I especially like the clock.” Tara gestured to the clock hanging on the kitchen wall. It was shaped like a black-and-white cat, and the eyes moved right and left in time with the switch of the pendulum tail. It looked over the kitchen sink, where a lonely coffee cup stood.
Harry rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Pops sent that to me.”
“It’s cute,” she insisted. Harry’s adoptive father had an odd sense of
Suzanne dabbed at her eyes. “Have you ever been married, Ms. Sheridan?”
“No. No, I haven’t.”
Suzanne’s mouth was set in a hard line. “Don’t get involved with a man who works in shady government business, who works with secrets. You’ll wind up being alone. You do everything alone—fixing the furnace, making sure the kids’ report cards get signed, taking them to the emergency room.” She shook her head. “It’ll only bring you suffering.”
T ARA DOZED IN H ARRY’S CAR . I T HAD BEEN ALMOST TWO DAYS since she’d snatched more than an hour or two of sleep, and it had begun to drag at her. She’d wrapped her arms in her jacket, feeling the warm night air blowing on her face, when Harry spoke over the click of the turn signal:
“Um. So, do you want to stay with me while you’re in town?”
Tara opened one blue eye. Illuminated by the green dash lights, she could see a shadow of worry over Harry’s eye. This was awkward for him. And her. It had been months since they’d been together, and it felt like they were renegotiating boundaries all over again.
“I mean, you don’t have to.” His words tumbled over each other. “Special Projects will put you up at a hotel. I just thought …” He trailed off, floundering, as he changed lanes on the freeway.
“Sure,” she said, winding her fingers in her sleeves. “Thanks.”
She’d often wondered where Harry lived. She wondered if he lived in a posh neighborhood with nightlife, like Old Town Alexandria, with a view of the Watergate lights playing on the Potomac. Or did he find a place near a college, like in Georgetown? On the phone, he’d never really talked about where he’d moved to.
Harry exited south of DC, just over the line into Virginia. He wound down some residential side streets, past a donut shop, a nondescript grocery store, and several fast-food places, and into an apartment complex with tan vinyl siding, a pool, and a freshly paved parking lot under yellow streetlamps.
“It’s not fancy,” he said, shutting off the engine in a numbered parking spot. “But, as far as short-term leases go, it was a good deal.”
“Why the short-term lease?” she asked, keeping her voice neutral.
Harry lifted Tara’s suitcase from the trunk. “I don’t know what’s in store for me at Special … at the Little Shop of Horrors. I’m still on temporary transfer. No telling where they’ll send me next.” He slammed the trunk and frowned. Tara left it alone.
Harry led her up the steps to a second-floor apartment. His keys jingled in the lock, and he opened the door. “Home, sweet home.”
The light clicked on to reveal a living room with plush tan carpet. The vanilla paint on the walls still smelled new. A black leather couch was pushed up under the living room window, tags still dangling from the back, facing a flat-screen television. Cardboard boxes stacked neatly up against the walls, along the line of the living room wall into the galley kitchen.
Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, I haven’t really unpacked.”
Tara nodded. “No worries.” Deep down, she suspected what Harry did: that he wouldn’t be here very long. “It’s a nice place.”
“Thanks. I call the décor ‘Overworked Federal Agent.’” He bent down to pick up the mail scattered on the floor that had accumulated through the mail slot.
“It’s attractive. I especially like the clock.” Tara gestured to the clock hanging on the kitchen wall. It was shaped like a black-and-white cat, and the eyes moved right and left in time with the switch of the pendulum tail. It looked over the kitchen sink, where a lonely coffee cup stood.
Harry rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Pops sent that to me.”
“It’s cute,” she insisted. Harry’s adoptive father had an odd sense of
Similar Books
