94.
Sienna
“I told her to just drop the ‘Gal’ and go with ‘Gravity,’” I said into the phone the next morning as I scooped my luggage off the carousel at MSP—Minneapolis/St. Paul International Airport.
“Really?” Reed asked through the phone. His tone was hard to pin down.
“I thought it sounded cooler.” I headed for the doors, figuring I’d just fly low over Bloomington and drop my bag off at home. I’d already exchanged some texts to set up my afternoon plans.
“Lame,” Reed pronounced. “Also, already taken. A Google search, that’s all I’m saying, and you’d spare yourself the pain of ignorance.”
I rolled my eyes as I stepped out into the warm day and lifted off the ground. I’d need to keep low near the airport so as not to knock a plane out of the sky. “So I’m bad at naming things.”
“Probably the least of the numerous reasons you should never have children,” he said smugly. He got like this when he knew things and I didn’t. He was quiet for a second, and then said, “Did you hear about Nadine Griffin’s mansion burning down?”
“It was in the papers at the airport,” I said, trying to play it off casual. “Looks like she bolted or something, maybe to avoid an arson charge.”
“Maybe,” Reed said, pretty neutral. I didn’t want to fish for his opinion on the matter because … I wasn’t sure I wanted to encourage him to look deeper. It was entirely possible he’d already settled his suspicions on me, and if he had, I didn’t want to give him fodder for it. “You think she’ll turn up again?”
“I hope so,” I said, “I’d really like to punch her in the face. You know, for old times’ sake. But she’s pretty crafty, so I doubt she’ll get caught.”
He was quiet for a minute. “If she was that crafty, you’d think she would have been smart enough to avoid burning down her own mansion.”
“Touché,” I said, not daring to usher him off the phone so I could fly without having to hold it up to my ear. I was clear of the airport now, but holding myself to a hundred feet or so off of 494 West. “I—”
“Augustus and I need to do a little work on this thing,” he said, sounding … normal? I hoped. “I should let you go.”
“Okay,” I said, wondering if he was hanging up because he suspected what I’d done, or if he was telling the truth. Oh, what a tangled web. “Talk to you later.”
“Enjoy the State Fair,” he said, and I felt a moment of apprehension as I hung up. I hadn’t said anything to him about going to the State Fair today.
I flew on, veering north and following 35W toward my house. I set down in the grassy backyard and opened the door. It was all quiet, so I dropped my suitcase, changed into something a little more summery, strapping my pistol in my waistband with a sigh—I’d missed Shadow—threw on a light overshirt to keep it from imprinting and left, locking the door again behind me. I checked my text messages and smiled as I stood there in the sun.
See you soon, the latest message said, and I took off into the sky, heading northeast.
I set down outside the State Fair grounds a little while later to “Oohs!” and “Aahs!” of tourists from outstate marveling at my entrance. I bought my ticket and presented it at the turnstile, then flew over the street, neatly dodging the rickety wooden walkover ramp and heading straight into the grounds.
I landed by the Australian Potato Stand, the smell of sweet, fried goodness lingering in the air. The animal barns were nearby, but even they couldn’t extinguish the wondrous fried smell of the potatoes. I could see the milk booth down the way, and the stand where they sold the deep fried breakfast sandwiches. It wasn’t a mystery to me why assholes on the internet talked about my ass, but I’d be damned if I was going to pass up a bucket of Sweet Martha’s cookies later, because if I did, the internet trolls would win, and we couldn’t have that.
“Hey,” came a voice from behind me, and I turned to look at a man who was standing there, staring at me.
“Hey yourself,” I said, then realized he had Australian potatoes, sliced longways, breaded, fried, and saturated with ranch on one side and cheese sauce on the other. I raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got good taste.”
“Tell me about it,” he said and offered a potato. I chose one smothered in ranch with just a hint of the cheese. It was still steaming, hot, and it tasted fabulous. “By the way you look … amazing.” He gave me the up and down. “Stunning. Really. I feel like a flashbang went off behind my eyes.”
“You don’t know how to talk to girls for shit,” I teased, scooping another potato from his plate without asking. There was a tiny paper Australian flag stuck in the top of the mound, affixed to a toothpick. “But you do all right with me.”
“Well,” Jeremy Hampton said, grinning, “you’re different than most girls.” He leaned in and whispered in my ear. “For instance, most girls can’t pull off a CZ-75 Shadow inside the waistband.”
I stared back at him, tall and gorgeous. My very own training officer, former FBI Hostage Rescue guy, and pretty damned handy man. My employee. Hostile workplace lawsuit waiting to happen.
Good thing he hit on me first.
“I’m glad to see you here,” I said as he threaded an arm around my waist. He offered the potatoes again, but I passed. I had designs on the deep-fried Oreos and deep-fried pickles, and even with my meta metabolism, I had to pace myself. I put my arm around his waist in return.
“Did you think I’d stand you up?” he asked, leading me up the road past the concrete bunker of the Lee and Rose Warner Coliseum.
“No,” I said, shrugging as he discarded the rest of the potatoes in a trashcan. There were way too many of them for us to finish them all. “I just …” A few ideas passed through my head, all boiling down to one thing …
Why the hell would any sensible, good-looking, intelligent, decent and totally badass man want to hang out with … me?
“I’m just glad to see you,” I said, feeling a little burn of guilt. He didn’t know what I’d done. Reed might not know. Augustus didn’t know. That was the price of the secrets I hid behind the mask I wore every day.
Secrets. They might just be eating me alive.
But to get rid of Nadine Griffin … maybe that was a secret worth the price.
As I stared into Jeremy’s eyes, walking down Judson Avenue, a crowd of happy Minnesotans around me, I smiled to myself. I’d keep this one secret, but … no more. Let them all out, live open, be better—like Jamie. That was what I needed to do.
No more secrets, I thought, as I took his hand in mine, just for a few seconds, feeling his warm skin against mine, like the sun shining down on us both.
No more secrets.
Well … except for that one other.