Page 4 of Rogue Survivor
This can’t be good. Brent runs a hand through his hair, then offers me his arm. Like I’d take it. I’m not helpless. At least not completely. After a deep breath, I take one tentative step, my fingers still clutching the handrail like it’s my only tether to reality. Pain races up my leg, all the way to my hip, but I don’t go down again. “I got it,” I mutter and follow him inside.
Brent bypasses the stairs—thank God—and heads for the elevator. Three floors of awkward silence later, he unlocks his office door and gestures for me to sit before digging in his file cabinet for a thick folder.
“Connor, you went through hell. I spoke to the Bureau’s physical therapist, and he’s amazed at your progress. But cleared or not, what happened outside? You ain’t ready. And worse, you’re a liability. If you’d aggravated any of your existing injuries, if you’d hurt someone else…” He shakes his head. “I can’t have you working in this office. Not even on desk duty.”
“Fuckin’ hell, Brent. Come on…” What am I supposed to do without this job? Without a reason to get up in the morning? “It was a one-time thing.”
“Then go back to the docs and have them confirm it. But until then, you’re on medical leave.” He flips through the file until he finds a stack of pages secured with a paper clip. “Disability paperwork. Fill it out, send it to Human Resources. Then go home.”
“And do what?” My hand shakes as I accept the forms, and Brent’s look of pity? Fuck.
“Work your physical therapy, and when you haven’t had any mental side effects in a monthandyou can pass the field agent physical fitness test, we’ll talk again.”
His tone leaves no room for argument, and thirty minutes later, paperwork filed, I’m back outside clutching that goddamned handrail like it’s my only anchor to this world. Maybe…it is.
By the timethe bus drops me off two blocks from my apartment—traffic in Austin is fucked twenty-four seven—rain is falling in sheets. One of the junior agents wholostmy brother’s ex at that hotel in Dallas three months ago was supposed to drive me to and from work all week. But I couldn’t take him away from his caseload in the middle of the day. So now, I’m soaked to the skin, and the memories of that God-awful night I almost died in Flash Flood Alley play on a loop in my head.
The torrent of water washing the blood from my eyes. Shivering. So cold I couldn’t feel my hands or feet. Then an eerie stillness. Peace, even as the storm raged above me. Thunder and lightning, loud and bright enough to permeate my last moments of consciousness.
“Stop it,” I mutter as I drop my hat on the table by the door. “You’re better than this.”
But am I? My knee aches with each step, and I can feel the tight band across my forehead that signals an impending migraine.
Leaving a pile of wet clothes on the bathroom floor, I flip the shower as hot as it will go and step under the spray.
Six more weeks of disability. Mandatory. And that’s assuming I can pass the physical fitness test. My body is a shadow of what it used to be. The soap slips out of my hand—nerve damage stole too much of my fine motor control—and I catch sight of the long surgical scar running down my thigh.
I haven’t looked in the mirror since I got out of the hospital. Don’t want to see my rebuilt knee. All the muscle tone I’ve lost. The way a single lock of my short, dark brown hair sticks up on the side from a subtle dent in my skull.
For months, I’ve done every fucking thing my sadistic physical therapist asked. And itstillwasn’t enough.
Tonight, I’ll order a pizza and feel sorry for myself. But tomorrow? Time to start fixing what those assholes broke.
Isabel
The buzz of my watch startles me, and I drop the pen mid-twirl. It hits the yellow legal pad, and ink splatters across the page. “Shit.”
No more fountain pens. A ball point wouldn’t have made a mess of an entire afternoon’s work. The grant proposal is due in a little over a week, and my old-school methods have put me behind. Why can’t I compose an abstract on my laptop like everyone else?
Because you’d still play with your pen non-stop, and you would have just destroyed your keyboard.
But all those perfect words I crafted today would still be legible. Instead, I’ll have to start over after Veronica goes to bed. What’s one more late night? Long after she’s asleep, I’ll rework the whole thing. This time with a better pen. After I toss the ruined page into the trash, I sling my purse over my shoulder and head for the door. If I don’t leave in the next ten minutes, Austin traffic will grind to a halt, and Veronica will eat dinner at Mitzi’s house—again.
My job—Assistant Director of the National Second Chances Network—has kept me away from my daughter all too often these past six months. We’re one of the fastest growing non-profits in the country, but all that expansion will come to a screeching halt if we can’t raise additional funds.
I’m surprised our CFO, Luke, hasn’t been in my office every hour today. The man wouldn’t know patience if it smacked him upside the head, and I’ve been ignoring his emails all week so I could stay focused.
My cell vibrates in my hand, and I glance at the screen.
Are you going to pick me up? Mitzi’s dad will be here in fifteen minutes. If you’re working late, I’ll catch a ride with them.
With a sigh, I slide my thumb over the keyboard.
On my way. You get to pick the pizza toppings tonight. xoxo.
I’m steps from the door when Luke calls my name from the coffee machine. “Isabel. Wait up!”
With a sigh, I turn, keys in my hand. “Whatever it is, can we talk about it tomorrow? I promised Veronica I wouldn’t be late picking her up again.”
