1
Irene Inman watched the white rental Prius wind its way down the bumpy driveway of her ranch, thirty miles outside of Cody, Wyoming. Didn’t government agents always rent black Ford Crown Vics, she absentmindedly wondered as she stood there on her porch, watching the little car get smaller and smaller until finally it disappeared into the dark yellow hills.
John Benson, head of the CIA’s Dubai station, had stayed for only nine minutes, and he’d said maybe three sentences to her. Funny thing was, Irene could barely remember the few words he’d spoken in that calm, matter-of-fact tone. All she could think was that her husband, her first love, her Dan, was now just a nameless star on a wall in Langley, Virginia, and Irene was now a widow.
She’d always known Dan worked for the CIA, of course. And she’d always accepted that he couldn’t talk about a lot of what he did. Still, Irene had always told herself he didn't do anything that could get him . . . oh, God, Dan was dead! Ohgod, ohgod, ohgod!
Now the tears came, and Irene broke, all of Benson’s words coming back to her like a hail of bullets, shattering the thin veneer of frontier-woman courage that she’d held onto just like she’d held onto this family ranch in the middle of freakin’ nowhere!
“My Dan,” she whimpered as she stumbled through the open front door and back into the house, slamming the door shut so the horses wouldn’t hear. I need to be strong for the horses, came the thought—the inexplicably nonsensical thought that confirmed she had indeed broken, was indeed shattered, crushed, defeated . . . widowed.
She cried for an hour. She knew it was an hour because the cornbread had burned to brown crust. She knew how long it took to burn the cornbread. She’d done it a hundred times before. Why the hell was she baking cornbread anyway? She’d been off carbs for three weeks now, trying to take off the extra layer of “winter fat” she’d put on before Dan got back. The sex had cooled off for them over the past year, with Dan seeming mostly disinterested. She’d asked him if it was her weight, and he’d said . . . oh, God, what did it matter now?! Dan wasn’t coming back! He was gone!
“He’s gone,” she said out loud, smiling at the cornbread as she nodded like a duck. “He’s gone, Cornbread! Did you hear? Dan’s gone.” The cornbread said nothing.
She tossed the burnt remains into the stainless-steel trash can beneath the sink, trying not to think about what Benson had said. But trying not to think about something only makes you think about it, and his words came ripping through again:
“He was cremated overseas,” Benson had said. “I’ll make sure the ashes get to you, but I wanted to come here myself to let you know.”
“Won’t you have some tea?” she’d said with that crisp, stoic smile that had been handed down to her along with the ranch and the stables. She told herself not to ask why the hell the U.S. government didn’t ship his body home so he could be buried on American soil. Why had they burned him?! “And I’ve got cornbread baking, so if you’ll . . .”
Irene had trailed off, and Benson had almost smiled, showing a flash of emotion that was subtle but still deep enough that she nearly broke in front of him. But she didn’t break in front of him, and as she held it all back she saw a look that was part pity, part admiration in his gray eyes, like he respected how she wouldn’t break down in front of a stranger.
“I’m not even supposed to be here, Mrs. Inman,” he’d said quietly, shifting on his feet and turning halfway toward the door. “It’s just that I knew Dan, and I knew how much . . .” He’d trailed off, almost hesitating, and Irene was glad he didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need anyone telling her how much he . . . whatever.
“How did he die?” she’d asked when Benson turned to leave without telling her much of anything besides the bullshit of how everyone in the CIA takes those goddamn stars on the wall so seriously. “I have a right to know.”
Benson almost winced as he met her gaze. “I . . . I . . . Ma’am, the details are classified, and I’m already overstepping my—”
“No,” she’d snapped. “I don’t want to know whether Dan was shot or stabbed or beheaded or blown up. The fact that you chose to cremate him tells me enough. I just want to know how he died. Like how was he when he died? I mean . . . was he in great pain? Was he scared? Was he . . . alone? Did he die alone somewhere out there, in some god-forsaken . . . oh, God!”
“No,” Benson said, looking at her straight on, his eyes swearing that he spoke the truth. “Dan didn’t die alone. He was with a man he knew well. A man of great honor and character, a close friend of both mine and Dan’s. I can’t tell you much more, Mrs. Inman. I’m sorry.”
“Who is he? I want to speak with him!” she’d said to Benson, though she already knew he wouldn’t tell her, that he couldn’t tell her. “Please! I need to meet him. Who is he?”