I had been here before. Sitting in this very office, in this very chair, while my wife was being fingerprinted, interrogated, and falsely accused of the crimes that had started this entire ordeal better than a month ago. The blob of metal bits that made up the magnetic sculpture sitting on the edge of the desk in front of me had probably morphed shape a time or two since then, though I couldn’t tell it by looking. But, other than that, the office hadn’t changed. It was just as I remembered it.
I pushed up from my slouched position and readjusted myself in the chair before letting out a tired sigh and rolling my head to the side to look at my wife. She was curled up as only she could do, with her head lying on her arm where she had draped it across the back of her own seat. Her eyes were closed, and she was breathing evenly, but I knew she wasn’t asleep. She looked almost at peace, and that was a sight I hadn’t seen for quite some time.
“How are you feeling,” I asked softly.
“Tired,” she answered, her thick Irish accent applying its inflections to the word.
“Yeah…” I agreed. “How about other than that?”
“Aye, you mean?”
“Yeah, I mean.”
“Like I just woke up from a nightmare.”
“Uh-huh,” I grunted. “Me too.”
We sat in silence for a while before she yawned audibly and stretched as she repositioned herself in the chair.
“It’s really over, isn’t it then?” she asked.
“I think so,” I replied. “Miranda, anyway.”
I heard a click and turned to see the door behind us swinging open. A blonde woman a few years older than Constance entered.
“Mister Gant, Miz O’Brien,” she said, her own voice sounding tired.
“Agent Parker,” I returned.
“You’re free to go,” she said. “I’ll be happy to drive you home if you’d like.”
“Is there any word on Constance?” I asked.
She bit her lower lip and nodded. “Only that she’s still in surgery.”
“Aye, but she’s going to be okay, isn’t she?” Felicity asked.
“All we know is she’s critical,” she said. “She lost quite a bit of blood. Our SAC and director are both at the hospital now. So is your friend, Detective Storm.”
“Do you think you could take us there instead?” Felicity asked.
Parker nodded. “I can do that.”
As we both stood up, she said, “Oh, before I forget… I wanted to return this to you, Miz O’Brien.” She pulled a small paper envelope from her jacket pocket and held it out toward Felicity. “Devereaux claims it’s her necklace, but we saw her yank it from your neck when we were pulling her off you. It looks like an heirloom, so I thought you might want to have it back.”
The angry scream, “That’s mine, chienne!” immediately flitted through my brain, along with the ethereal wail of anger and loss. Behind it came the memory of Ben asking me if Felicity had such a piece of jewelry, all because Lewis insisted she had been wearing it when he met her at the bondage club. The connection became instantly clear.
Felicity reached for the envelope, but I thrust my hand out ahead of hers and snatched it from Agent Parker’s fingers. “I’ll take that.”
Felicity cocked her head at me and furrowed her brow. “Rowan, that’s…”
“Trust me, you don’t want it,” I said.
“But…”
“I’ll explain later. Right now, I have a feeling we need to just get to the hospital as soon as we can.”