Nina sat at the other side of the table. “Before the Chandra Brown case, you mean.”
“Before the Bureau hung him out to dry.”
“You were an executive assistant director at the time,” she said. “You could’ve helped him.”
“An EAD is not the Director. I did what I could when he . . .” Shawna hesitated, searching for the right word.
“Imploded,” Nina supplied.
Shawna frowned. “Sometimes we’re harder on ourselves than the criminals are. Wade took personal responsibility when Chandra died. Blamed himself.”
“From what I understand, he didn’t believe her when she said a man was following her. He could’ve done more. Might even have prevented—”
“You sound like the media.”
“Because I’ve also been on the receiving end of one of his bad judgment calls,” Nina said. “What I don’t know is why you saved him.”
Shawna let out a long sigh. “There’s a lot you don’t know. That’s why I stopped by. We need to talk.” She gave Nina a significant look. “Away from prying eyes.”
Nina had last seen her mentor wear that expression at this very table three years ago when she recruited her to join the FBI. They’d first met many years before that when Nina was sixteen and Shawna was assigned to the BAU.
The Fairfax County police had called the FBI to help develop a profile of the man who had abducted Nina. Quantico was only a half hour drive away, and Shawna took the unusual step of coming to speak with her in person. Nina had never met anyone as impressive as the tall, polished, self-possessed federal agent and bonded with her almost instantly.
Shawna had kept in touch with Nina when it became clear no arrest would be made in her case. Concerned that her abductor was still at large, Shawna had worked with CPS to ensure no mention of Nina’s new surname or address appeared in their final report as they closed out her file. As an emancipated adult in the eyes of the law, Nina would no longer have visits from social workers or entries in a database that could be hacked. Instead, her legal name change would remain part of a sealed juvenile court hearing. Part of a past she wanted to leave behind.
Shawna’s example of professionalism coupled with compassion had inspired her to seek a career in law enforcement as soon as she could. While Nina’s career as a police officer blossomed, Shawna climbed the supervisory ranks in the Bureau. Throughout it all, Shawna had been her mentor and friend, spurring her evolution from victim to protector.
“You’re not here for the awesome food, then?” Nina asked.
Shawna didn’t take the bait. “I need to tell you something about Wade. Something I had never planned to discuss with you, but now that you’re going to work with him I—”
The doorbell rang.
Anxious to fend off the unwelcome intruder, Nina padded to the door and pulled it open.
“Hola, mi’ja.” Her next-door neighbor, Mrs. Gomez, stood in the doorway with a ceramic tray cradled in her hands and her seventeen-year-old foster daughter, Bianca, by her side. “I wasn’t sure if you’d eaten, so I brought you some tres leches cake.”
Perpetually worried Nina would starve, Mrs. G frequently brought homemade dishes or treats. Bianca came over whenever one of her six foster siblings got on her nerves, which amounted to at least three times a week.
Nina duly performed her end of the ritual, taking the offering. “Gracias.”
“Oh, but I see you have company,” Mrs. Gomez said. “I don’t want to trouble you with my problems.”
Of course she did. “What is it, Mrs. G?”
Mrs. Gomez slid her a sheepish smile. “I was going to make empanadas, but my stove is broken.”
Apparently tired of her foster mother’s hesitation, Bianca jutted out a hip and got to the point. “We need you to call Jaime for us.” She wiggled her pierced brows. “He blows us off, but he’ll come running for you.”
Nina sighed, stepped back, and held the door open. “Come in.”
Mrs. G went into the kitchen and put the cake on the counter, then stood with her hands clasped expectantly while Nina picked up her phone to call the super.
Jaime answered on the first ring. “Qué pasa, Nina?”
“Hola, Jaime, there’s a problem with—”
Mrs. G frantically waved her arms and shook her head.
Nina switched gears on the fly. “With something that needs to be fixed. Can you come over?”
“I’ll be there in two minutes, bonita.”
Rolling her eyes, Nina disconnected and turned to her neighbor. “He’ll be mad when he finds out I called for you. I won’t be able to get away with that a second time.”
“I called him two days ago,” Mrs. G said. “We are tired of microwave food.” Her lip curled as if she’d been describing toxic waste. Which perhaps she had.
“Hey,” Bianca said, peering around Nina for the first time to get a better look at Shawna. “Aren’t you on TV or something?”
“Shawna Jackson,” she said, standing. “I was on the news last night.”
When Shawna left the Bureau six months ago, Nina felt it as a palpable loss. Agents had to retire at fifty-seven years old, with a possible extension to age sixty. At fifty-two, Shawna had seen an opportunity for another career and taken it. Many members of the Bureau retired to take jobs as consultants, security experts, and pundits, their hard-won expertise a valuable commodity. A few, however, had an unusual combination of talent and charisma that made them a natural to appear on national news programs as law enforcement experts.
When a series of incidents involving white police officers shooting unarmed black men had made national headlines a few months ago, Shawna found herself besieged by requests for interviews. The highest-ranking African American female agent in the history of the Bureau, her position and her experience investigating such cases for civil rights violations gave her the chops to speak with authority. Recently, she’d been hired by a major national news outlet as a senior consultant.
Mrs. G rushed over to shake Shawna’s hand. “But you are even more beautiful in person.”
Before Shawna could respond, a loud knock sounded at the door. Gritting her teeth, Nina tugged it open.
“Hola, bonita,” Jaime said through a cloud of Old Spice. “What’s the problem?”
She blinked away the tears stinging her eyes from cologne fumes. “It’s the stove.”
He frowned. “All four burners or just one?”
“You’ll have to ask Mrs. Gomez.”
She watched as Jaime scanned the kitchen, comprehension gradually tightening his features.
Bianca gave him a finger wave. “Hola, Jaime.”
He turned back to Nina, scowling. “Not cool, bonita. Not cool.”
Bianca got in his face. “You wouldn’t fix our stove. We’ve been microwaving our food, Jaime. Think about it.” She lowered her voice to convey the true horror and gravity of the situation. “Prepackaged burritos. In the microwave.” She held up two fingers. “For two days.”
Jaime grimaced. “Oh, all right.”
He followed them out, muttering something that sounded like “pinche stove” under his breath.