He sat alone in his kitchen, where it was cold and dark, head hanging between his hands. The house was quiet. Empty. There were no joyful giggles, no soft murmurs, no words of love.
Cold. Dark. Empty. All three of those terms seemed to describe his life now. Another failed attempt to find out who was responsible for the murder of his wife and daughter only served to remind him of that. Not that he had ever been able to forget.
He hadn't even been able to grieve the loss of his family. After the accusations, his mother and father-in-law had shunned him. Pushed him away. Blamed him for the death of their daughter and granddaughter.
He couldn't blame them. Even if he hadn't pulled the trigger himself, he failed to protect them. He was one of the NSA's best field agents, and yet he couldn't do something as simple as protect his family.
He thought he had had it all. A wife and daughter he adored and who brought him joy and happiness. A career he found immensely satisfying. Even though his own upbringing had been fraught with sadness after the death of the brother he had never met, he had been close to his in-laws. The shock that they would believe the accusations cut deep.
He had been at the top, only to have the rug pulled out from underneath him when he least expected it. And now he couldn't even find the men responsible for the death of his family. He felt cold and empty inside, except for the blue flame of rage that kept at a slow burn in his soul.
He fingered the weapon on the table, feeling its smooth lines and familiarity. It was one of his favorites. One that had been with him for years, had been by his side, mission after mission. Trustworthy. Faithful. Unlike him, it wouldn't fail him for this last mission.
He tossed back the last of his whiskey and blindly stared at his hands after setting his glass down. Bruised knuckles, streaks of blood he had missed after washing his hands off. Who had he become? He had tortured the last man for information, only to find another dead end. Another death at his hands. Another mark against his soul. He could feel the burn of Lorena's judgement. And that was the worst of it. He wasn't the man she once knew. That man was dead. The hands he examined belonged to someone else. Someone who shouldn't be on this earth any longer.
He grasped his weapon again. Began dragging it closer to himself as the heat of Lorena's gaze burned deeper into him.
The doorbell rang.
He jerked abruptly, immediately suspicious. This house had been empty for the last 6 months, since Lorena and Iris were killed. He had been taken into custody and escaped a few weeks later to begin the hunt. A forlorn For Sale sign dangled by one chain in the front. No one had wanted to buy a home where a family had been torn asunder. He had chosen his home for that very reason. To take the life of this stranger he had become in a place that had once been so familiar to him. A place where he had known happiness. No one should know he was here.
The doorbell rang again. He got up quietly, drawing his weapon with him, all of his reflexes that had been trained into him flowing smoothly, like the trained operative he had become. He took a glimpse through the blinds.
A young woman stood at his doorstep, with a well-loved and worn journal in hand. Pages were sticking out every which way. She tapped her foot unconsciously. Something was off about her appearance. As if she had tried to dress in whatever today's fashion style was, but had just missed the mark. Oddly enough, it was the way she dressed that relaxed his guard. Any trained operative would have been well-versed in how to blend in and that included fashion. This woman was either clueless or a new recruit. Either situation could be easily handled.
He swung the door open wide just as she was reaching for the doorbell for a third time, startling her. Then she glanced up at him and gasped in surprise, her eyes widening as she drew her hand to her mouth. She was surprisingly tall, just a few inches shy of his own 6'4" which took him aback. She had shoulder length waves of hair, the color of a rich, deep chocolate, matched by the color of her eyes. There was something about the shape of her eyes and her jawline that struck him as familiar, but he couldn't place it.
"I didn't think it'd be that simple," she muttered to herself. He was immediately on guard again with that odd statement, carrying his weapon just out sight, behind the door.
"Can I help you?"
She peered up at him, nodding to herself. "Are you Garcia Flynn?"
His heart stopped for a beat of alarm and he immediately drew his weapon. "Who's asking?"
The stranger on his doorstep made a slight squeak at the sight of the gun and immediately held up her hands, one still holding the journal. "Right, right. Not so simple then," she muttered to herself.
"Kindly stop muttering to yourself and explain what you're doing here and what you want with Garcia Flynn," He grabbed her by the arm and dragged her into the house, keeping his gun trained on her as she let out a squeal.
"Sorry! Sorry. It's just a bad habit of mine. I'm sorry. My…parents always tell me I need to stop talking to myself. That I need to hold conversations with real people, not just in my own head. Even though the conversations in my head are far more interesting that most conversations I have with real people." She stared at him intently as she talked, as if she was taking in every detail of his appearance and storing it away in her memory.
Exasperated, he repeated himself, "Who are you and what are you doing here." At the very least, it was obvious she wasn't an operative. Maybe she had come to inquire about the house.
"Right! Yes! That! Well…. My name is Amy. I'm looking for Garcia Flynn, who I presume is you. At least you look extraordinarily like him. Younger than I was expe-" He raised an expectant eyebrow as she started to go off on another tangent and she abruptly cut herself off. At least she was trainable. He might be here for the next three days before she got to the point otherwise.
"Sorry, I get distracted easily."
"I gathered that," he said drolly.
"This is my first time. My mom, Lucy Preston, she sent me here to help you."
His eyebrow raised even higher. "Who is this Lucy Preston and how does she presume to render me aid through you?"
She offered him the journal, which he set aside. "You don't know her. She doesn't know you. At least not yet. But she knows what happened to your family and she knows you're innocent. I know you're innocent too for that matter. We know who's responsible though."
Every single nerve ending flared to life as he grasped her tightly by the shoulders and growled, "What did you just say?"
Her eyes were wide and frightened. She nodded to the journal, "It's all in there."
He released her suddenly, causing her to gasp again and picked up the journal. A color photograph fluttered out of the journal, catching his eye. Captured for all eternity was a beautiful woman, clearly in the prime of her life, somewhere in her mid 40s. Next to her was a younger version of Amy who was clearly a near carbon copy of her mother, except that she towered over her mother in the photo, despite being in her teens. And… He squinted at the man in the photo, then glared up at her.
"Look, I don't know what you're trying to pull. Clearly you or someone you know has some great photo manipulation skills, bu-"
She cut him off this time, staring steadily into his eyes. She didn't ramble, she didn't mutter. She quietly uttered the one word that was sure to bring his attention to a laser focus.
"Rittenhouse."