Spy Mom (71 page)

About a mile behind me, Will and Theo build sandcastles outside of our beachfront rental. It's been a pleasant week full of sun and late afternoon showers that leave everything smelling fresh and new.

The beach is almost empty. He's still far away but that hardly matters. I'd know the man who walks steadily in my direction anywhere.

We stop about five feet from each other. He wears a baseball cap and sunglasses, his T-shirt emblazoned with a San Francisco Giants logo, which I know is meant ironically.

“Blackford,” I say, wiggling my toes so they sink deeper into the sand. “You're still alive.”

“Apparently. Are you disappointed?”

“You're beginning to remind me of a cat,” I say, in an effort not to answer his question.

“You look different,” he says. I rest a hand on my growing belly.

“Yes,” I say. “I am different.” In a number of ways.

“It suits you.” He seems so benign standing here, the water lapping at his bare feet.

“I came for a reason,” Blackford says, fidgeting with the brim of his cap, playing with a belt loop on his jeans. If he were a three-year-old, I might suggest he go to the bathroom. I've never seen Blackford nervous; it's too human an emotion for a man like him.

“I didn't know you were the target, Sally,” he says finally. He's now completely still, all the tension dissipated. “I never would have made the deal with Claude if I had.”

Blackford has come a long way to tell me this. It's as close to an apology as I'm likely to get from him and I should be grateful for that much. I know, too, by admitting Claude played him, Blackford will turn into yet another man but I fear that man won't be kinder or gentler. The steeliness is already evident in his cold, blue eyes.

“I know,” I say, instead of all the many other things I would like to say. We stand in silence for a few moments. My head throbs in perfect rhythm with the waves.

“There's one more thing,” he says, his tone indicating he's not yet done with me. “A grave in Norilsk. You know where that is, right? You might want to visit.”

My toes and feet are no longer visible in the sand and it looks as if I'm balanced precariously on two stumps. The pounding in my head is relentless.

“Why do you do this?” I ask. It's a big question, stretching across a number of years.

“Just helping you along on your path to self-discovery,” he says. “You may find we're more alike than you think.”

“I'm nothing like you,” I say, but it's a whisper blown out to sea.

Blackford doesn't say good-bye. He doesn't tell me who is supposed to be in that grave in Norilsk or if it's empty. He just walks away, leaving a trail of smoke and mirrors behind him.

It is true I may not know where I come from. And I have no doubt that one day, maybe soon, I will need to fill in all the blanks. But right now, in this moment, I know exactly who I am.

I am a wife. I am a mother. And once, I was a spy.

A big thank-you to Leigh Feldman, who not only keeps everything moving forward but makes me laugh when, really, I'd rather just quit.

To Barbara Jones, for helping me find the heart of this story, and to Christine Pride, for stepping in and bringing it home.

For their technical advice, good humor, and willingness to answer bizarre questions without taking steps to have me committed, I owe thanks to: Sheri Belafsky, Joel Den Dulk, and Joseph Dumont. Any technical errors in this book belong to me alone.

I owe a debt of gratitude to my first draft readers—Sheri Belafsky, Debbie Anderson, and Charla Kordana. They are kind and supportive and don't require any bribe money whatsoever. I hope I can hit you up again on the next round.

To Mike, Max, and Katie, there is no place I'd rather be than where we are, and I'm grateful every day to all of you.

And finally to you, dear readers. Once again, I have so enjoyed living in the world of Sally Sin. My greatest hope is that you will too. Thanks for reading.

© MEGAN WILKINSON PHOTOGRAPHY

Beth McMullen
graduated from Boston University with a degree in English Literature and received an MLS from Long Island University. After landing a gig with
Reader's Digest
, she eventually realized she'd rather write books than condense them. She lives in Davis, California, with her husband and their two children. She divides her time between writing and, well, we're really not allowed to say.

Copyright © 2011, 2012 KK Max, Inc.

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eBook Edition ISBN: 978-1-4013-1270-1

Original Trade Paperback Edition ISBN: 978-1-4013-1270-1

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Cover design by Laura Klynstra
Cover illustrations by Raina Tinker

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