The Edge of Trust: Team Edge (15 page)

He tossed the egg into the sink.  As he washed the slime off his hand, he tried to be reasonable. 
Wait and see what she has to say. 

Taking a deep breath, he cracked the rest of the eggs into a bowl and added milk.  Deliberately relaxed his muscles.  Whipping the egg mixture into a light batter, he told himself he'd have his answers soon enough. 

“Need help?  I can finish that if you like.” 

He glanced up and, sweet Jesus, started to sweat.  His chest felt like he’d just hit a brick wall going a thousand miles an hour.  All he could do was stand there and remind himself to keep breathing.

The kick-ass reporter, the Columbia grad, the smart-mouthed rich kid with the vulnerable look in her eyes caused from a gut-wrenching childhood, was back.
 
This was what she did, never leaving any middle ground.  She wound his guts into knots and then tied them around his neck until he couldn’t think straight.  Not that she meant to.  Or even realized her power.  But he knew where she came from, what she’d made of herself, and seeing her now, bruised and exhausted and wanting to help when she obviously needed help herself, made his knees go loose.

He set the omelet mixture on the counter and without thinking, without guilt or worry or suspicion uppermost in his mind, he took two slow, easy steps toward her. 

Their gazes locked, and her eyes held no fear, no condemnation, no anger.  Surprisingly, what he did see was shyness and maybe a small spark of desire.

A very small spark, but enough to move him closer still.  Close enough to touch.  He reached out and gently sifted soft tendrils of hair through his fingers.  His eyes drifted half closed and he simply reveled in her beautiful, golden hair as it fell through his fingers.

He wanted to fold her into his arms and hold her, to feel her warmth and breathe her in.  And beg her forgiveness for everything he’d done.  But forgiveness was a big
if
and a long way off.  For now he’d have to settle for embracing the knowledge that she was real and alive and here. 

The
here
being mere inches away, and if he moved just a little bit closer... 

Her body swayed toward his. 

Hope flared.

But then, just when he thought he might get lucky enough to hold her, maybe even kiss her, she took a step back and his hand fell away.

And poof, just that fast, whatever longing she might have had in her eyes was gone.  Now she just looked worried and sad.  And…edgy.

He wanted to howl.

Instead he sighed, glad at least that she looked like she was back in the pocket, tired yes, but fresh and clean.  He picked up the bowl and started beating the crap out of the eggs and milk.

“Dillon?  You want some help?”

He cleared his throat.  “No, I’m good, thanks.  Why don’t you just sit and take a load off.  I’m almost done.”  Or better yet, step into my arms, and remind me again, that yes, you’re really alive and I’m not losing my entire friggin’ mind.

Of course the angry, hurt side of him wanted to say, “Or better yet, remind me again about the hell you put me through for the last fucking year so I can maintain my damn distance.” 

Sara pulled out a chair and sat at the square oak kitchen table.  Jiggled her foot.

Sara wasn’t a jiggler. 

“Feeling more human?”  He asked the question simply to be civil.  Because God Almighty, the weight of betrayal was pressing and it was all he could do not to snatch her up and start demanding answers.

She nodded.  “Tired, but miles better than that nasty seaweed feeling I had earlier.”

Dillon’s mouth firmed as he poured them both a cup of coffee.  He made hers sweet and light, then set it down on the table in front of her.  And in one terrifying mental back-flip, he saw her hurtling through the air, flying off the dock, then nothing. 

Until now.  Now he wanted, needed, some answers.

“Thanks,” Sara said, staring into her coffee as he slid an omelet and toast in front of her.  “This looks great.  I guess swimming works up an appetite.”  She picked up her fork, took a bite, and instantly looked uncomfortable.

After sliding an omelet onto a plate for himself, he sat across from her, picked up his fork and studied her.  “You going to tell me about that?”  

“I’m not sure where to start.”

“The beginning’s usually a good place.  How about you start with why you followed me to the pier.  I mean, what the hell were you thinking?”  Dillon rubbed the back of his neck.  Sanchez had wanted blood that night, and maybe he’d have gotten it.  Maybe he’d have killed Dillon, or maybe Dillon would have killed him.  Instead, Sara had served herself up on a neat little platter.  And his life had ended anyway.

He’d expected to grab Vega, even the odds somewhat, but when Sanchez showed instead, the stakes had risen significantly, and Sara should never have been there.  True, he hadn’t known the pier was rigged to blow, but Sanchez had miscalculated Dillon’s position.  He hadn’t been close.  Sara had. 

“That night on the pier wasn’t in any way the beginning.  You’d shut me out, Dillon.  Out of your heart, your mind.  Your life.  And that’s just crap.  You don’t shut your wife out because you’ve got a leftover agenda on vengeance.” 

“This isn’t about vengeance, it’s about
justice
.”

“Your quest for
justice
nearly cost me my life!”  She slammed her fork down.  Pushed her plate away in a grab for control and composure.  “You came back from Mexico, mission complete.  Only it wasn’t.  Because Sanchez was still free.  But it’s more than that.  Something happened down there that you’ve kept to yourself.  You think I didn’t see it in your eyes?  You were home and gone, off and on for three years.  Which you’d promised would only be one.  And when you came home that last time, something had changed. 
You
changed.  Why?”

“Jesus, Sara, why do you think I changed?  I didn’t just mingle with the criminal element, I
was
the criminal element.  For three
years
.”  She had no idea what he’d gone through, what he’d had to do to keep his cover and stay alive in that secret inner sanctum that was a world unto itself.  “So yeah, I guess I did change.  But not about you.  Not about us.”

“Bullshit.  You’re whole moral compass changed.  Your directional north used to be the god of the alpha male that said the bible, clean living, helping old ladies across the street, always doing what was right but not what was easy, ruled you.  Your unwavering commitment to us as a couple served as my compass too, my anchor.  I needed that.  We both did.  Sanchez took that from us and you let him.  You’re still letting him.”

No, he thought, I’m ending him.  The way he ended my family.  And realized, with brilliant, belated insight, that Sara probably didn’t know.  And he didn’t know how to tell her that less than twenty-four hours after he’d lost his wife, he’d also lost his parents and his sister.  “I’m still the same man you married.  But there’s more to this and I--” 

“Do you know why I became a reporter?”

“Of course I do.  You’re changing the subject.”  And he was going to let her because telling her what had happened to his family, and hers by marriage, was no doubt going to level her. 

“I need you to understand.”

“Okay, fine,” he said, wondering where she was going with this.  “Go ahead.”  From the things she’d told him over the years, his guess would be that it all stemmed from her childhood.  Not that she’d told him every detail flat out.  But between the old media reports she kept and the things she had said or let slip, he’d pretty much pieced the story together.  Her father had been a monster. 

But Sara hadn’t let her past define her.  She’d become the woman she was today with a lot of hard work, love, and trusting relationships.  She’d been a victim, a survivor, and lastly a conqueror.  She’d reclaimed her power, her very being.  And nothing had threatened that until Sanchez.

Of which, Dillon had been the catalyst. 

“I needed fairness.  Needed the ability to make judgments free from discrimination or dishonesty.  To tell the story, whatever story I was working on, the right way.  Matt was only twelve when he shot my father.  The press got a hold of his story and mangled it.  Their bias sent him to prison.”

“He committed murder.”

“Murder is committed every day.  Should Matt have paid a higher price just because of his name?”

“The rich and famous usually get off easier than most.”

“The rich and famous also get slandered.  Matt didn’t go to prison for murder so much as he went to prison to save me.  He didn’t tell the cops my father had raped me continuously since I was five.  He also didn’t tell them my father had murdered my mother just before my fifth birthday so that he could have his kiddie porn in real life.  Matt wanted more for me.  He wanted me to have a chance at life without the ugly truth, or the media, dogging my heels.”

“Your mother died from mixing booze and pills.  The whole free world knew she had a problem.  She’d been in and out of rehab for years.  Hell, your father’s biggest platform was illicit prescription drug use.”

“My mother had been clean for over a year.  But my father, the most prestigious neurosurgeon in the country, mixed her a nice lethal juice drink.  The ME and the press chalked up her overdose to a relapse.  My father was never even questioned.  Never looked at.  After all, he was going to be the next Surgeon General.  He wielded a great deal of power.”

“How do you know your father was responsible?” 

“Oh, you can bet your ass he told me.  Wanted me to know how big and bad he was.  How scared I should be.  He’d have killed me before he’d have allowed that kind of scandal and he made sure I knew it.  Every night.”

Dillon swallowed the rising bile.  “And Matt?”

“Paid for his crime.  Although if he’d been anyone else’s son, he would more than likely gotten off on justifiable homicide.  No one issued the press a gag order.  And Matt didn’t defend himself or say a word about what had happened to me.  Maybe he felt coerced, maybe he lied to protect me.  I don’t know.  I was only eight.  Too young, too scared to speak for myself.  Although when Matt was arrested, I tried.  No one believed me, or at least they chose not to go public.  People in power can twist or hide reality to suit themselves.  No one at that time wanted to claim an interest in a sensationalized case that would show they’d been backing a pedophile all the way to the top.”  She took a deep breath and continued, “So now I speak.  By getting the facts right, digging for the truth, I stand for Matt.  For those who can’t stand for themselves.  So yes, I understand about justice.  But there’s a line between justice and personal vengeance.  It may be thin, but it’s there.”

She may not know his compulsion, but she damn sure knew his job.  “You knew what line of work I was in when you married me.  You had to know lines would be crossed.  You knew what the risks were.”

“You’re right.
I knew what the risks were for
you
.  And even though I hated the fear and worry I felt every time you left, I lived with it.  Because I loved you.  But I never thought, in a million years, it would ever get personal for
me.
  I spent my entire life without a home.  And yeah, sure, boarding school was better than going through the system, but it wasn’t exactly family, with the mom and dad and all those supposed comforts.  No going home for the holidays, no puppy to grow up with, no parent to borrow car keys from.  When I met you, I’d finally found a home.  A
real
home.  A haven.  Safety.  But all that had been an illusion.  A lie.  I didn’t know my life was at risk.  Jesus, Dillon, how dare you!”

“I did keep you safe!  And you’d still be safe if you hadn’t followed me!”  But was that truth or another lie?  Sanchez had said he’d massacre Dillon’s entire family and he nearly had.  Sara had no idea just how personal this private war had actually gotten.

“Would I?  Would I really?” 

He shoved his plate aside, stood, and started pacing.  “You need help, Sara, but I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me.  You need to tell me everything about the last twelve months.  Start to finish.”

She took a small sip of coffee, then set the cup aside, tasting only her own bitterness.  “You should have told me twelve months ago about Sanchez.  If I’d known what you were doing, that you were working so close to home, and how far under you were, I never would have followed you, despite our argument.  Or the pictures.  You’ve never worked in the States before, and the fact that you were literally in our own backyard and didn’t tell me?”

“I got called in at the last minute.
 
How could I have given you classified information?”

“The SBC is hardly classified these days, not after what they’ve done.”

“And that’s the point.  Back then you didn’t even know I was working with Sanchez.  And I couldn’t tell you.  Besides, Sanchez wasn’t even supposed to be there that night.” 

“Well,  I know about Sanchez now.  It took some digging in the last year, but I dug, and I found.  Not in time, obviously.”

Something in his mind clicked.  “You wrote that article.  For the Times.”

She shrugged.  “Yeah, so?” 

“So the reporter in you should appreciate that some information is off limits.  I couldn’t very well have called home and said, ‘By the way, dear, last minute change.  I’m going to be late for dinner.  I have a covert op tonight with the biggest drug cartel on the continent.  And oh yeah, don’t try to call me because I won’t have my cell phone on me, you know, rules and all, and I can’t risk calling you either, mostly for your own safety, but also because you’re all pissed off about some stupid fucking pictures.’”  Dillon drew air into his lungs, cooling the fury.  “There are things about Sanchez no source on earth will tell you.  Things I do you’ll never understand.  I can’t change who I am.  What I do.  You know the nature of my job now, and you knew it then.”

“I not naïve, Dillon.  I know all about access and information.  Even secrets.  And I still think you should have warned me.”

Lord, God, this woman got to him.  “Warned you?  Have you gone pure mental?  Aren’t you listening?  I couldn’t fucking warn you.  Didn’t even know I
should
warn you.  Because, God Almighty, Sara, you never should have followed me!”