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A light is on in my daughter's office; I look down at my watch. It's just after two in the morning. She must be working late, I realize. Or at least hope. At night all the quiet conspirators slip from their hiding places to secretly snatch Centre information. The clever ones live, of course, until they can be ferreted out. I doubt any would be so careless as to leave a light glowing, but intelligence and common sense do not always correlate.
I approach the office, and listen for suspicious sounds, a whisper of words, of paper, anything, but silence is all I hear. Gently, I open the door, and I smile at what I see. It is my daughter sitting on her office couch, sleeping. But there is a troubled look on her face. A file rests on her lap, illuminated by the soft glow of an end table lamp. I enter the office, slowly closing the door behind me. I come to stand in front of her. Her head is tilted to one side. No doubt a moment of resting her eyes had turned into a deep sleep. She has the report on Jarod's latest escapade. I pick up the file and set it on the end table. I know she will catch him one day, she's a Parker after all, and Parkers are nothing if not tenacious. The troubled expression on her face deepens and she muttered in her sleep, "Mama, no!"
Dreams, or rather nightmares, about Catherine. I lean over and brush my daughter's hair from her face and she calms, her face relaxing into a peacefully neutral expression. I remove my jacket and place it over her chest and shoulders and squat down to remove her shoes. Small comforts, but comforts nonetheless. I know that the memory of her mother's death haunts her as it haunts everyone at the Centre. I once appealed to the Triumvirate to have the bullet hole covered in the elevator where the shot rang out, but it was not granted. The truth is that I did not try again when I saw what a powerful if painful reminder it was to everyone. Catherine had become a legend at the Centre and the mystery of that bullet hole strengthened the mythology of the things she had tried to do. To the traitors, those quiet conspirators ingrained in the Centre, she must be a hero. To me she had been much more. I suppose I never truly understood Catherine, but I suppose she never understood me either. I kept secrets from her, just as I now keep them from my daughter, my angel.
I wonder, what secrets does she keep from me?
As I gaze upon her, I smile sadly. It's more than her physical appearance that reminds me of Catherine, it's something deep down inside, something exceptional and enigmatic. Something that the Centre would want to use. The only way I know to protect her is to keep her here at the Centre without ever telling her why; I just know that the best place to hide is in plain sight. We are both prisoners here, though I like to think I have a choice in the matter. I am sure she likes to think the same as well.
She has so many questions for me, but perhaps she has learned to stop asking. All I ever tell her is to save the questions for another day.
"Maybe someday, I can tell you why," I whisper. "And maybe not, but I promise I will never leave you." Does she know that? Probably not. Another secret.
I reach in to turn off the lamp and she shifts, her eyes fluttering open, but not really awake. "Goodnight, Daddy," she says, her voice slow with drowsiness. Her eyes shut again and she drifts back to sleep.
I click the light off and go to the door. I open it, but before I leave, I turn around one more time and say, "Goodnight, my angel."
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This little piece of fiction was inspired by Billy Joel's "Lullabye (Goodnight, My Angel)"