Need to Know (23 page)

Just Peter and me. Matt's gone.

“Drop your weapon!”

I look at the agents, and there's a face I recognize. Omar. He's aiming at Peter, yelling. They're all yelling.

“Drop the gun! Drop the gun!”

Matt's gun is still in Peter's hand, at his side, that awkward tilt of the arm. I can't read his face. There's more yelling, more instructions to put the gun down, put hands in the air. Then I hear Peter's voice over them: “Let me talk.
Let me talk
.”

The yelling quiets. The agents go still, each in a shooting stance, arms extended straight in front, guns aimed—two at Peter, one at me. Peter sees it, too. “She's done nothing wrong,” he says. He's calm, astonishingly calm. “She's here because of me. I needed her to hear me explain.”

The gun stays trained on me.

“It's okay, she's one of us,” Omar says. After the slightest hesitation, the barrel swings away from me.

“Peter, drop your weapon,” he orders.

“I need to talk.” Peter shakes his head. “I need you to listen.” The glasses have slid down his nose again, but this time he doesn't slide them back up, just tilts his head down, looks over them. “I did this,” he continues, gesturing to the chair with his empty hand. “I killed this man. Yury Yakov. He's a Russian agent.” His eyes are full of desperation. “I worked for him. I'm the mole.”

Omar looks stunned. My eyes dart back to the gun in Peter's hand. “I told the Russians about my coworkers. I'm the reason Marta and Trey were pitched. Maybe others, too. I told them we were investigating Yury. That we were about to gain access to his computer.” His forehead is damp; light's reflecting off the sweat, glistening there. “And then I inserted a USB drive into the computer in the Restricted Access room. I erased the search history from Agency servers.”

I suck in a breath. I think back to that day, to bumping into him at the door. He knew. And now he's confessing to it. Protecting me.

And then the truth hits me: There's a reason he's confessing to everything right now, right here. There's a reason he hasn't dropped the gun.
“No!”
I scream. “I'm sorry,” he whispers, his eyes still on me. Then he raises the gun.

I see it happen, hear it happen. Yelling. A hail of bullets. Peter, sagging to the floor in front of me, blood flowering out around him.

Screaming, a dull sound at first, louder as my hearing returns, until I realize that it's coming from me.

I sit on the couch in Yury's living room, perched on the edge, my hands gripping the cushions on either side of me—overstuffed, drab brown fabric. There's a wail of police sirens outside, several of them, out of sync, a grating symphony. Flashing lights, too; they cast a pattern on the wall, a little show of dancing blue and crimson splotches. I watch it, because otherwise I'd look at the sheet that covers Peter's body, and I can't do that.

Omar's beside me, close but not too close. I can feel his eyes on me. His, and those of the other agents in the apartment, the host of others that have now swarmed in. They're tagging, photographing, milling about and talking, stealing glances my way.

I think that Omar's waiting for me to speak first, and I'm doing the same. Waiting to hear him Mirandize me. I'm intensely aware of the folded printouts in my waistband, the evidence that would get me locked away for the rest of my life.

“Can I get you anything?” he finally says. “Water?”

I shake my head. My eyes are still on the lights on the wall. I'm trying to sort through everything that's happened, trying to make sense of it all. I have the hard copy of the evidence, and Peter destroyed the backup. Yury's dead; he can't accuse me of anything. And Peter confessed to my worst mistake—inserting the flash drive.

“We're going to have to talk about this, you know,” Omar says, his voice gentle.

I nod, my mind working. Is he asking me as a friend and colleague? Or as a suspect? I could pretend I just found out that Matt's a sleeper, that Yury told me. Let the Bureau look into it. It's a chance to make things right. To turn Matt in, like I should have the very first day this began. He'd understand. It's what he told me to do, to begin with.

Luke dies tomorrow
. But if I don't insert the flash drive, they'll go after Luke. I have no idea who's threatening him, and I can't tell the FBI about it without telling them everything, implicating myself. I can't get thrown in jail when Luke's in danger like this. I don't trust the Bureau to find the guy who's threatening him. Not in time.

“Could you start by telling me why you're here?” Omar presses.

I look away, and without thinking my eyes land on the sheet covering Peter. Omar follows my gaze, then nods, like I've just answered his question. “That call the other day. Was it from him?”

My eyes stay on the sheet. I'm not sure how to answer. I need a story that fits with everything that happened. I need time to figure that out, and I'm out of time.

“Or Yury?”

I blink. What would make the most sense? What did I tell him about the call? I struggle to remember.
Someone's wrapped up in it…someone who's important to me.

“Vivian,” Omar says, his voice so gentle it's almost tender. “I never should have given you that info. Not without knowing what was going on.”

“It's okay,” I stammer. What does he know? What did I tell him that day?

“I should have trusted my gut, figured out why you needed it.” He shakes his head.

“You did me a favor.”

He looks away, back over to the sheet. A raw sadness twists his face. Peter was his friend, too, wasn't he? “You were trying to help him,” he says. It's a statement, not a question.

I swallow.
Now
. I need to say something. “He was my mentor. My friend.”

“I know. But he was a traitor.”

I nod, on the verge of tears, emotion threatening to crest over.

“We had him under surveillance. Suspected he was the mole. We watched him come in here. And then when we heard the shot…What did he say, before we arrived? Did he explain
why
he did it?”

“Katherine,” I say. “They used Katherine.” It's all I can choke out. There will be plenty of time to explain more later. That part I want to explain,
need
to explain. Peter wasn't a bad guy. They took advantage of him, coerced him. Used the thing that was most important to him, in all the world.

“They get you where you're most vulnerable,” he murmurs.

I listen to the wail of the sirens outside. “He planned from the beginning to make things right. That's what he was trying to do.” I shudder. He did make things right, didn't he? At least for me. Admitted to my biggest sin, setting back the servers. Kept Matt's identity hidden. Even came up with the four pictures I erased, the ones I felt so guilty about hiding.

The four pictures. The flash drive. I pat the outside of my pocket, feel it in there. I reach in and pull it out, extend it toward Omar. “He gave me this. Said the pictures of Yury's sleepers are on here.”

Omar's gaze locks onto it. He hesitates, then takes it from me, swings around, calls for a colleague. Within minutes, there's a laptop on the table in front of us, and Omar's inserting the drive. I watch as pictures appear on the screen—the woman with the orange curls, the man with the round glasses, the two others. The four I erased. They're all here. And Matt's not.

“Four?” I hear the other agent say. “Only four?”

“Strange,” Omar murmurs. “Should be five, right?” He looks at me.

I blink at the screen and nod absently. I'm vaguely aware that the agents are having a conversation, something about the significance of four versus five, theories for why there might only be four. A sleeper died. Retired. The program isn't quite as robust as we believe.

I can feel Omar watching me. A long look, intense. One that sets my nerves on high alert.

There's more conversation, more discussion, and eventually an agent comes over, scoops up the laptop, disappears with it. The other agents drift away.

“I'm going to let you go home,” Omar says. He lowers his voice. “And tomorrow, Vivian, you're going to tell me everything.
Everything
. Is that clear?”

Tomorrow.
Luke dies tomorrow.
I nod, because I can't make my voice work right now.

He leans in closer, his eyes searching mine. “I know there's more to this than you're letting on.”

I'M STILL BADLY SHAKEN
by the time I get home. The gunshots won't stop echoing in my mind. I'm still picturing Peter's face as he apologized, as he lifted his gun, as he fell. But most of all, I'm hearing Yury's words, the threat to my son.

Matt's in the front hall when I walk in, and it's jarring to see him here, in our house. It feels wrong, almost like he doesn't belong. I stop and we stare at each other, neither of us speaking, neither of us making any move toward the other.

“Why didn't you leave when Peter said to?” he finally asks.

“I couldn't.” In my mind I picture the agents storming in, then turning around and seeing he wasn't there. My eyes search his.
Why did you leave without me?

“I thought you were right behind me. When I got outside and realized you were still in there…I was terrified.” The words ring true, but the emotion doesn't quite reach his eyes. “What happened in there?”

I shake my head.
Too much to tell you right here, right now
.

“Are you okay?” His voice is flat, like he doesn't much care one way or the other. And it dawns on me: He blames me. He blames me for the fact that he killed someone. And he's furious with me.

“Yeah.”

His expression doesn't change, and I'm about to say something else when I hear Ella. “Mommy's home!” she yells. She bounds into the hall, runs over, hugs my legs. I lay a hand on her head, then crouch down to her level, give her a kiss. I look up and see Luke hanging back. I let go of Ella, walk over, and give him a hug, relief coursing through me. Thank God he's okay.

And then Yury's words run through my head, unbidden. I squeeze him even tighter.

I walk into the family room. My dad's on the couch, and my mom's on the floor, struggling to her feet. There's an elaborate Lego town spread out in front of her. “Oh, honey, you're home,” she says. There's concern on her face. “I can't believe you worked all night. Do they make you do that often? That's not healthy, working all night like that.”

“Not often,” I say.

“And with Luke sick and everything,” she goes on, shaking her head. I glance at Luke, whose head is bowed, then at Matt in the kitchen, who shrugs slightly, avoiding my eyes. I guess they'd have to lie, though, wouldn't they? They had to give my parents some reason why he came home from school early. There's an awkward pause, as we all just stand around, looking at one another.

“Well,” my mom finally says. “Now that Matt's back, we can get out of your hair.” She gives Matt a smile. My dad's looking at him from the couch, no smile, naturally. He's never been one to let things go easily, if he thinks someone's hurt me.

I glance at Matt, but he's still not looking at me. They can't leave. Not yet. “Actually,” I say, “if you guys could stay a little longer…” My mom's smile fades. Dad's expression hardens. Both of them look at Matt, like he's about to take off. “If you can't, I understand. I know you've got work and—”

“Of course we can stay,” my mom says. “Anything you need, honey.” Her eyes dart again to Matt. It's okay; I can make this right later. I can make all of this right. “You know, your father and I could use some fresh clothes. Why don't we head back to Charlottesville tonight, come back in the morning.”

“You can do laundry here,” I say.

She ignores me. “And the house. We should check on the house.” She wants to give us privacy, doesn't she?

“If that's what you want to do,” I say. I don't have the strength to argue. And besides, it'll be easier for Matt and me to talk if they're gone.

They leave a short time later, and then it's back to just the six of us. I lock the door behind them, then check the locks on the other doors, and the windows, too. As I'm drawing the blinds, I hear Matt in the kitchen. “What should we have for dinner tonight, princess?” His tone is light, but I can hear a hollowness in it.

“Mac and cheese?” comes Ella's voice.

“For dinner?” Matt says. There's a beat of silence, and I look over, into the kitchen. She's bobbing her head up and down, a grin on her face.

Matt turns to Luke. “Buddy, what do you think?”

Luke looks up at me, like he's waiting for me to say no. When I stay quiet, he turns back to Matt and shrugs, a smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “Sure.”

“Mac and cheese it is,” Matt says, reaching down into the cabinet for a pan. There's an edge to his voice, one I hope the kids don't notice. “Why not?”

“With peas?” Ella says brightly, like she's bargaining. That's usually the compromise when we have mac and cheese for lunch. A side of peas.

“We don't need the peas,” Luke chides, his voice hushed. “He already said yes.”

Ella's little brow furrows. “Oh.”

Caleb starts fussing, so I put him in his high chair, set a couple of crackers on his tray. Chase sees them and starts whining, throws his arms out toward me, his chubby fingers spread wide. I pick him up and set him down in his own chair, with his own crackers.

Luke and Ella drift off into the family room, and I watch Matt at the stove. His back's to me, and he's quiet and stiff.
Because I'm not a killer,
I picture him saying. He turned into one, though. And he blames me for it.

“Do you want to say anything?” I ask. I see him go still, but he doesn't turn around, doesn't say a word.

I feel even more desperate, even more hopeless, seeing him like this. How can I deal with this threat to Luke when Matt won't even look at me, won't speak to me? How can I be so close to losing everything, all at once?

“I didn't ask you to do it,” I say quietly.

He spins around, a wooden spoon in his hand. “You made it clear what you expected.”

“What I
expected
?” This isn't fair. He can't be putting this all on me. He heard what Yury said about Ella—

He lowers his voice even more. “You wouldn't trust me unless I did it.”

“Why
should
I trust you?” I practically explode. It's loud enough that the kids can hear. Luke and Ella go quiet in the family room, their play paused.

“Mommy?” Ella says tentatively. “Daddy? Can you stop fighting, please?”

Matt and I exchange a long look. Then he shakes his head, turns back to the stove. We don't say another word.