“Seriously?” Jake said as he came in, his duffel bag over his shoulder. “This is where the fundraiser is being held? I guess I should have brought a suit.”
Ham looked at him, a little wide-eyed, and Jake winked. “Just kidding, boss.”
“A lot of history in this place,” Ham said. “You probably need to wear a suit to bed.”
“I heard there are tunnels from the Patriot to the White House,” Orion said, walking toward a red, round conversation sofa that looked straight out of the Gilded Age.
Jenny stood at the entrance, surveying the ornate ceiling.
Scarlett, his new communications tech, walked past her, on her cell phone. Ham had met the former Navy petty officer just three months ago while on an op in Ukraine. She hung up the phone, glanced around the lobby, and Ham’s gaze followed her search until it landed on a man sitting in one of the gold brocade Queen Anne chairs. Military in his bearing, he was wide-shouldered, with his dark hair cut short, wearing a pair of jeans and a long-sleeve blue oxford rolled up to the elbows.
Right. Ford Marshall, Scarlett’s boyfriend. Ham should have expected to see him here, maybe, but the man was an active-duty SEAL, so who knew where and when he’d show up.
Ford came over to Scarlett, gave her a hug and added a kiss.
With him was a burly black man, also exuding a military aura, with a wide smile aimed directly at Scarlett.
“Hey, Trini.” She glanced at Ham. He walked over and shook the man’s hand. Also a SEAL, Ham guessed.
“Ford and Trini have a ninety-six, so I invited them. Hope that’s okay.”
Ham refused to compare Scarlett to Signe. Because had Signe, even once, contacted him while he was on leave, he would have been on the first plane to anywhere.
He should probably get his brain off Signe and the what-ifs. “I have one extra ticket for tomorrow’s event—”
“I’ve got family to see, so I’m out,” Trini said.
Ford slid his arm around Scarlett’s shoulders. “Thanks, Ham.”
Ham headed to the front desk and checked his team in. White had given them all separate rooms, so Ham handed out keys then headed up to his own, on the eleventh floor.
There, he dropped his bag onto the white bedspread and went to the window.
The view looked out onto the National Mall, the spire of the Washington Monument spearing the blue sky, the trees that blanketed the horizon an array of yellow, fiery orange, and pale green.
Signe, where are you? Please be okay.
Ham pressed his hand against the window, the pane cold against his palm. But it didn’t stop Signe from reappearing in his memory, opening the closet door, and sitting down opposite him after his mother’s funeral.
“Want a Rice Krispies bar?”
She’d pulled her dress over her knees. She wore tube socks and tennis shoes, so he guessed the dress was her grandmother’s doing.
His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and in the thread of light, he made out her face, her tentative smile.
He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed her until this moment. For the first time in a week, it seemed he could breathe.
“How’s Caesar?” he asked.
“Grandmother found him and I got a whipping, but she said he could stay in the barn so . . .” She grinned at him. “It was worth it.” Her smile vanished. “I’m sorry about your mom.”
His eyes welled up. “It’s okay. Dad says she’s in a better place now. Not suffering anymore.”
“Do you really believe that?”
He gave her a slow nod. “Yeah. I think so.”
“Your mom was really nice, Ham. She made cookies for my birthday.”
Silence.
Then, “Ham, do you think my mom’s in heaven?”
What did he know? “I guess so.”
“Grandmother says she isn’t. That she threw her life away on drugs and God turned his back on her.” She sighed. “Do you think God does that?”
He shrugged.
She was quiet for a long time. “Grandmother says that I’m a bad person because I don’t obey. I ask too many questions. I get in the way. And, because I don’t have a dad.”
Sometimes Ham really hated her grandmother. He knew it wasn’t right to hate—his mother had said that Signe’s grandmother was just grieving, and that it made her say things she didn’t mean. But when she screamed at Signe and hit her, it sure seemed like she meant them.
“Do you think your mom can tell God that . . . that I’m sorry?”
“Sorry for what?”
“For being bad. I won’t throw my life away.”
He didn’t know what to say. He just knew that he really wanted to climb back into bed with his mother, feel her arms around him. Listen to her sing her hymns.
Remind himself that he wasn’t alone.
He drew up his knees, locking his arms around them. Signe said nothing when his weeping became audible. Then, Signe’s hand slid through the light from under the door and held out a Rice Krispies bar.
Now, he touched his forehead to the window. Please, God, don’t let her throw her life away. Help me find her.
Ham stepped away from the window and shook away the memory before he lost his mind.
The team met for dinner at the hotel’s Cafe Du Parc. Ham ate seared rockfish and watched as Orion sat picking at his braised short ribs. Jenny and Jake had a conversation about the best way to serve oysters. Scarlett had abandoned them for a date with Ford, and frankly, Ham couldn’t get through dinner fast enough.
Especially when Jenny touched Jake’s arm and laughed and Orion threw down his napkin, got up, and stalked away.
“You might go easy on the guy,” Ham said to her.
She looked like she’d been slapped and he felt like a jerk, and then she ground her jaw, as if trying not to cry, and yeah, he wasn’t the guy to fix anything.
“Jenny?”
She fled from the table. Jake raised an eyebrow and Ham just shook his head and handed the waitress his credit card.
It was after ten by the time he returned to his room, but he was still dressed, still staring out at the lights of a darkened DC when his cell phone rang. “I’m here.”
“I know,” White said. “Go down to the service level. Someone will be waiting.”
Ham nearly sprinted to the elevator.
A moment later, the doors opened to the basement floor, and Ham got out. A man stood at the entrance, his back to him, wearing a gray suit coat, his hand stuck into the pockets of his dress pants. He turned.
Ham’s heart stopped. “Logan?”
Petty Officer Logan Thorne, one of the SEALs Ham had rescued in Afghanistan. His brown hair was cut short, his green eyes solemn, but he wore a slow, deliberate smile Ham would never forget.
“Chief.” Logan held out his hand, but Ham bypassed it and pulled him into an embrace.
“Seriously? What—I don’t—” He put him away. “Orion said you were on the lam in Alaska!”
“I was. Long story. I’m back and working for White now on special projects. One of them concerning an out-of-pocket NOC list.” He walked to a door at the end of the hallway and keyed in a code.
It opened and he held it open for Ham. “Down three flights.”
Ham took the stairs down to another secure entrance. Logan opened it and they went inside to a corridor with dim lighting and the smell of age emanating off the cement.