Author's Note: Thanks to everyone for your feedback and encouragement, it is sincerely appreciated! I've decided to end the story here, some have suggested I keep going, but I feel I would run out of creative steam if I kept this going too much longer.
This chapter is a little different from the others, I'm calling it an epilogue because it skips forward in time by about two weeks, and wraps up (I hope!) some of the running themes. Thank you all for your patience and I hope you enjoy this.
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Another part of me can't celebrate. Just as bad as the numbness is a new sensation, the chilling fear that runs in my veins. If that wasn't Francie, where is she?
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We found out where she was a week later. Raiding an office rumored to be used by Sloane and his associates, we arrived too late. He left them there for me, the pictures, in an innocuous manila envelope poking out from a half-open drawer. I opened the envelope without thinking, and the pictures slid into my hands. They fell to the floor as they slipped through my fingers, one by one, and Vaughn stooped down in front of me to pick them up.
He froze when he saw the first one -- the shining steel pans in the kitchen, the smear of blood on tile, and her, slumped, eyes still open like she saw what was coming and never understood.
More pictures followed -- a blue tarp, a trunk, the spot where they parked by the bay, an unceremonious burial at sea.
I remember lying on the floor of the ladies' room, the tile cool against my flushed cheeks. I remember the lemony smell of solvent and the steady drip-drip of the sink someone forgot to turn off. I remember Vaughn yelling through the door, telling everyone to get decent or get out, he was coming in. He held back my hair when I bent over the toilet, again and again, fingers tangling through the damp strands while his other hand rubbed my back, gently, in circles between my shoulder blades.
He stood beside me when I phoned her parents, held my hand while I told them an approved story about a late night, an armed robbery. A shot to the head, I told them, with no pain; it was a quick death. I went on, told them of a criminal found dead the next day, a drug deal gone wrong. No prosecution, no arrest, no trial, just a closed casket and a service at the church where she used to sing as a little girl.
He stood beside me, in his black funeral suit, outside the church where we came to say goodbye.
Will sat beside me during the ceremony, on the second pew, just behind her parents. His green eyes are rimmed with red and his hand trembles as he opens the hymnal. I reach over and take that hand in mine, and we remain that way through the entire service, two people alone, the only two who knew her so well, who miss her so sharply, who know the real reason behind her death.
Vaughn sits silently beside me; he understands. Understands why I call Will late into the night, why I never eat the food I twirl listslessly around my fork, why I sleep on his couch instead of at my apartment, why I prefer the strange discomfort of the sofa to the warm comfort of the wide bed.
He stands beside me at the graveside, watching while Francie's mother drops the first handful of dirt, watching while the minister reads, "Though I pass through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me, thy rod and thy staff they comfort me," watching while the pallbearers unpin the white roses on their lapels and place them on the shining cherrywood of the casket.
He stays there, beside me, as everyone else walks away, as her parents give me hugs and her sister kisses my cheek, as I lock eyes with Charlie, standing at the edge of the crowd, and he gives me the slightest nod before slipping away.
Everyone else slips away, too, as the limo carries off her parents, and I am left standing there, staring at the empty casket, Vaughn by my side. Will stands there too, a bit away, his eyes dimmed with the guilt I have told him not to feel a hundred times, the guilt I tell myself not to feel as every moment slips by. The afternoon sun is low, I can tell from the warm amber tones of the light that falls on the flowers and reflects off the polished cherrywood. A breeze stirs the petals of the lilies and blows tickling hair across my nose. Will and I lock eyes, red-rimmed green meeting crimson-rimmed brown, and I cross over to where he's standing.
"This is not your fault. You have to believe that."
He shakes his head, still staring at the casket. "Tell me you don't blame yourself."
I feel my chin quiver as the tears sting my eyes. "Will, when Danny died, I did this. I blamed myself, and no matter what anyone else said, I went to bed every night certain that I'd done it -- that I'd killed him. The thing is, after a while, you begin to see past yourself, past your grief, and you know who's really behind this."
He's quiet for a long moment.
"Is this what it's like, being a spy?"
"Not always."
And then we are both quiet, each lost in our own thoughts.
"She was the last one, you know. The last link to my old life." Will looks over at me for the first time. "My mother told me, she said not to see myself only as a spy, not to forget I'm more than that. But this thing, this life -- it's swallowed up everything else. First Danny, then you, and now Francie--" my voice breaks. "It's like there's nothing else. That I'm caught in this whirlpool and it just strips away everyone and everything I love -- I can pay for this life; I don't mind that. But I don't understand why she had to pay for it, too." The last of my resolve breaks and I crumple into Will's arms, the sobs shaking my body at the same time they shake his, my tears soaking his jacket at his tears soak mine. We both fight for control, and lose, and try again, and after a long time his hands stop trembling and my breathing becomes regular, and we slowly pull apart, meeting each other's eyes.
"Thanks, Syd -- for everything. Thank you."
I nod, and bite my lip. "Will, I'm sorry--"
"No, don't. Don't be." He manages a small grin. "I couldn't ask for a better friend. Don't forget that."
"I won't."
He looks over his shoulder, toward the parking lot. "I think I'm gonna go back now."
"Do you need someone to drive you?"
"No, I'll be okay. I need to be alone for a while. Get some fresh air."
I nod. "Be careful."
He walks away, leaving me alone beside the casket, Vaughn a respectful distance away. I look down at it for a moment, fingers trailing over the smooth contours. I will come here again, I know. Even though it's empty, I feel a connection with her here, a solace born of shared sorrow and mutual tears.
I hear shuffling in the background and I look around to see Vaughn, taking a seat on a bench nearby. I turn to walk toward him, take two steps, and freeze. Another figure is standing off to the side, dark suit blending with the deepening shadows beneath a nearby tree.
I cross to him with a stride that quickens; Vaughn does not follow. We are only a few feet apart when I stop, keeping a safe distance, unsure what to say.
He speaks first.
"Sydney, I'm sorry. I know--" he clears his throat. "I know how close the two of you were."
The tears I've been blinking back begin to fall. "Dad--" my voice cracks. "Thank you for coming."
We stand there a moment, silent, with only the soft sounds of my tears falling on the lapels of my suit.
"Sydney…there's something I need to tell you."
Oh, no. Please, not this. In my family, those words never mean, "I need to say I love you" or "I'm sorry." They precede something like, "your mother is a notorious assassin" or "I'm a double agent for the CIA." I draw a breath, and brace myself, and meet his eyes, signaling him to continue.
"Last year, shortly after you joined the CIA, you and I were supposed to meet for dinner."
I nod mutely, the tears falling more freely. "I remember."
"I called you and cancelled; I said I had to work." He looks away from me, past my shoulder.
"I lied. When I called you, I was in my car, parked outside the restaurant." He meets my eyes. "When I saw you there, waiting at the table -- I realized who I was seeing. A grown woman, the image of your mother, sitting at that table and waiting. I realized then how much of your life I'd missed out on, how I'd let you go from a little girl to the woman I see now without ever stopping to figure out how, and why, you grew up to be the person that you are. I realized --" he breaks off, glancing away, then back again. "I realized how much I'd missed. And I didn't know how to make that distance up, how to know that woman sitting in the restaurant. So I called, and cancelled."
I'm not sure why he's telling me this, or what he hopes to say, but I know somehow this is his way of trying to make things better, trying to make me better, however awkward it may be.
"Sydney, I don't know now any better than I knew then, but, I was wondering--" he shifts his weight a bit, pausing before he continues. "I was wondering if you're free Thursday night?"
I smile, the tears slowing as they run down onto the corners of my lips. I don't say anything; I don't trust my voice. Instead, I step forward, closing the distance between us. I wrap both my arms around my father's neck. He is stiff, unsure how to respond, but after a moment he puts both arms around me, and even ventures a slight pat to my shoulder. Despite his stiffness, I'm the first to let go. I smile at him before I walk away.
"Seven o'clock okay?"
"Yes," he answers, "seven will be fine."
Vaughn is waiting for me on the bench nearby, ostensibly not watching this little exchange. I sit down beside him as he continues to study his shoelaces.
"They're tied, you know."
"Wha -- oh." He grins sheepishly. "Everything with Jack okay?"
"Good, actually. But I have to cancel dinner for Thursday night."
He smiles, and looks at me, remembering a different Thursday, a different dinner, with different tears.
"Sydney, what I said to you a long time ago -- when you're at your absolute lowest, your most depressed -- I meant that. I still do."
I reach over and take his hand.
"I know that, Vaughn."
He looks back to his shoes, and not at me, when he continues.
"Syd, you need to know I've waited a long time -- a long time, for this -- but if it's not right, if this is not what you need right now, I want you to know I'll be there for you. Whatever you need -- if it's a friend, a lover, or someone to back away and give you space -- I'll do that. Or at least I'll try."
He turns his head to look at me sideways, and his eyes are serious, and sad. I purse my lips and we just look at each other for a moment, both waiting to find out where this will go.
"Vaughn, I know I'm at my worst right now. I will be for a long time. But the one thing I know, the one thing I do need to get through this -- it's you."
He smiles, a small smile that's both overjoyed and heartbroken, and I know both the sorrow and the joy are for me. I smile back. He squeezes my hand.
"Are you ready to go?"
"No, I think I'd like to stay here for a minute. To say goodbye." I glance over at the burial site, now cleared of mourners; the mortuary attendants have not arrived yet to start clearing everything away.
He nods. "I'll wait for you in the car. Take as long as you need."
He stands up, and starts to walk away, but he's only gone three steps when he turns back.
"Sydney, you know I love you."
"Yes, I do."
I smile, my eyes meeting his, and I know that he knows, too.