Procedure, procedure, procedure . . . The PAN loved their procedures. “Nothing about this case went according to procedure. I had to go a little…off script.”
“Off script? Deacon, you live off script. What happened in Ohio was unheard of.”
He rested his chin in his palm. “Which part?”
“Every part! The hospital, the agents, the extra time you spent with the mark—”
“Vivienne.”
“The extra time you spent with Vivienne, even after being ordered to return to Kensington.”
At least Paul hadn’t heard about Deacon and Ethan’s near miss with the Ohio State Police. “I can explain. You see—”
“The only thing I want you to explain,” Paul snarled, glaring at him through the thick lenses in his glasses, “is how HOOK knew where she was.”
Deacon had been racking his brain for a logical reason for HOOK’s rapid response. “I can’t.”
“I didn’t think so. Which brings me to my next question.” Paul slid his pen behind his ear. “Can Vivienne be trusted?”
“You must be joking.”
“I’m asking you to take a second look at the facts.” He rearranged the papers in the open file on his desk. When he found the one he was searching for, he held it up for Deacon to see. It was a timeline of events for Vivienne’s case based on Deacon’s location.
Curse you, TINK.
“HOOK agents were swarming the hospital days after she changed. That has never happened and can’t be a coincidence.” Paul shook the page as though Deacon couldn’t already see the bloody thing. “We need to make sure we consider every possibility.”
“Consider whatever scenarios you need to,” Deacon said, plucking the paper out of Paul’s hand and tossing it back on the desk, “but I’m telling you, Vivienne is innocent.”
Paul snapped the file shut. “Some people think your judgment on this issue is clouded.”
“Those people are wrong.” Deacon wanted to ask who doubted him but refrained. He didn’t have the time for an extensive list of individuals who weren’t satisfied with his performance.
“Maybe so, but I’m assigning someone else to meet her this evening.”
Deacon stood and leaned with his fists on the desktop. “Like hell you are.” He had started this and planned on finishing it. “If you take me off this case, you may as well hand in your resignation now.”
Paul mimicked Deacon’s stance. “Are you threatening me?”
“Now, now, Paul.” Deacon clucked his tongue and returned to his chair. “Would I do something like that?”
“Fine. Go get her.” Paul sat back down and ran a hand over his goatee. “Then you can bring her to a secure location until we can get a better handle on the details of her situation.”
“You’ve had eighteen years to learn about Vivienne’s situation,” he said, fastening the button at his wrist. “I will be following procedure and bringing her here.”
Paul adjusted his glasses and narrowed his eyes. “You may not have noticed—”
“I’m going to stop you right there. And unless you’d like me to call my grandad and ask his opinion, this conversation is over.” Deacon stood and checked his watch. He’d finished in record time.
Paul tossed his glasses onto his desk and swore. “Fine. But you’ve just made it your responsibility to ensure she doesn’t jump ship like her parents.”
“Trust me, when Vivienne gets here, she won’t want to leave.”
The curved ceiling of Worcester, Massachusetts’s Union Station, adorned with brilliant stained glass windows and glowing with the last of the autumn sun, was like a scene from a storybook—which was fitting considering Vivienne’s reason for being there. The ornate dome marking the center of the grand hall made it feel like she had been locked inside a Fabergé egg.
She searched for her name among the signs held by expectant men and women at the exit, but no one appeared to be waiting for her. That meant it was time for another trip. She passed a family of six on her way to the ticket counter. The kids had way too much energy.
“Woah. What happened to you?” the man behind the glass asked before slurping from the straw in his extra-large drink.
“I fell.” It was the same generic answer she had given the other attendants at the last four bus stations. She pulled her hood over her hair to hide the black and blue scrape on her cheek. After traveling for an entire day, she was ready to call it quits. “Do you have a ticket for me?” she asked, slipping her license through the slot. “I think a friend might have left one.”
“No one’s left anything here. Let me double check with my manager.” He leaned back in his chair and shouted across the room. “Hey, Sue?”
A woman stuck her head out of a back office. “What do you need?”
“There’s a girl here asking if someone left a ticket for her.”
“What’s her name?”
The ticket agent squinted at Vivienne’s ID. “Vivienne Dunn.”
“One sec.” Sue disappeared back into the room.
Vivienne toyed with the useless silver chain meant to keep people from stealing the station’s pens; there was no pen.
Sue returned, her portly shape leaning against the door. “Tell her we don’t have any reservations under her name.”
“We don’t have any reserv—”
“I heard her. Thanks for checking.” Vivienne took back her ID and found a seat in a quiet corner to wait.
Her stomach tightened with anticipation. She had made it.
A handful of passengers climbed the sweeping staircases lined with iron railings to wait next to the rail platforms. Someone sat in the chair across from her, but she didn’t bother looking up in case he mistook the acknowledgement as an excuse to make conversation.
“How are you?” he asked anyway.
She lifted her eyes and locked gazes with a man wearing a red, flat-billed baseball cap she recognized from the last bus. “Fine.” She offered a polite yet tight smile before looking away.
“What brings you to Worcester?”
What part of her obviously trying to ignore him made him think he should keep talking to her? “I’m visiting my boyfriend.” Maybe that would shut him up.
“Told ya she’s too pretty to be single,” he said to another man in a too-big football jersey approaching the group of chairs. “Let’s go.”
“Is that any way to treat a nice girl?” The newcomer’s voice was confident and steady. “We’ll keep her company until her boyfriend gets here.”
“There’s no need. I see him now.” Vivienne stood and waved at the familiar young man walking through the station’s main doors. When he caught sight of her, he grinned.
“You’re late,” she said, sweeping past Deacon to the exit.
“I’m late?” he scoffed, falling in step beside her. “You were supposed to be here yesterday.” He pushed the door aside and guided her to a black town car.
Once they were inside, Deacon steadied his arm against the passenger headrest and leaned toward the front seat, mumbling something to their driver. The man with thinning grey hair nodded, and Deacon turned back to her.