49. Charlotte

49

CHARLOTTE

Three weeks later

I sit at the kitchen island, the scent of fresh coffee drifting in the air. The cold air presses against the windows, a sharp contrast to the warmth inside, reminding me that even in Texas, January can be unforgiving. For a second, it almost feels normal. Almost like everything that came before—the agency, the killings, the endless calculations—was some kind of fever dream.

But it wasn’t. And it never will be. There’s no going back from that life, no wiping it away like some chalkboard you can just erase. Still, we’ve made it here, back to Texas. Not to our old life, but to a different one, with new identities and a new home in a different city.

Michael disagrees with me about wiping the slate clean; he says everything that’s happened is water under the bridge, but I’m not so sure .

Either way, all I care about right now is the cup of coffee in my near future. I’m going to need it to get through today.

I glance over at Michael, who’s leaning against the counter, the sleeves of his worn flannel shirt rolled up. He’s studying the blueprints spread across the table, his brow furrowed as he makes notes in the margins. He’s a perfectionist, always has been. It’s why he’s so good at what he does.

"I don’t know why you’re so worried," I say, breaking the silence. The stillness of our new life hangs around us, a quiet that feels strangely satisfying, like the calm after a storm—after everything’s been set right—or at least as right as it can get.

Michael looks up, a half-smile forming on his lips. “I’m not worried. I’m just not a fan of loose ends.”

There’s just one loose end to take care of—two, if you ask my husband, but I’m not. And I won’t lie, it feels good. “I’m aware.”

I tilt my head and study him closely. “But there’s something you have yet to answer, and I’m not sure why…”

“What’s that?”

“Why you waited three years to come back.”

He opens his mouth to speak and then closes it, before opening it again. “Someday I’ll tell you that story. But not today.”

“I—”

The phone rings. Michael picks it up without hesitation, his voice steady and businesslike as he drifts into the other room. We’ve dismantled the agency. But now we’re rebuilding. Our own. It’s taking a lot of his time, which is good, keeps him from thinking about that other loose end—my old neighbor, back in New York. I don’t know why he’s so consumed with him. I’m not. For the first time in a long time, I’m almost happy.

The rest of the family is scattered throughout the house. Sophie’s upstairs packing, preparing for her new life in Florida. We made sure she picked a school far enough away for her to find a new sense of normalcy, but close enough that I can get there in a day if I need to.

I can hear her voice drifting downstairs now, her tone light, laughter breaking through the walls as Malik joins her. He’s laughing at something she’s said, adjusting reasonably well for someone who has just had his entire life upended.

He says he doesn’t mind. Says his family is into some dark stuff in South Africa—slave trade stuff. He says he wants no part of it, that it’s better if his family believes he’s dead. Michael’s done a fair amount of digging; he’s aware of the details. Me? I worry whether we can trust him. Michael says time will tell.

“You sure you’re ready for tonight?” Michael asks, pulling me back into the present. There’s a hint of anticipation in his eyes, but mostly concern.

“Of course,” I say, my eyes scanning the blueprints again.

The door opens behind me, and when I turn, Sophie is leaning against the doorway, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, that signature grin playing across her face. Malik stands behind her, hands stuffed into his pockets.

“We’re all packed,” Malik says, tossing a glance at Michael’s blueprints.

“That’s the guy’s house,” Sophie says. “Insane, right?”

“So it’s all set then?” Hayley asks, storming into the room, a touch of impatience in her voice. She’s still so angry. Michael chalks it up to hormones, but I know better. She wants in. He and I have gone round and round about it. We both agree she has real talent, but she’s a loose cannon. In my opinion, her “psychopathic tendencies,” as that quack therapist Michael brought in referred to them, just need to be harnessed. She needs training—a bit of mentorship. He’d say discipline. And maybe he’s right. She needs a bit of that too .

“Did you hear me?” she huffs. “I asked if we’re all set.”

“Everything but the last few details,” Michael answers. He pushes away from the counter and stretches. “But we’ve got the rest of the afternoon to make sure it all falls into place.”