“I’ve heard that before,” she said, gripping him tightly.
“I know it’s hard to trust us, but try, okay? This is what we do.”
Cassidy didn’t reply, instead memorized the feel of his soft t-shirt against her cheek, and his citrusy scent.
He kissed the top of her head, and Cassidy felt the shock wave of emotion crash through her.
“I’ll see you soon,” he said.
Left alone once more, Cassidy walked to the opposite corner for a bottle of water and sipped it gratefully, though it did nothing to settle her anxious mind. Outside her room, feet passed by, doors opened and closed, voices spoke in low tones. Something was happening. It was like a swarm of bees fleeing the hive in pursuit of an aggressor.
She dug out the burner cell phone and typed a message to Quinn: Text me when you’re free
He replied almost immediately, as if his phone was in his hand. Might be a while. You OK?
The relief of being able to reach him lasted only a moment. Was it safe to talk or should she keep things neutral? Yes, but I have to work remotely for a while.
Sure, ditch me.
Cassidy laughed, which melted the tension from her shoulders. You started it
You’re probably ready for a break from me anyway
Yeah, you hog all the coffee
Are you working tonight?
No, I’m covered, TG.
She read between the lines—that Quinn was worn out after today—and she didn’t blame him. Will you be home? Can we talk?
A knock on the door startled Cassidy, and she tucked the phone away just as a tall man with short-cropped hair and a chiseled face stepped into the room.
“Dr. Kincaid?” he said in a deep, commanding voice.
Cassidy resisted the instinct to back away.
“I’m Officer Hutton. We’re ready for you.”
Cassidy went to the window again, peeking through the blinds but the view of the neighboring apartment tower hadn’t changed, nor had the ten-story drop to the downtown streets. Everything in her new prison was white: white walls, white light fixtures, white Formica counter, white cabinets, white windowpanes, white comforter on the bed, white bedside table lamp, white shower curtain, though the floors were a faded, dull wood.
Before leaving the FBI task force headquarters, Officer Hutton had removed the SIM card of her cell phone. “Keep it turned off,” he said. At least she still had the burner.
After he left her in the apartment, she had waited through an agonizing two hours for him to return with a bag containing her essentials. She could tell by the way it was organized that Quinn hadn’t been the one to pack it and blushed at the thought of Officer Hutton grabbing intimate things like underwear and her toothbrush. At least he hadn’t forgotten her contacts solution and glasses.
Once Officer Hutton had performed a series of tasks on her laptop — “for security”— and showed her the freezer full of frozen entrees. He explained that they would do their best to keep her updated, then left.
She dug up the burner phone to shoot a message to Quinn. Had they taken his phone? Was he locked in some cell? There was also nothing from Bruce but based on the gleam in Special Agent Harris’s eyes, Cassidy had a feeling something big was happening. What had they learned from Bo? It’s urgent, Special Agent Harris had said.
She tried to hang onto Bruce’s promise that the case would open up and this would all end soon. But what if something went wrong? What if this was the first step to her being transferred into the Witness Protection Program and she never saw Quinn again?
What if she never saw Bruce again? The terrifying possibilities spun round and round in her head, turning her insides to rocks.
She peeked into the freezer more than once, but nothing appealed to her. She might as well eat a cardboard box. There was, of course, no alcohol on the premises—she’d spent a good ten minutes looking. The practical side of her brain appreciated this but the desperate, hungry pit inside her did not. She had to pace the floor for several minutes, breathing, telling herself she was much better off without such a temptation.
After Pete died and she’d nearly put herself in a coma, Jay had surprised her with his kindness, but also warned her. As a therapist I would never tell you what to do, but as a person I’m so worried. Taking Xanax with alcohol is dangerous, and I’m very scared for you.
She remembered her reply: I’m scared too.
With his help, she had learned better ways of coping. It had hurt like hell, but she had grown stronger. Slowly, the grief of losing Pete had shifted. She was no longer as afraid of it, though it still took her out at the knees sometimes. She still missed him so badly it hurt, every single day.
The craving to drown her anxieties wasn’t new, though it was depressing that it had resurfaced. Haven’t I suffered enough? she thought, clenching her fingers into fists. Her conclusion after her devastating flashback in the Mission a week ago returned: that she would never be well, that she would forever be alone.
She tried to distract herself with a shower, using one of her t-shirts as a towel because the bathroom was bare, then picked at a frozen pizza and forced down several glasses of water, but her mind and internal organs were locked in some kind of battle. Her mind told her to trust Bruce, but her innards sloshed and flipped as if they were alive.
After making a feeble attempt to read the edited proposal for a return trip to Mt. Etna in Sicily, she gave up and instead surfed for a movie or documentary.
Halfway through The Irishman, however, she realized her mistake. The storyline brought up too many parallels with current events, bringing on images of gunfights and backstabbing gangsters and piles of money. She wondered if Bruce and the team were
