I was confused. I wanted to defend James and say he was an amazing father, incredible husband, and kind soul. But I assumed we both knew the truth of all of it.

"James worked for Counter Intelligence. He failed at what he was asked to do. You will have to take it over. You have been named in the intel we have." I could hear the liquid pouring as he spoke the simplest, and yet most complicated words, I'd ever heard.

I lifted my eyes, "Named? What?" It came out before I had a chance at articulating my confusion.

He turned with two drinks. He placed one on the coffee table across from me and sat again, "You only had eight years service, when you went on maternity leave?"

Did he just make finger quotations when he said maternity leave?

He grinned at the look on my face, "So that makes me senior officer here. I think if you want to get snarky, you can add a Sir to the end of that question."

I felt a homicidal look creep across my face.

He shrugged it off, "Or Cooper. When you get to know me better, you can call me Coop." He winked. It was the first playful thing I had seen. It disturbed me, considering we just finished the conversation where he put the finger quotations up for maternity leave, like it wasn't a legit reason to quit.

I reached for the glass. Holding it made me feel better, like it grounded me. I sipped the scotch. I hadn’t drunk anything but red wine since I'd joined the mommy brigade. They had rules and liking red wine was one of them. I always assumed it was because Dr. Oz had mentioned it a few times. Those women were nuts for Dr. Oz. He could say smearing your own spit across your forehead was a way to stop cancer and they'd do it.

The scotch burned my throat, but I chugged the whole glass back like I was a sorority girl and placed it back down. He watched me with a half grin. The fact he was still a child himself, made me feel better. He hadn’t killed my husband, it had been an accident, and this was an act to try to bully me back to work. I could handle a whippersnapper like him.

I cleared my throat and started, "I am flattered you think I have retained even an ounce of the training I had before. I haven’t, but thank you. That actually made my day. You ruined the rest of it, of course, by bouncing all my cheques and freezing everything. You've terrified me by making me think I had hackers trying to steal my life." I took a breath, "Sweet God. I don’t understand why on earth you would want someone like me to help you. I'm under-qualified, under-trained, completely in the dark about the technological advances you've made in the decade I've been off, and I'm really busy as a mom…"

"Stop!" he cut me off. My mouth hung open as he shook his head, "Seriously—I didn’t sign up for this shit. It wasn’t us freezing accounts. Your name came up in Intel. I'm here to handle you, that’s all. I don’t want to hear about your bake sales and shit."

I closed my mouth and watched his face change. The playful face and cocky grin were gone. He was back to being senior officer in the room. "James and the man you'll have to get close to, did this to you. We need your help to fix it, but that wasn’t us. You need it fixed as much as we do."

Heat crept up my face; I hated the way he controlled the conversation.

I frowned, "That lawyer…"

He laughed cutting me off again, "Wasn’t working for us. We jacked the phone they were bringing you, that’s all. You think we want you in our employment, no offense, but you're right. You're under-qualified, out of shape, outdated like the suits in the offices, and frankly, you don’t seem like you take things seriously. Having to handle you is going to be a fucking nightmare. You'll be expecting to still act like a civi, and I'll have to swoop in and stop everyone from killing you, every minute of the day. Do you even remember any of your training? You are in over your head, but I'm being told this is how it is. I get your dad was a hero, but seriously sweetheart, you are out of your league."

I snapped, "You little shit, I am not out of shape. I ran a marathon three months ago. I ran the Boston Marathon and I got a good time. I…"

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.” He laughed bitterly, discounting my obvious accomplishments, "But for the job I'm asking you to do, you're outdated. But, we're stuck with you, as much as you're stuck with us. The man your husband double-crossed this country for, killed him. He thinks you know things. The intel is that you're up on the roster as the next piece in his puzzle. He owns you. Are you ready for this?"

I laughed, "I don’t know anything."

He shook his head, "As far as my pay grade goes, you have a piece of the puzzle."

I looked at the glass and shook my head. I stood and walked to the bar and poured another glass, drinking it back fast. "No. I don’t know anything. He never told me anything. I want protection and to be moved out of the country."

He sighed, "The higher-ups don’t want you to hide; they want you to play ball. We've had your house bugged for a few months. We know James never told you anything. We have been watching you." I could hear his footsteps behind me. Suddenly his body was directly behind mine, towering over me. He bent and whispered in my ear softly, "Let me just start by saying, you sing beautifully in the shower."

My eyes bugged open. He poured another drink for us both and carried them back to the table, "This is the plan. You will take the phone call from the man planning on calling you or meeting with you. We will reinstate your wages, at your husband's current salary, and put it in a new account that we will have opened for you. Hopefully, he won’t know and you’ll be able to continue paying your bills. You will help us to find out what the man wants with you and what your husband told him." He sat down and sipped. I clutched the bar, taking deep breaths.

I turned and walked back to the chair, "What if I can't? What if they just want to kill me too? I can’t leave my kids orphaned. You have to get them out."

He watched me, "I think you're a better actress than you give yourself credit for. Act like you might have a secret or two."

His tone told me it was a cheap shot for sure, I just didn’t know what for. I clenched my jaw and picked up the glass again, "Why are you my handler? Shouldn’t someone with a little experience and age be my handler?" I could play mean too. My philandering husband died two months ago—I deserved to be downright bitchy.

He laughed after a moment. It boomed like a shot in the air. He pointed at me, "You're pissed that I called you old. I get it."

I raised an eyebrow, "No. It's that you're still a Boy Scout. This is my life we're talking about and you've told me nothing. I have no details. And maybe I want to be handled by a man." The scotch was hitting me. The liquid courage was saying things, I wasn’t sure I wanted to say.

He smirked, "I'm man enough to handle you, I can assure you." His cold eyes hardened, "I’ve got this, trust me. You just try not to fuck up your part."

I shook my head, “Have we met before? Have I offended you prior to this meeting? I’m having the rug pulled out from under me and you’re acting like a dick.”

He sighed, “I’ve spent the last few months on constant detail, watching you and your family. It feels like we’ve met a thousand times.” Before I could ask anything else, he lifted a cell phone from the couch and dialed. He held it out.

"Good evening, Sir."

"Is she there?" The voice on the other end spoke and I knew it instantly. My stomach clenched as Coop nodded and turned the phone, "She is."

An older man, who I recognized, smiled at me, "Evie, I am so sorry about James." I hated FaceTime, I realized that right then.

I smiled politely, "Thank you, Commander." I felt sick seeing his withered face. God, I was getting old.

He smiled, "You know we need you, right?"

I nodded once. What else was I going to say? He was the commander in charge of the CI unit, I was part of. He was it.

"That’s a good girl, your father would be proud of you. Coop will get you outfitted and ready. Our Intel says they’ll be calling you tomorrow or contacting you at the funeral. We need to know we can count on you to help fix the situations your husband left us all with." He nodded and then Coop turned the phone back around. "You know your orders!" he barked at Coop, who pressed a button and put the phone down.

I started to laugh, possibly from the scotch and possibly from the ridiculousness of it all. I shook my head and covered my eyes. I understood the threat in the call. If I didn’t play ball, they would make sure I fried for his crimes, somehow. The phone call was to ensure I would play ball. I knew it and so did they. I would be guilty of co-conspiring to commit terrorism or God only knew what.

I wondered if they'd already put some coke in my underwear drawer; I could go for a hit.

Tears threatened when I put it all together in a big pile and looked at it. The information, the death, the possibility of working again, all of it. The pile was too big to handle. It was too much to take on.

I stood from the chair and bolted for the door.

Coop moved fast, and as I opened the door, he slammed it shut. He pressed himself against me, shoving me into the door. He wrapped his arms around me, as I cried into my hands.

Chapter Three - The possible end of me

We were silent during the drive home, maybe because he held me when I cried, and it was awkward as ass. I was hoping it was more that he really didn’t talk much, unless it was to mock me. Then he seemed like he had tons to say.

I glanced at him, "You drank as much as me. You shouldn’t be driving either."

He grinned, "You sound like my mother."

My eyes narrowed, "Well, maybe that’s because I'm almost old enough to be your mother."

He laughed, "You're thirty six, I'm twenty-eight."

I frowned, "You look like twenty-two, tops."

He nodded, "Yup. It’s good for what I do. I've been doing this a lot longer than you."