Casey mumbles into my shoulder: “Just because everything turned out good doesn’t mean it’s a happy ending.”
How about that—profound thoughts from a four-year-old.
Casey won’t let go of me so I pick her up and cradle her in my arm.
Tina asks, “So how did it go?”
I shrug.
“That bad?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never done one of those before.”
“Did they have you do a typing test?”
“Nope.”
“Oh.”
“Yep,” I say, making the word pop with my lips. It brings Casey out of her dour mood, enough so that she giggles. “What—you like that?” I ask, and do it again, and again, and again, every time the little girl giggling harder.
Still holding her, I ask, “Ready to head back home?”
Smiling now, she nods.
I force my own smile at Tina. “Thank you.”
“Not a problem. Good luck with Mom tonight.”
“Yeah, thanks. I’m going to make sure I get you back for that, by the way.”
Together we head down into the station. We say our farewells. Tina and the boys get on the red line leading toward Glenmont; David and Casey and I get on the red line leading back toward Metro Center.
We sit on one of the plastic benches, Casey on one side, David on the other.
“So why’d you miss the movie?” David asks.
“I had an appointment.”
“With a doctor?”
“Yeah.”
“You ain’t sick, are you?”
“Don’t say ain’t.”
The buzzer dings and the doors close. The train starts to move.
Casey says, “Can we go to the zoo?”
“We were just there yesterday.”
“But we didn’t get to see everything.”
“What’s so special at the zoo that you need to see it again today?”
“She likes the elephants,” David says. He has a particular giggle in his voice, something I think Matthew and Max manage to infect him with because every time they get together it’s there and David becomes a brat. “She likes them because she’s as fat as them.”
“I am not fat!” Casey yells. Her soft but high-pitched voice causes everyone on the train to glance our way.
“Enough,” I say, my teeth clenched. I reach out and grab a spot on David’s thigh, just above his knee. I give it a slight squeeze and the smile vanishes as he takes a quick breath.
Keeping my hand on the pressure point, I lean down and whisper into his ear, “Done?”
He nods.
I let go and sit back. We’ll be at our stop any moment now. My heart rate is up, just a little, and somehow I’ve come back to myself, the true Holly Lin slipping back into the shell that was created when she stepped into the lobby of Ryan’s firm. My senses become heightened. I begin to hear every noise, smell every smell, see every little detail there is to see.
So it’s no wonder that when the train stops and we get off and head toward the orange line train, I realize we’re being followed.
Twenty-Seven
There are certain rules one must follow when properly doing a tail. Keeping a healthy distance, looking as if you’re busy, acting as if you belong where you are and that the very last thing you’re doing is following someone else. You have to keep your target in sight at all times, while at the same time you have to act like your target barely even exists.
Of course I know all this. I was trained for it. I followed people, had people follow me. I know what to do when I’m working a tail. Likewise, I know what to look for when someone is tailing me.
Which two men are doing right now, following me and the kids toward the orange line train.
They’re not together, these men, which may be what makes them even more conspicuous. One is wearing a business suit, carrying a briefcase in one hand while he looks at his cell phone in the other. The other is in blue jeans and a T-shirt, a Nationals cap on his head. He’s carrying a copy of the Post.
Both men are wearing Bluetooth headsets.
Both are keeping their distance from me as well as from each other.
How do I know for certain these two are following us? I don’t. But it’s a sense I have, an instinct, one that I’ve come to trust in the past four years.
These two men are trying too hard to act normal, so much so that I peg them right away.
And instead of heading toward our orange line train, I take us toward the escalators.
“Where are we going?” David asks.
I don’t answer. I’m carrying Casey and she kicks one leg freely.
We get on the escalator and ride it to the top level. Washington, D.C. has one of the cleanest metro systems in the country. The stations remind me of those in Europe, with their high arched ceilings, clearly positioned signs, and easily accessible trains.
I glance back and see that Suit is just now stepping onto the escalator. Blue Jeans has fallen back, looking at his newspaper, not dedicating himself to any one train.
“Holly?” David says. “I thought we were going home.”
“Change of plans.”
As we walk I do a quick sweep of everyone else on this level. A few businesspeople, a few students, but mostly tourists. Nobody else sticks out as being a threat.
We head toward a train that has just arrived. It’s a blue line train headed toward L’Enfant Plaza.
“Where are we going?” David says.
“David, do you want to play a game?”
“What kind of game?”
“The silence game.”
“That’s a stupid game.”
“Oh look, you lost.”
We wait for the train to clear of its passengers. I glance around us again. Blue Jeans is missing, but Suit is forty yards away. He stands in line for the train but not with everyone else right on the edge of the platform. He’s still looking at his phone, and as I look at him, he glances up. It’s just for an instant and then he’s looking back down at his phone. But it’s enough. I’ve made him and he knows it and now he’s stuck. Can’t move forward, can’t move away. Frozen in place until I make my move.
We
