TEN
"I've read a lot about you, you know. This file they put together on you is pretty thick. From what I've seen, doesn't seem like you were ever too good about following orders. Internal Affairs saw you as somewhat of a rebel, bit of a troublemaker when you were on the force."
Dee Dee glanced up, breathing in the woman's newest attempt at engaging her in a two-way conversation. She arched her brows lazily, in silent, ambiguous agreement with the assumption given, pressing the backs of her shoulders harder into the wall behind her. The woman was persistent, Dee Dee would give her that much, but she was also wasting both of their time. There wasn't anything that she could say, why didn't the woman understand that? Not until she saw Elian, until she talked to him so that he could tell her what was the right thing to say.
"So, what happened to that fighting spirit?" Lydia continued, slumped over the table. "Did you just get tired of it, is that? Or did someone else get tired of it instead?" As Dee Dee's stare remained steadfast, Lydia righted herself in the chair. "It happens. Someone wants you to comply, but it's not really in you to do that. It starts off with a slap here or there if you say or do the wrong thing, next thing you know it's a punch in the gut, maybe to the jaw. Maybe you even get kicked, or hit with other things, like belts, hairbrushes…" She sighed, running a hand through her mussed bangs. "I even saw a case once where the instrument of choice was a regular, old table tennis paddle. From the pictures I saw, those things can leave some pretty good welts, let me tell you."
Dee Dee answered with a stare; her only audible retort a hard swallow. Cunning and his own physical strength were all Elian needed in order to control; he'd both told and shown her that enough times. But his iron fists hadn't broken her spirit; at least she didn't like to think they had. She liked to believe they'd just made her adept at hiding it.
"Of course, some men use sex as a means of control. But then again, you don't need me to tell you that, right? You were in the business long enough, so there's probably nothing I could tell you about that that you don't already know." Using the tabletop as leverage, she pushed herself up and out of the chair, her movements laborious, tired. Lifting her arms above her head, she groaned through a stretch, her stare never leaving Dee Dee's pale face. "During your time on the force you probably saw it happen enough times, right? Women getting so beaten down, so broken down after time that they started to see the abuse as being their fault, maybe even something they deserved?" She nodded once, sharply. "Yeah, you probably saw it. Probably logged your fair share of time, too, talking to victims, trying to convince them that no one deserved to be treated that way. That no one had the right to treat someone else that way."
Elementary police procedure, Dee Dee silently accused again, a mixture of laughter and tears tightening her throat. Put yourself on the victim's level, make it seem like you understand what they've been through and how they feel. It was elementary, so why was she letting it get to her? The woman didn't know anything about her. Not about her life, what she thought, or what she believed. She wasn't broken; she knew that she wasn't. And she wasn't stupid, either. When there was no way to win, you gave up. Conceded. It was the first rule of survival, and the first lesson Elian had taught her.
"So, is that what happened? You said the wrong thing, the bastard slapped you around, and if you still didn't get the message, he upped the degree of humiliation?"
Dee Dee reacted to the woman's educated assumption with a mental eye roll. She'd be damned before she gave anyone blow-by-blow details of her humiliation. It was hard enough to think about herself, and she sure as hell didn't need anyone else lending a voice to it and making it too real to pretend that it had never happened. She couldn't risk that happening, not when her survival had become so dependent on pretending. If she lost her ability to pretend, she wouldn't have anything left.
Lydia walked down the length of the table, giving a hard stare to the two-way mirror before turning her back to it. She leaned against the glass, folding her arms over her chest and crossing one ankle over the other, her lips twisting in thought. "Six years…" she finally said. "I'd say that's more than enough time for someone to pick up a bad case of Stockholm syndrome." She arched a brow, looking Dee Dee up and down. "But the thing is, with you, that's not what I see. It's not the vibe I get. There's something else going on, and I need to know what it is. Because whatever your reason is for protecting the bastard, you ask me, it's not a good enough one. Not considering."
Screw you, Dee Dee glared, stiffening and knotting her own arms defiantly across her chest.
"Yeah, yeah, go to hell. I've gotten that message loud and clear." Lydia sighed, rolling her eyes. "Let's think about this. There's something we're missing." She scrubbed the underside of her chin with her fingertips, her brows furrowing. "You're scared, I get that. I mean, why wouldn't you be? You've been through six years of God knows what, although I'm pretty sure I've come to the same conclusion that both God and you already know." She shrugged a shoulder, once again crossing her arms. "But the thing is, you have this training in your background. Now, not that it makes you immune to normal feelings, that'd be stupid to think, but it should make you more conscious of what you are feeling and why. You know the perverts' techniques, and you know the reactions they want to get by using them. Which means, right from the start, you must've figured out the game the bastard was playing with you. So, what else is going on? What is it specifically that you don't want to tell me? Because there is something, we both know it." She stepped away from the wall, her lips pursed. "Just like we both know that something has you more scared than Elian Sandoval does."
xxx
Marriage Certificate.
Signatures.
Two months.
Fuck. He couldn't sit still.
The need to move was overwhelming and overpowering, making Hunter's muscles jerk as he stomped his way up one side of the table and down the other side. He lapped it again and again, ignoring his small audience's stares as he circled them where they sat with Charlie and Mallory on one side of the structure and Riley Porter on the other side.
"Hunter, if you'll sit down—"
Hunter hit Porter with a glare, silencing him. "Married?" He swiped a hand over the top of his hair, rounding the end of the table. Again. "What the hell is going on? Something's not…it isn't…she's…to Sandoval?" He came to a quick stop, only for a second, before jumping into motion again. "How do we know the marriage certificate isn't a fake?"
"We don't," Porter answered, scrubbing his hands over his face. "Right now, we don't know anything other than what Sandoval has said, which isn't a hell of a lot. And so far everything he's said has been to Stanton and only Stanton. Other than his attorneys, it's the only person he'll talk to."
"Why that prick?" Hunter scoffed.
Porter shrugged, trying to diffuse a smile. "Probably because they have a lot in common. First and foremost, their fat egos."
Hunter snorted a laugh, momentarily coming to a stop behind Charlie's chair, as Charlie croaked weakly, "And what about Dee Dee?"
Porter answered first with a frown, before shaking his head. "One of my best agents has been with her for hours. Dee Dee hasn't said a word yet. Nothing."
"Then let me talk to—" Hunter began, before Porter stopped him with a hard shake of his head. "Damn it, Porter, come on. I know her better than anyone. We were partners—friends—"
"Were, Hunter," Porter interrupted again. "You haven't seen her, I have. I sat next to her in a car for close to forty-five minutes, and she wouldn't even look at me. If I accidentally touched her, she jumped like she'd been burned." He spun around in his chair as Hunter stomped behind him, following his movements to the end of the table. "I don't know what in the hell has gone on between Sandoval and her, but whatever it is, it has her scared now. Whether she's afraid of getting into trouble herself, or getting Sandoval into trouble—"
"Oh, come on!" Hunter snapped. "Don't tell me you're siding with Stanton! You think Dee Dee could've killed—"
"Landry?" Porter cut in, both frustration and impatience keeping him in the thick of Hunter's and his interposing match. He slumped in the chair, slamming his forearms down on the tabletop. "Stanton talks because he likes to hear himself, but no one ever listens to him. There was evidence found in the house, though, that makes us think Dee Dee was there when Landry was shot, that she maybe even saw who did it. And maybe that's what has her scared, I don't know. Until she decides to start talking, no one's going to know. Which the longer she stays quiet, the more it's going to hurt her. All her silence is doing is giving Stanton more ammunition."
Hunter came to another quick stop for one more second, because that was as long as he could stand to be idle. After six years, he finally had a direction to move in and he wasn't about to waste any more time ignoring his intuition. It was telling him to search the building from top to bottom, every room, every corner. This time, he couldn't be lazy; he couldn't let doubts be stronger that what he knew.
And he knew Dee Dee.
Screw Porter and Stanton; screw the entire FBI. Six years could change a person; he knew that better than anyone. Just like he knew that some beliefs were too strong to ever change, and the ones that made up whom you were you took with you to the grave.
"To hell with Stanton," Hunter growled. "He had a hard-on for Dee Dee back then, and he still has one now."
"Don't take it personally," Porter responded, "and don't think he's treating Dee Dee special. Generally, he's a jackass to everyone."
"No one's arguing that he's a jackass," Mallory interjected, "but you can't say Rick's wrong, either. Stanton seems to have an agenda where Dee Dee's concerned. So, what's the plan? Are you going to let him lock her up?"
Hunter came to a stop at the end of the table, staring down its length. He tried to find some strength in Mallory, something that fell into sync with his own renewed energy, but all he found was exhaustion. Physically in the way she sat slumped, like she couldn't hold herself upright any longer, and mentally in the blankness that had befallen her expression and filled her eyes. It was all too much for her, Hunter knew. The anxiety, worrying, and the what ifs that he'd promised both Mallory and himself wouldn't have a place in what happened in Miami.
For the most part they'd all tried to move on, in their own ways and at their own paces, and the majority had eventually found a rhythm to their steps again. In the beginning, it was Mallory who seemed to move on the fastest. Maybe to set an example for him, maybe because moving on was less painful than remaining stagnant like Hunter chose to do. Whichever it was, she'd found a way within herself to not only bury her husband, but Dee Dee, also. To let go of both of them even though Hunter held onto his guilt as a keepsake. And he worried that guilt would double in size, becoming too big to manage, to live with. Because all along, Mallory had been his loudest cheering section, his biggest supporter for moving on. The one who'd tried the hardest to convince him that there wasn't a point in looking back, because there was nothing there to see.
"You can't lock her up," Hunter said. "Stanton can talk all he wants, but anyone who knows Dee Dee knows that she wouldn't…not with someone like Sandoval. If the marriage isn't a sham then it was forced on her. And whatever else has happened…" He dropped his head forward, leaning over the table on stiffened arms. Breathing in, breathing out, Charlie's heavy breaths rasping out of sync with his.
"Let us see her," Charlie added softly. "Maybe we can get her to talk."
Porter looked from one to the other, his own expression as drawn as theirs. "If you can manage to keep your mouth shut for five minutes, Hunter, I'll let you see her. But." He caught all three stares, his eyes narrowing in warning. "Just see her. You can't talk to her, not yet. Not until she talks to us."
xxx
The woman had finally left her alone. Finally.
Dee Dee wasn't naive enough to think it meant a victory for her; the woman would be back. But it gave her a few minutes, at least, to think without being bombarded by the damned questions and assumptions.
She walked the length of the room, dragging her hand along the air-chilled wall. Glancing up at the clock, her eyes narrowed against the exhaustion jumbling her thoughts, as she focused on the black hands. 11:53. She knew it was A.M. because through the lone window in the room she'd watched the sun come up, all the while behind her the woman had kept talking. Asking questions, making assumptions, pretending to understand what Dee Dee knew there wasn't any way she could ever understand.
She closed her eyes, thinking. Trying to, at least. They'd had her locked in the tile-floor fishbowl for at least twelve hours.
Twelve hours.
Damn it, they were wasting time. She was wasting time.
The first twenty-four to forty-eight hours were the most critical, the ones that offered the greatest chance of success. During that time span memories were still clear, evidence was still fresh, trails were still warm…
People were still findable.
She fell back against the wall, letting the back of her head thud against the hard stone. Elian was talking to his attorneys. It was what the woman—what was her name? What had she said—Lynda? Lydia? She shook her head, burying her hands in the sides of her hair. Think. The woman had told her that Elian was talking to his attorneys, and Dee Dee knew he was expecting her not to talk to anyone. So, if she kept playing as stupid as he believed her to be, it might just work to her advantage one more time.
Or it could be exactly what he was counting on from her—to be stupid one last time.
Closing her eyes, she popped the back of her head against the wall again, and then popped it again. Why couldn't she seem to think? The woman's words kept twisting with Elian's in her mind, confusing her. The FBI wanted answers, and Elian expected silence. He would punish her if she talked, and they would punish her if she didn't. And all the while, time would keep moving forward. Twelve hours would turn into twenty-four, twenty-four would become forty-eight, and then it wouldn't matter whose rules she followed.
Either way, she would be the loser.
She startled as the door swung open, the woman shuffling through with Styrofoam cups in both hands. With a rise of her eyebrows and nod toward the table, she made her way to the structure and deposited the cups side-by-side. "Since you seem to have an aversion to caffeine, I brought plain, old H2O this time," she announced. "You really should drink something. Or, uh, are you hungry? You won't find anything gourmet around here, all we have to spend is the government's dime, but I could have some deli sandwiches brought in." She jutted a thumb in the direction of the door as it clicked into place in the jamb. "Your husband ordered a pastrami on rye. That sound good to you, too?"
Dee Dee's gaze dropped, a blush heating her cheeks.
Her husband.
"I will honor and obey…"
Her voice replayed in her mind as a shaky whisper only. Purposely, she'd omitted 'love' when the time had come for her to repeat her vows, just like Elian had omitted love, honor and obey from his. The only promise he'd made was to meet her every day needs, which she'd found laughable at the time.
But she hadn't laughed. She hadn't cried, either.
All she'd done was what he'd told her was expected of her.
"I will honor and obey…"
"Mrs. Sandoval, I need to be real honest with you here," the woman said, startling Dee Dee again. "A lot of people are feeling pretty confused where you're concerned. See now, in the beginning, when we figured out who you were and realized we were finally going to bring you home, we felt really good about that. A lot of people felt good about it. But now…" She shrugged a shoulder. "Those same people are starting to question this silent act. They can't figure out if it's because of guilt or trauma. You know what I mean?"
Dee Dee laughed softly, whisperingly. So, that was Elian's plan—to set her up? He knew having his name would make her look like his conspirator, a traitor, and would set her loyalties in stone in the opinion of the FBI. And, Christ, all she'd done so far was point them straight toward that mindset instead of try to dissuade them in any way from adopting it. She'd wasted time by following the rules, by waiting for the son of a bitch to tell her what his newest rules were. And the whole time she'd acted exactly the way he expected her to—stupidly. Doing what he expected hadn't gained her any favors, it wouldn't. All it had done was bury her deeper in the hole he'd started digging for her six years earlier.
"Mrs. Sandoval—"
Dee Dee quieted the woman with a hard shake of her head. Let the faceless doubters hiding behind the mirror have their opinions. Being unfairly judged no longer bothered her, just like being found guilty based on opinions only instead of facts no longer surprised her. What no one understood, maybe what they didn't care to understand, was that who she'd become wasn't whom she'd chosen to be. It was simply another way for Elian to control her.
Bypassing the mounting impatience in the woman's eyes, she caught her reflection in the mirror across the room. For the first time in over twelve hours, she actually looked at it.
But she didn't recognize it.
It was Elian's creation. The style of the hair, makeup, clothes, down to the coordinating silk underwear and bra that suddenly began to make her skin itch. The creation smelled like Elian's favorite perfume, wore lipstick that was Elian's favorite shade of red, had its nails sculpted to the shape and length that Elian preferred, and answered to the name that Elian had forced on it.
Dee Dee Sandoval.
She spun around, facing the wall, the image making her stomach roll. Because all she saw was Elian's creation, his conspirator.
His wife.
"I will honor and obey…"
xxx
"Get it through your head, Hunter, you're just getting a look, not going in. If you force me, I will lock you up."
Hunter responded to Riley Porter's threat with a grunt only. He stayed in step with the agent, each drop of their feet heavy, echoing and rushed. He was sick of rules and protocol, sick to death of the stuffed suit Feds telling him what to do. Listening—bowing down—had cost him too much already. There'd been all the damned wondering, worrying, the fear that woke him up drenched in a cold sweat in the middle of the night. For six years, he'd held on to her. He hadn't been able to let her go, and he'd never known why. Because there'd come a point when he'd wanted to.
God help him, he'd wanted to.
And now, even with the outcome he'd spent so many years down on his knees praying to get, the same feelings were there. They were stronger. The knowing what that time had cost him, but still wondering and worrying and fearing what they had cost Dee Dee.
Porter came to a stop, turning to face Hunter and Charlie. Behind them, at the opening of the hallway, Mallory waited, and a little further down on the other side, less than ten steps forward, was a window. In front of it, a small group stood, whispers being passed back and forth between them.
Hunter swallowed hard. "How does she look?" he asked, his stare fixed on the two-way mirror.
"All things considered," Porter answered, "good. She, uh, she looks…good."
She looked good. Hunter nodded.
"Anyone think about taking her to a hospital to get checked out?" Charlie asked, impatience fringing his voice. "Just to make sure she doesn't have any injuries?"
"She wouldn't answer anyone around here when they asked if she was hurt," Porter answered, shaking his head. "You really think she'll talk to a doctor or even agree to an exam? I'm telling you, she's afraid of her own shadow, and even more afraid of us."
Afraid. Hunter took another bite out of his lip. Of course Dee Dee was afraid—he was afraid. Too many times to want to count, he'd witnessed the trauma that a drive-by assault left someone wrestling with, and with Dee Dee it was years' worth. Damn it. Someone could accumulate a lot of injuries—too many fucking injuries—in that amount of time.
"Anything specific we should know?" Charlie asked stiffly, his gaze shooting around Porter and landing on the two-way mirror.
Porter shrugged. "There's a lot we need to know." He glanced at the men, his stare lingering on each for a dragging second before he motioned toward the mirror with a tilt of his head. "She's in there."
"And the audience?" Charlie asked.
"Other agents and our psychologist." Porter nodded toward a short, balding man whose head was tipped downward and hand was in motion as he scribbled notes onto a paper affixed to a clipboard. "He's been observing Dee Dee with Agent Ortiz."
"Ortiz?" Charlie questioned.
"Lydia Ortiz," Porter responded. "A twenty-year veteran. She's good with victims. Generally good at getting them to talk."
Generally. Hunter laughed to himself. Generally had never included Dee Dee. She'd always done things on her own time, in her own way. If any of the stuffed suits knew her, they would know that she didn't like to be pushed. When someone shoved her up against a wall, she shoved back. So, they had to quit pushing. Because the harder they tried, the harder she would resist.
Or that used to be the way Dee Dee reacted. At least, generally.
"So, McCall is considered a victim?" Charlie pressed suspiciously. "Because to hear Agent Stanton talk—"
"Like I said," Porter cut in, "Gideon Stanton talks to hear himself, but no one else ever listens. He's a hothead, too quick with opinions and too lazy to find the proof to back them up. But you both have my guarantee, Dee Dee will be considered innocent unless someone comes up with solid evidence that says she's guilty."
"Guilty?" Charlie responded quickly, irritably. "Of what?"
"My opinion?" Porter said. "Nothing. But just like with Stanton's half-baked opinion, mine has to be proven, also. That's why Ortiz is in with her. She's trying to get Dee Dee to talk, to give us some kind of idea how she ended up with Sandoval in the first place and what went on that made her stay with him for so long."
What went on. A burn exploded in Hunter's gut, a flash fire that quickly engulfed his chest and throat. He didn't want to think about what had happened, he wanted to focus on what would happen. In the future that would be given back to Dee Dee versus the past that had been stolen from her.
"One more of my opinions?" Porter said. "She's traumatized. Granted, I didn't really know her before, but the person I've always heard stories about isn't who I walked out of that house last night."
Traumatized. The word stuck in Hunter's throat, stopping him a step short of becoming face-to-mirror with the occupants inside of the room. It wasn't something he hadn't thought about—the trauma, her trauma. Let the idiots like Gideon Stanton have their opinions, he knew Dee Dee, and he knew there was a reason—maybe a million of them—why she'd gotten lost in the system and stuck in Elian Sandoval's world. The trauma was just the tip of it, and the wondering what lay beneath it was what was fueling the fire that had managed to spread through him from the tips of his toes to the top of his head.
"Could we get a minute?" Hunter heard Porter say to the audience gathered in front of the window. Or he thought it was what Porter said, but he wasn't sure. The damned fire was raging at full capacity, droning in his ears, clouding his vision. Somewhere within the flames he thought he heard Charlie choke out a strangled, "Oh, damn," and he followed the echo of his voice until he came to a stop, sagging shoulder to sagging shoulder, beside the captain.
In front of him, the smoke cleared, a tunnel forming in the periphery of his vision, swirling on either side of him, black and gray mixing and obscuring everything except her. She stood at the far end of the room, her back to him, her forehead flush with the wall and fingers digging at the stones as if she were trying to carve out an opening that she could disappear through.
Anxiously, fearfully, Hunter soaked in the path of her hair, how it hung down her back, longer than he'd ever seen her wear it. The color was darker than he remembered—a dark brown, almost black in the harsh lighting in the room. As if hearing his unspoken plea, she turned slowly, cautiously, and offered her pale-faced audience of two their first look at her face. Suddenly, Hunter found himself speeding uncontrollably down the center of the dark shaft of smoke, the noise around him fading into the rage of the flames. His knees buckled and the floor beneath him began to shift, and he didn't feel Porter's hand lock around his forearm to support him.
He couldn't look away, too afraid that if he did, when he looked back, she would be gone again. He wanted to run to her, to beg her forgiveness for ever letting her become so lost for so long. He wanted to assure her that he hadn't forgotten, and that in his mind, at least, he'd never given up. He wanted her to know that she'd remained as much a part of his life throughout the past six years as she had been the years before them. He wanted to touch her, to familiarize himself with her again. But the sadness and apprehension that pervaded her dark eyes, that leapt so powerfully through the window and cut through to his soul, kept him frozen in place with his hands pressed against the window and tears stealing what was left of his sight.
It was then that he realized just how thick the smoke was, how suffocating.
And so he gave up trying to breathe.
xxx
12:17.
Dee Dee watched the clock, a soft click accompanying the big hand's shift. Slowly, hesitantly, she forced herself to meet the woman's stare again and then conspicuously led her gaze to the two-way mirror. Behind it, someone was watching. Watching her, dissecting her. Waiting to find out, ultimately, who she was—the person they'd initially celebrated bringing home, or the traitor they'd begun to see her as.
Lydia pulled the chair she'd occupied throughout the long night away from the table, sitting down through a groan and making another curious glance at the two-way mirror, as Dee Dee's stare remained locked on it. "Come on, hon, you remember how it works," she said, shrugging. "Around here, there's no such thing as privacy. But I can guarantee you no one is out there that can't be trusted."
Trust. It was a laughable word with an even more laughable definition. There'd been a time when Dee Dee actually believed in it. She believed that she had solid proof that it existed. But that was a long time ago, another lifetime ago. A time when she'd been naïve enough to believe that if she put her faith in one little word, in return she'd receive everything it was supposed to represent.
Pushing off the wall, she made her way across the room. Hesitantly, she dropped down into the chair she'd originally occupied, seated at the head of the rectangular-shaped table, facing the mirror head-on. With another noticeable shift of her eyes, she directed the woman's attention to the glass, and then slowly, subtly, slid her arm across the tabletop and touched the tip of her index finger against an ink pen lying atop a yellow-papered legal pad.
Lydia's eyes dipped, her gaze remaining for a dragging second on the pen and Dee Dee's finger as she tapped it twice. "Mm-hmm," she mumbled ambiguously, with an arch of her brows, before lifting her heavy frame out of the chair. Without a word or glance back at Dee Dee, she made her way down the length of the table to the side of the framed glass. Both women's reflections stared back at her as she took hold of the cord affixed to the blinds, and with a small, understanding smile, gave a tug. Noisily, the blinds fell, and even before they settled into silence, Lydia spun around and rushed back to her seat. Grabbing the ink pen as she plopped down, she scrawled across the top sheet of paper on the legal pad, Intercom sill on. Three agents, shrink listening.
Dee Dee nodded once and wet her lips with a slide of her tongue, as Lydia passed the pen to her. The ballpoint shook in her hand. It had been almost six years since she'd consciously spoken out, spoken up. Old habits died hard, as they said, just like bad habits were hard to break. And in Elian's opinion, willfulness had always topped the list of her bad habits. He'd tried to threaten it out of her, beat it out of her… And she knew he believed he'd finally succeeded.
And maybe he had, at least behind the locked bedroom door in Coral Gables.
Elian can't know, she scribbled quickly, and then dropped the pen as if it had burst into flames.
Lydia sighed. He won't, she wrote beneath Dee Dee's demand, before handing off the pen again.
Their stares locked, both unblinking, both expressions drawn. She had nice eyes, Dee Dee decided, kind eyes. The same sincerity that she'd seen far too late in Thomas Landry's eyes radiated from hers, sparking in them, and she decided—maybe foolishly—that she should trust them.
Breathing out shakily, she pressed the tip of the pen against the paper, hesitating for a moment before her willfulness reclaimed its strength. Digging deep into the paper, she drew an arrow to the top corner, pointing to the five-by-seven photograph of Thomas Landry that still lay face-up and exposed in front of the woman. And then beneath the thick line scribbled, I know.
Their stares met again, Lydia spiking an eyebrow as her lips wrinkled into a frown. Taking the pen back, she scrawled through the thick line of the arrow's base, Give me a name.
Dee Dee shook her head, her eyes narrowing. The woman had been right before, she didn't need to have procedures outlined for her in order to remember them. The system's rules still clung to the back of her memories, co-existing with unforgettable tidbits of her former life.
Grabbing hold of the pen, she wrote beneath Lydia's request, Deal first.
Lydia chuckled breathily, shaking her head. In the arc of her smile, Dee Dee thought she detected pride, and her assumption was confirmed as Lydia whispered, "I had a feeling you were still in there. Welcome home, Ms. McCall."
Impatiently, Dee Dee flicked a finger against the tablet. Screw reunions and assumptions being proven as fact. She wasn't doing anything noble; she was willingly being stupid. But she didn't care; she wasn't afraid. She would rather face stupidity's consequences than the consequences that would come from bowing down to Elian one more time.
Spell it out, Lydia wrote, before exaggeratingly clearing her throat and then saying louder than necessary, "Now, come on Mrs. Sandoval. We spent all night in this room. I really don't think either one of us wants to spend all day in here, too. So, why don't you put the deaf-mute act to rest once and for all? Talk to me, then maybe we can both get a little rest."
Dee Dee squeezed the smooth base of the ink pen between her fingers, tightening and then easing her grip. Swallowing her fear, the inference of her tenacity, she wrote slowly, carefully, Check private airstrips. Colombia. Marcus Rivera. Isabel Ramirez. FIND. THEM.
Lydia read over the message, her gaze following it from start to finish three times before it lifted to meet Dee Dee's. Pursing her lips, she took the pen and twirled it between her fingers like a majorette leading a marching band. With a sigh, she tapped the ink-splotched tip twice against the paper, before writing, They my killers?
With a hard shake of her head, Dee Dee grabbed the pen back and drew two, dark lines beneath FIND and then THEM. A glare darkened her eyes as she tossed the pen back in front of the woman and then pressed a fingertip over each word to reinforce its importance.
Why them? Lydia scribbled.
Dee Dee reached for the pen, her hand stopping above it. Hovering. She was about to go all in, over her head, and there would be no turning back. If her betrayal was made public, Elian wouldn't bother with threats. There would be no forgiveness, no opportunity to even try to earn it. She was personally finishing the job he'd started by taking the last shovelfuls of dirt out of the hole that would become her grave.
She understood it, and she wasn't afraid. Not of death, at least.
Taking the pen, pulling the tablet closer, she pressed the tip beneath Lydia's last question. She began to write, slowly and precisely, a nervous breath accompanying each curve that she made. Looking up, looking into the eyes again and searching for the kindness—the trustworthiness—she'd convinced herself they possessed, she pushed the tablet back to Lydia.
They have my daughter.