Andrew Britton: The Assassin

She was standing at one of the windows, facing away from him. Her clothing was basic and warm: a brown velour hoodie over a navy T-shirt, flannel pajama bottoms, and thick woolen socks. She didn’t move when he closed the door behind him, but he saw her shoulders tense and knew at once that she was trying to summon the courage to turn around. This realization filled him with a bitterness he had never known; it felt as though nothing was right with the world, that she should be afraid to face him.

“Naomi?”

She finally turned, her eyes downcast. The entire right side of her face was covered in a clean white bandage. The wound itself wasn’t visible, but even so, she looked incredibly different. Her face was gaunt, dark shadows under her pained eyes. It was immediately clear that she’d been suffering from much more than the physical injury, and Kealey knew why: the death of Samantha Crane — and to a lesser extent, Matt Foster — must have been weighing her down for weeks.

“Hi.” She gestured at the vases that filled the room and tried to smile. “Thanks for the flowers. You might not have brought so many, though. It’s starting to look like a funeral parlor in here, and that’s an association I could do without.”

He nodded slowly, aware she was joking, but unable to laugh. He took note of her speech. It wasn’t as bad as Everett had led him to believe. In fact, he could hardly notice the difference at all. Suddenly, he was at a loss for words. What was he supposed to say in this situation? What kind of comfort could he possibly offer?

He started to walk over, but she seemed to retreat, putting her back to the window. He stopped, unsure of her reaction. “Naomi, I want to be here,” he began slowly, “but if you need more time, I can-”

“What do you mean?” she asked. She was trying to keep her voice bright, but it wasn’t working. “I’m fine. I would have seen you sooner, but I didn’t want to scare you off with the swelling. For a while there, it kind of looked like I had two heads.” She tried to laugh, but it didn’t sound right at all. “How’s your arm? Looks better, anyway.”

He shook his head. “Forget the arm. Listen, you don’t have to-”

“Ryan, I’m okay, I swear.” But her smile was starting to slip. “I saw you walking outside,” she said quickly, desperately. “Is it really cold? I heard on the news it’s supposed to snow all night.”

“Don’t do this,” he said softly, shaking his head. “Please don’t do this. Talk to me.”

“I am talking. I just…”

She tried to hold on, but it couldn’t last, and she had pushed it down for too long already. Even from across the room, he could see her lower lip was starting to tremble, one hand tightly gripping the other. Then the facade gave way completely. She started to cry softly, and he closed the space between them quickly, putting his arms around her, pulling her close. Before long she was sobbing hard, hiccupping when she ran out of air, her hot tears dripping onto his sweater, soaking through to his skin. He felt a lump in his throat rising, but he pushed down his own emotions. He knew he had to be strong for her. He had already failed her twice: once with Crane and again with Vanderveen. He hated himself for it, but there was nothing he could do about that now. He only knew one thing for sure: that he would do whatever he could to make it up to her.

After about ten minutes, she pulled away and sat on the bed, her shoulders slumping. He joined her and took hold of her left hand, just waiting, letting her get control. When she finally spoke, her voice was exhausted and barely audible.

“I haven’t slept in days,” she mumbled. The emotional outburst had left her utterly drained. “He’s there every time I close my eyes. And if it’s not him, it’s Crane. In some ways, she’s worse. She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t have to. I know how much she hates me, Ryan. I took away everything she had, her whole life, and now I just-”

“Stop,” he said quietly. “Don’t do this to yourself.” He pulled her close as the tears started up again, rubbing her back gently with his good arm. He knew she needed to get it out, but it was hard to listen to her talk as if these people were still alive in some kind of abstract reality, just waiting for her to fall asleep so they could continue tormenting her. He couldn’t help but wonder if she would ever really recover from what had happened. The thought that she might have to live this way forever filled him with a sense of numbing despair, but at the same time, he knew he would never give up on her. He would do everything in his power to help her through it.

But only if she wanted him to. Once again, he wondered how much she blamed him for what had happened, and while it felt selfish to ask, he had to know. If being there caused her more pain than she was already feeling, he didn’t want to stay.

She shook her head when he posed the question, but refused to meet his eyes. “I think I hated you for a little while,” she admitted softly. “But not anymore, and I didn’t really mean it to begin with. I know you would have stopped it if you could have.”

“I should never have left you in the building,” he said bitterly. “If I’d just-”

“Don’t say that,” she said. “It just worked out badly. You didn’t make me leave the field office with Foster, and you couldn’t have known that Vanderveen was waiting outside the warehouse. It wasn’t your fault.”

He nodded, not really believing her. He tried to shrug off his feelings, knowing it wasn’t the time for self-pity. This wasn’t about him, after all, and there was something important he needed to ask her. He hesitated, unsure if this was the right time, but it couldn’t wait.

“Naomi, they’re going to be releasing you in a week or so. I want you to come back to Maine with me. To Cape Elizabeth.”

She didn’t look up, but he felt her body tense. “Isn’t that where…?”

“Yes.” Katie Donovan had died in the house on Cape Elizabeth nearly a year earlier. He hadn’t been back since.

“Can you go there?”

She didn’t expand on this, but he knew exactly what she was asking.

“I couldn’t before,” he said. “But I can now, I think. As long as you’re by my side.”

She looked up, and he went on. “Naomi, I want to take care of you. I want to help you through this, and I want to see you strong again.” He hesitated, then said what he really meant. “But mostly, I just want you. For as long as you’ll have me.”

What happened next surprised him, though it probably shouldn’t have. She pulled away, got to her feet, and walked back to the window. He stood up, confused.

“You don’t mean that,” she said, bitter regret creeping into her voice. “You can’t possibly mean that. Not anymore, so don’t pretend otherwise.”

“What are you talking about?”

She spun around angrily, her eyes filling with tears. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

He suddenly understood what she meant, but it left him in a difficult position, as he couldn’t address it directly. There was almost nothing he could say that wouldn’t hurt her feelings in one way or another. After thinking for a moment, he walked over and took her hand. She didn’t try to pull away, but she wouldn’t face him, either. “Naomi, look at me.”

When she finally lifted her gaze, he didn’t speak. Instead, he simply leaned down and kissed her. When he pulled away a minute later, a small smile appeared on her face. It was tiny and fleeting, but it was all he needed to see: a real smile, completely impulsive, not forced in the least. The reason for the kiss was simple and twofold: first, he had wanted it for weeks, and second, he felt the need to remind her of how beautiful she was. In truth, though, his feelings for her ran far deeper than she could have known, certainly much deeper than physical attraction. She was an incredible woman, and he’d take her any way he could get her. It was that simple.