Lauren drops her purse and keys on the counter, kicks off her shoes and
lets her coat slide off. She sighs.
She surveys her apartment. It's a good size, the theme coolly neutral - none of the bright tackiness she despises.
After a brief pause, she sets off for the cabinet. It holds all her old awards, swimming trophies, certificates, art projects she couldn't throw away, photographs, yearbooks . . .
She takes out one, and it falls open to a tiny, black-and-white photo of eleven-year-old self. She turns the pages slowly - page 48 - "Winter Play."
There is Robbie, and Karen, and Elyse, and Stephen - there she was in the center, her hair in pigtails and her face drawn in horror at the sight of the home comers.
Lauren smiles wryly at the memory. She had worked so hard for that part, and Karen had wanted it too. Karen - her best friend. Karen the brunette. Their friendship hadn't been quite the same after that - they hadn't kept contact when Lauren went back to the States.
She tries to remember - which schools had come to see it? If Sark had been there, he couldn't have been more than seven. She vaguely remembers some smaller schools coming.
Leaving the yearbook out, she closes the door and goes for her cell phone.
She has a clue to Sark's past. And she is not going to stop until she gets some answers.
* * *
"Yes . . . yes, thank you. Thank you very much." She presses END and drops the phone on the coffee table.
In an attempt to avoid the time difference, she had called Carlton at one in the morning and hoped it was enough. Her results are satisfactory so far - they are searching the records, under the mistaken impression that Lauren has taken up scrapbooking.
She doesn't want the office involved. This is her project, and she'll be the one to finish it. And, if it proves valuable, she'll hand it over.
They've promised to call her back, so she forces herself to stay awake with heavily sugared coffee and an old Mary Higgins Clark she loves. Her guilty pleasure.
She takes a long sip, and her sleeve catches on the lamp, causing the hot liquid to splash onto the page.
She sighs heavily, sets down the mug and tries to scrub off the rapidly spreading stain with a blue tissue.
No wonder you weren't field-rated, she thinks, irritated. You can't even hold a cup of coffee straight.
She wishes she was anywhere but here - alone, by herself on Friday night.
There are plenty of guys in the world. They just don't seem notice her.
Except - well, Sark had noticed, hadn't he? He'd recognized her face, her name, her past. But he had sounded like he wanted to leave - then again -
The rational side of her brain kicks in, and she lays her head back on the sofa.
Reed, she thinks grimly to herself, using Robbie's old nickname for her, you must really, really be desperate.
But he'd noticed. And even Lauren's rational side can't deny that.
Her phone rings. She sits up and grabs the phone. "Hello?"
* * *
Brownstone, Harrisfield, Marston.
Lauren's pulled up a few old class records for Brownstone and Marston and is skimming along, half-hoping to see a child with the surname "Sark" somewhere on the lists.
Lindsey, one of her superiors, passes by her, stops, and speaks. "Reed. We're going to need you again. Change of plans, it's been decided Sark's interrogations will all take place here. We'll need you in twenty minutes." He slaps a folder down, just missing her surprised face.
She isn't sure whether to call it good fortune or sad fate. "Why was this decision made?"
"Classified. Start preparing." He walks away, leaving Lauren staring at a slightly bulky folder. She opens it and sees her name in bold: LAUREN REED, OFFICIAL INTERROGATOR.
So what was this? A promotion?
She doesn't know. But it definitely means she'll be seeing a lot more of Sark.
She glances at the clock. She has time for a quick trip to the store.
* * *
"Mr. Sark. I'm now the head of your investigation, the rest of which will take place here in Washington, D.C."
His eyes are a charming shade of blue. "Am I to take it you pushed to earn this position?"
She gives him a look.
"And has my previous intel proved valuable?"
She senses a double meaning behind his words. She answers smoothly, "We're following up on several leads - nothing definite yet."
Slowly he nods.
Lauren walks over and places a pen and a brand-new legal pad in front of him. "This one's college-ruled."
"Thank you."
When Lauren flips through the notes on her way back through the hall, she finds the marked page:
Brownstone Harrisfield Marston
And then in new ink:
1977 1982
She surveys her apartment. It's a good size, the theme coolly neutral - none of the bright tackiness she despises.
After a brief pause, she sets off for the cabinet. It holds all her old awards, swimming trophies, certificates, art projects she couldn't throw away, photographs, yearbooks . . .
She takes out one, and it falls open to a tiny, black-and-white photo of eleven-year-old self. She turns the pages slowly - page 48 - "Winter Play."
There is Robbie, and Karen, and Elyse, and Stephen - there she was in the center, her hair in pigtails and her face drawn in horror at the sight of the home comers.
Lauren smiles wryly at the memory. She had worked so hard for that part, and Karen had wanted it too. Karen - her best friend. Karen the brunette. Their friendship hadn't been quite the same after that - they hadn't kept contact when Lauren went back to the States.
She tries to remember - which schools had come to see it? If Sark had been there, he couldn't have been more than seven. She vaguely remembers some smaller schools coming.
Leaving the yearbook out, she closes the door and goes for her cell phone.
She has a clue to Sark's past. And she is not going to stop until she gets some answers.
* * *
"Yes . . . yes, thank you. Thank you very much." She presses END and drops the phone on the coffee table.
In an attempt to avoid the time difference, she had called Carlton at one in the morning and hoped it was enough. Her results are satisfactory so far - they are searching the records, under the mistaken impression that Lauren has taken up scrapbooking.
She doesn't want the office involved. This is her project, and she'll be the one to finish it. And, if it proves valuable, she'll hand it over.
They've promised to call her back, so she forces herself to stay awake with heavily sugared coffee and an old Mary Higgins Clark she loves. Her guilty pleasure.
She takes a long sip, and her sleeve catches on the lamp, causing the hot liquid to splash onto the page.
She sighs heavily, sets down the mug and tries to scrub off the rapidly spreading stain with a blue tissue.
No wonder you weren't field-rated, she thinks, irritated. You can't even hold a cup of coffee straight.
She wishes she was anywhere but here - alone, by herself on Friday night.
There are plenty of guys in the world. They just don't seem notice her.
Except - well, Sark had noticed, hadn't he? He'd recognized her face, her name, her past. But he had sounded like he wanted to leave - then again -
The rational side of her brain kicks in, and she lays her head back on the sofa.
Reed, she thinks grimly to herself, using Robbie's old nickname for her, you must really, really be desperate.
But he'd noticed. And even Lauren's rational side can't deny that.
Her phone rings. She sits up and grabs the phone. "Hello?"
* * *
Brownstone, Harrisfield, Marston.
Lauren's pulled up a few old class records for Brownstone and Marston and is skimming along, half-hoping to see a child with the surname "Sark" somewhere on the lists.
Lindsey, one of her superiors, passes by her, stops, and speaks. "Reed. We're going to need you again. Change of plans, it's been decided Sark's interrogations will all take place here. We'll need you in twenty minutes." He slaps a folder down, just missing her surprised face.
She isn't sure whether to call it good fortune or sad fate. "Why was this decision made?"
"Classified. Start preparing." He walks away, leaving Lauren staring at a slightly bulky folder. She opens it and sees her name in bold: LAUREN REED, OFFICIAL INTERROGATOR.
So what was this? A promotion?
She doesn't know. But it definitely means she'll be seeing a lot more of Sark.
She glances at the clock. She has time for a quick trip to the store.
* * *
"Mr. Sark. I'm now the head of your investigation, the rest of which will take place here in Washington, D.C."
His eyes are a charming shade of blue. "Am I to take it you pushed to earn this position?"
She gives him a look.
"And has my previous intel proved valuable?"
She senses a double meaning behind his words. She answers smoothly, "We're following up on several leads - nothing definite yet."
Slowly he nods.
Lauren walks over and places a pen and a brand-new legal pad in front of him. "This one's college-ruled."
"Thank you."
When Lauren flips through the notes on her way back through the hall, she finds the marked page:
Brownstone Harrisfield Marston
And then in new ink:
1977 1982