“Emiere-Gray?” Angie called, her voice echoing eerily within the interrogation room. She shuddered at the poor acoustics, though she knew they were designed specifically for this purpose. After all, she was the one who designed them, striking a balance between allowing normal interviews to occur and creating an unsettling echo for those who were uncooperative. She worked to instill fear. Amplify uncertainty. Perpetuate loneliness.
It didn’t help that a tape was playing on loop–had been for the two hours she had been trapped here since the last interrogation– showing surveillance footage of a hallway. Two agents staining the white linoleum floors red. The tape depicted the actual attack to be roughly forty-five seconds–forty-seven, if she was specific. Though, she lamented, she couldn’t truly substantiate that. It was a definite probability that the footage had been altered. Time was meaningless in the moment– there was only red and the crack of cartilage, the feeling of pudgy skin, white hot tears–she hated not knowing, not being precise in her calculations. Did they die quickly? Slowly? She didn’t know which answer she preferred.
Angie looked down at her lap, streaks of blood marring crisp green slacks. The sight made her slightly ill. Don’t think about Alice, don’t think about Alice. Those bastards got what was coming to them. The litany did little to ground her. Get yourself together and wait for Mum and Dad. They’ll be back within the day.
“Ready to confess then?” Emiere-Gray strode in, tossing an empty coffee cup into the small rubbish bin in the corner. It was the perfect picture of nonchalance, and Angie knew that Emiere-Gray orchestrated it as such. Angie allowed herself, despite the gravity of the situation, to feel mildly amused at the prospect. This performance was all for her. Emiere-Gray straightened the navy blue blazer she donned before sitting down. Angie raised an eyebrow at the earpiece in her left ear. Interesting. It’s not like Emiere-Gray can do anything without relying on Jane. There was the pop of a pen uncapping, and the soft sounds of Emiere-Gray’s lolloping script on her legal pad. Angie would recognize that writing in her sleep.
“You’ve given up so quickly, Carter-Santrea, I expected better of-”
“Hardly.” Angie corrected, repressing a smile at Emiere-Gray’s overconfidence. “I’m merely curious.”
“You’re always curious,” Emiere-Gray rebuked. “That’s not a reason to call me back in. I was very clear that I would not talk to you unless you cooperate. You’ve just been wasting everyone’s time.”
“Regardless,” Angie waved a hand to dismiss the admonishment. “If you would be so kind as to entertain my inquiries, I’d appreciate it. We’re friends, aren’t we?” There was a sharp intake of breath that belied Emiere-Gray’s next words.
“We’ve never been friends, Carter-Sanstrea. Even if we were, which we weren’t– I want to make that very clear–it would have stopped the moment you attacked those two agents, and the second I learned that you have been lying to our faces for years. I don’t even like you, really.”
They sped down I-395, munching on cherry-dipped ice cream cones to celebrate their successful case.
“Where did you get the Porsche from?” Angie asked suddenly, wondering how she hadn’t thought to ask before. She couldn’t wait to tell Michael all about it–her brother was obsessed with cars, especially flip tops. “It can’t be yours, can it?”
“Oh no,” Emiere-Gray laughed, forgoing her turn signal and cutting another car off as she switched lanes. Angie winced internally. “It’s my grandfather’s. I hotwired it this morning. It’s his old car, from ‘48. He’s had about three cars since then. It stays in the garage. He’ll never notice.”
“You stole the car?” Angie was mildly scandalized. It wasn’t as if the bastard didn’t deserve it, but…
“Yeah, if he didn’t want it stolen, then he should of-” Emiere-Gray slammed on the brakes before slapping the horn. The car in front of them, mere seconds from being totaled, honked back. “What the fuck? Fucking nova drivers are so pretentious. Insanity.”
“Pretentious? Them? You almost rear-ended them!”
“You don’t even know how to drive,” Emiere-Gray dismissed her. The car was nearly at a standstill, even in the far left lane they were currently occupying. “I know a different way, let’s take that rural highway over there. It would have taken longer originally, but it’ll probably save us hours now. I want to get back as soon as possible and share the good news with Jane.” Emiere-Gray pointed at a nearby exit.
“We are eight lanes over from where we would need to be to take it, you can’t possibly–”
Emiere-Gray winked before cutting about a dozen people off, received double that in honks, and scraped the bumper of a blue truck on her quest to make it to the exit.
“Emiere-Gray! They’re going to get the license plate! You didn’t even stop to ask about damages or apologize.”
“It’s not registered to me; there’s nothing tying us to it. My grandfather’ll get the bill. Besides, weren’t you the person who told me to stop caring about what others think of me?” Emiere-Gray shrugged, punching the gas pedal. The car let out a concerning chug and sped towards the vacant exit. They left the traffic behind.
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
Emiere-Gray just offered a dazzling smile before stepping on the gas harder and pushing the car to 100 mph. With her blonde curls and hoop earrings fluttering wildly in the breeze, she was the perfect picture of a proper American girl. She looked unburdened by expectations, and every bit her age. Her energy was contagious, and Angie moved to turn on the radio, full blast.
“You know what, Carter-Sanstrea?” Emiere-Gray shouted over the wind. “You’re actually a lot of fun when you aren’t yelling at me!”
Angie could not control her laughter. They could be themselves here, the wind blanketing them in a bubble of plausible deniability, with their words carried far away. They really were going entirely too fast, especially in a car that belonged to neither of them, but Angie paid it no further attention.
The car slowed as they entered DC, the hustle and bustle serving as an unwelcome return to normal life. Angie spared a glance at Emiere-Gray in the mirror while she beat her hair back into submission, watching Emiere-Gray’s shoulders tighten more and more, as if she were sculpted from glass.
Yeah, so Emiere-Gray was a big fat liar. Anywho.
“I’m just interested in appreciating what’s at stake for you, is all,” Angie smiled innocently.
“At stake for me? You have got to be joking.”
“How much of your career is dependent on the outcome of this interview?” Angie asked lightly, crimson-tipped fingers drumming idly on the tabletop, handcuffs clinking as she did so. So often was she on the other side of the table that the foreign weight and presence of the handcuffs both invigorated her and terrified her.
Emiere-Gray did not answer her–nor did she miss Angie’s choice to use“interview;” Angie saw it in the brief gold twinkle of her eyes. They both knew better. Emiere-Gray’s status as future chief of the ISTO–Implementation of Scientific Technology in Operations–Division was on the line, though she would never admit such. With Angie’s mother and father, Director Carter and Assistant Director Sanstrea on temporary leave, the men left in charge clearly had no qualms about pushing Emiere-Gray to her limit behind Jane’s back. Angie would feel bad for her if Emiere-Gray wasn’t so…Emiere-Gray-like.
“We have to dance, Carter-Sanstrea, everyone is looking at us,” Emiere-Gray hissed. She attempted to put a hand on Angie’s back, but it was slapped away.
“You were an asshole earlier,” Angie hissed back. “I actually wanted to dance with you, but you said that you ‘didn’t have time for such pointless activities, especially with a girl as pretentious’ as me. Even though, news flash, we’re undercover at a fucking dance. That you volunteered for, notably citing your ballroom training as evidence.” Emiere-Gray winced. Angie was right, to an extent, but they were also wasting precious time. People were staring, forming a small semi-circle around the dance floor. One woman made eye contact with Emiere-Gray, and she hurriedly looked away, staring at a large floral centerpiece instead.
“There’s a fucking spotlight on us, Carter-Sanstrea.”
“I imagine all of your dreams are coming true, then.”
“We’re the main attraction,” Emiere-Gray pleaded.
“Must feel great.”
“We’re currently undercover. Keep fighting, and we’re going to be discovered.” Emiere-Gray reminded her, ignoring Angie’s dig. Jane, their director, was going to have a field day when Emiere-Gray inevitably reported why they failed. “Carter-Sanstrea and I can get along well enough for one mission, I promise.” Emiere-Gray had beseeched her.
“If you insist,” Angie sniffed, refusing to admit her fault.
“We’re both girls-” Emiere-Gray startled all of a sudden. “How do we even do that? Dance, I mean.”
“Emiere-Gray, we’re at a women’s-only sock hop. Everyone is dancing with another woman. Do not make it weirder than it has to be,” Angie responded, looking at the other pairs. She seemed revitalized by the opportunity to show-up Emiere-Gray.”Mum taught me how to lead, I’ll do it.”
“No,” Emiere-Gray whispered; she too, was looking at the others. “See, all the other girls, whoever is taller, they’re leading. That’s me.”
“You are barely taller than me,” Angie sounded exasperated, not-so-subtly attempting to stand on her tiptoes out of spite. Emiere-Gray was clearly not impressed, and her eyes narrowed.
“Barely taller is still taller,” Emiere-Gray gritted out. “It works out anyways, I’m not supposed to be too much taller than you.”
“I know that! We’ll trade off then, me leading first, but by God, get moving,” Angie conceded, beyond frustrated. There was a distant cheer as they finally started dancing; apparently, the small crowd had been waiting for them before joining in. This brought an even pinker tint to Emiere-Gray’s cheeks, Angie noted. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, Emiere-Gray hadn’t lied when she told Jane that she was good at dancing. Her feet seemed to move effortlessly, and they swayed across the floor delicately.
“My turn,” Emiere-Gray said, as a new song started up. Angie adjusted her arms accordingly. This song was much faster. “Just go with it.”
“Are you going to dip me at the end, Thompson?” Angie asked, a teasing lilt to her voice. Emiere-Gray was guiding her near perfectly, so Angie could properly survey their surroundings. The ballroom was massive, and undoubtedly nicer than a sock hop warranted. Rich politicians could try all they wanted to replicate a traditional teenage sock hop for their daughters, but wealth still leaked through. The buffet spanning five tables, the live band in the corner– all emanated privilege.
“Um-”
“Are you going to dip me?” Angie demanded. Internally, she chastised herself. She knew better than to encourage something so dangerous. She was being nonsensical. Even if they blended into a sea of other pink-skirted and sock-clad women, they couldn’t risk anyone getting the wrong idea. She started on damage control, opting to focus on the logistics.“Truly, I need to know, so I can either do it or not.”
“Why the hell not? Let’s do it.”
Emiere-Gray dipped her, oh so slowly.
Angie was breathless as Emiere-Gray pulled her back up to standing. She ended up only a few inches from her face. She could smell the cinnamon of the whiskey she favored, and feel her breath on her cheek. Some invisible power was pulling her forward, eyes gently fluttering shut. Everything within her screamed in warning, imploring her to remember what happened after her last kiss.
“I need a drink!” Emiere-Gray practically ran from the dance floor, leaving Angie stumbling to catch herself. It was for the best that Emiere-Gray stopped it, anyway.
“That parched?” Angie followed her. Emiere-Gray ignored her in favor of tossing back the entirety of an unidentified cocktail: murky liquid, garnish, and all.
“I think I need another one,” she hiccuped slightly, hand blindly reaching for the waiter’s silver platter.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Angie grasped her wrist gently, not wanting to draw more attention than Emiere-Gray was already getting. “Let’s slow down, yeah?” Emiere-Gray jumped at the contact, before shooting Angie a look filled with such vitriol she considered the benefits of vacating the immediate area. Angie released her wrist, holding her hands up in a gesture of feigned surrender. “I apologize for my absolute gall; frankly, I agree, it’s absurd that I even dare to touch you. Where did I get such misguided notions?” she grumbled.
“You just- I mean, you just don’t have any right to be as-” Emiere-Gray broke off and ran shaky hands down her face. She muttered something undetectable, a cherry flush creeping across her cheeks.
“The right to be…?” Angie prompted, similarly flushing. If this was heading where she thought it was, which it absolutely could not, because the last time, with Alice-
“I just mean- well,” Emiere-Gray was evidently at a loss for words. “I’m just saying that-” she groaned, suddenly shaking her head, as if clearing her ears of water. “We got what we came here for. We should get out of here. I have to go to the powder room first. Don’t follow me, it’ll look suspicious.” She shot off towards the imperial staircase.
“Right,” Angie sucked her right cheek into her front teeth. She worried it there, rewarded by a slight gush of blood. “That’s the only reason you don’t want me following you,” she mocked Emiere-Gray’s retreating back.
“Correct!” Emiere-Gray’s voice was strained, and she put on a burst of speed.
“Is this your final test? Your last hurrah?” Angie smirked. All in all, Emiere-Gray mulled, it was a decent deflection from the matter at hand. She had to give it to her; Angie’s words held too much truth, as always, the insufferable genius that she was. She needed to pull at Angie’s perfectly shiny perfect hair that, altogether, unfortunately fell quite perfectly upon her perfect shoulders. Infuriating.
“Don’t let her distract you,” Jane said through the earpiece.
Ignoring Angie’s bait, she used the opportunity to set some ground rules. Putting Angie in her place was long overdue; she had been infuriating for years. Emiere-Gray wanted nothing more.
“Kindly, don’t insult me,” Angie said lightly. She shuffled her design papers and resisted the urge to throw them.
“You insult me every day! Every chance you get, you leap at the opportunity. I’ve been ridiculed more times than I can count. You’re an insufferable stuck-up asshole,” Emiere-Gray crossed her arms.
“Not my fault you can’t count high,” Angie responded, shrugging. Jane burst out laughing.
“You think that’s funny?” Emiere-Gray rounded on Jane, who shook her head no, despite still shaking in hysterics.
“This is my interrogation. My rules. I ask the questions,” Emiere-Gray drawled, leaning forward, her hands on the desk. She got quite a bit closer to Angie than was truly necessary, and she felt her heartbeat quicken in response. The smell of Angie’s perfume invaded her nose: a rose and vanilla blanket atop the warm earth of aged parchment, the tang of leaking ink from ballpoint pens, and the slight musk of gunpowder. The copper sting of blood. She leaned forward even further to mask her involuntary shiver upon smelling it. They were now unprofessionally, bordering on inappropriately, close, and she could feel Angie’s breath faintly on her cheek. It was exactly what Emiere-Gray had wanted, of course. She was throwing Angie off her high horse, swathed in parental privilege. The cracks in Angie’s carefully crafted veneer were beginning to show. Angie could feign disinterest and superiority all she wanted, but it didn’t erase the fact that she was avoiding something supremely important to her. Emiere-Gray reached out to smooth a wisp of Angie’s hair out of her line of vision, not letting the intensity of her gaze weaken. Angie’s eyes widened, almost imperceptibly. Angie was good, but she was better. If she could break Director Carter’s daughter, her pride and joy, F.I.R.E. ‘s aspiring genius, without more than laying a single finger on her, well, there wasn’t much she couldn’t do.
“Got something to say, Carter-Sanstrea?”
Angie’s breath seemed to have caught in her throat, and for a second, Emiere-Gray thought that she was about to shake her head. Then, Angie being Angie, in that aggravating as all hell Carter-Sanstrea fashion, retaliated by leaning even closer (Emiere-Gray could definitely feel her breath now), and asked, “Whatever happened to calling me Angel, Thompson?” Her voice was steady and sweet, but her eyes were alight with a challenge. If Angie wanted a game, a game she would get. Angie’s eyes didn’t waver as they made contact with Emiere-Gray’s. Who would fold first?
“Tell me then, Angel,” she acquiesced, “why did you attack them? Liam Turner and Davin Johnson? They were only hired a day ago, though I’m sure you knew this. You know everything, after all.” Angie visibly shuddered at the names, hunching in on herself. She looked away, breaking their eye contact first to retreat to the safety of her chair. Point to Emiere-Gray. Emiere-Gray likewise sat back. She would use the whole tension stunt again later. Interesting. We’re finally getting somewhere.
“I didn’t actually, nor did my parents. They wouldn’t have allowed it.” Angie grumbled, her innate need to correct Emiere-Gray apparently trumping her desire to give nothing away and maintain her status as omniscient.
“Why?”
“Reasons.”
“Mhm.”
“At least update me on how it goes finding a new job.” Angie broke the silence breezily, clearly not willing to drop her barrage of insults. “This hasn’t been terribly successful for you, has it? You haven’t a scrap of information from me. I’ll miss you and your report filing, but that’s about it. Oh, well, your father’s standing will practically spoon-feed you another job.” Emiere-Gray laughed incredulously, leg bouncing up and down with fury.
“Oh, you do not get to pull parental privileges on me, when you work for the intelligence agency that your parents literally founded. My father’s dead, Agent Carter-Sanstrea. He can’t hire me at his agency.”
“Exactly.” Angie’s voice was colder and harder than it had been the whole session, but it worked well enough in her favor; it only further infuriated Emiere-Gray.
“Exactly? So you’re just admitting things now? You admit that you’re a hypocrite? How about I get you to admit just what the hell it was that you did? You committed a federal crime– you attacked people, for what?”
“Yeah, exactly. But I’m not a hypocrite, because I am not my parents reincarnated. I’m a scientist and an agent, simultaneously–which is something neither of my parents did.”
“My. Father. Is. Dead.” Emiere-Gray gnashed her teeth together. “I got here because I worked for it. Because of my talents. I am my own agent, my own person. I’ll have you remember, F.I.R.E denied my cousin. Your parents denied my cousin. Put simply, I was good enough, he was not–it has nothing to do with our family name.” She had leaned forward again, but there was no agenda behind it, no veiled reason.
Angie took a breath, and Emiere-Gray knew what she was going to say before she did. Angie was about to play her ace.
“Are you though? Here as a sole result of your talents? Didn’t you have to lie to get here? We’re talking about federal crimes here? You’ve committed a fair few yourself. Want me to reveal it on record?” A wicked smile spread across Angie’s face. There it was, all of their cards on the table.
Emiere-Gray sighed in relief as she shut her office door, at last sealing herself in silence. She had heard the words “happy birthday” far too many times today. If she heard them one more time, she was going to break something.
“Hey!” Angie’s voice was muffled from the other side of the door. “Can I come in?” Suppressing a scream, Emiere-Gray accepted. She knew what was coming. She didn’t want to hear those words. It was one well-wishing sentiment too many.
“It’s not my birthday,” Emiere-Gray admitted quietly, before Angie could say anything, actively disobeying all better judgment.
“Happy– huh?” Angie froze. “But your ID says.. I mean, everyone was saying…”
“I lied. Four years ago. I had to be sixteen to be hired,” She blurted.
“You lied on your application? How? We do background checks!” Angie seemed flabbergasted. “Why in the blazes are you telling me this, of all people?”
“I forged my birth certificate. I don’t have any parents to verify it, anyway.” Emiere-Gray said bitterly. She couldn’t answer Angie’s last question. She didn’t know why herself.
“I mean, I have to tell someone, don’t I?”
“Why me, though? You hate me.”
“I don’t,” Emiere-Gray said miserably. “I mean I do, but it’s not because of you, it’s because…” she trailed off. “What I mean to say is that… I mean, we both understand each other. I’m not going to tell any of our middle-aged male coworkers, am I?”
“I suppose,” Angie allowed. She sat down on the edge of Emiere-Gray’s desk, taking a breath and folding her hands in her lap. She was clearly putting in effort to be amicable. “Do you want to tell me why?”
All Emiere-Gray had ever wanted was to be asked why. Why she left, why she joined F.I.R.E., and why she sacrificed what she did. The question warmed her chest. “I couldn’t stay with my grandparents any longer. I hated it. I hated it. I had to follow in my Dad’s footsteps. I had to get out. It’s just that I’m in line for a promotion now, and I’m only going to get it since they think I’m twenty, but I’m not. I’m still nineteen. I can’t legally get a Director position at nineteen.” Tears leaked out of Emiere-Gray’s eyes, unbidden. Angie was going to tell Director Carter within a matter of minutes, likely on her car ride home.
“It’s okay, Emiere-Gray. We all have our secrets. I won’t tell, even if I don’t entirely understand why you confided in me,” she reassured, as if she were a mind reader.
“Oh yeah? What’s perfect Angie Carter-Sanstrea’s secret?” Emiere-Gray let out a soggy laugh. Angie tensed, before carefully relaxing each portion of her body one by one. It was almost comical to watch. Emiere-Gray’s eyes lingered on Angie’s gentle smile.
“You think I’m perfect? I’m flattered, truly– it only took you three years to admit. But it’s not for you to know.”
“All secrets are meant to be shared with someone close to you. They destroy you from the inside out otherwise. Now we can bear the weight together.”
“I fear that’s not congruent with the definition.” They both laughed, a comfortable silence settling upon the room, lamplight washing the world with amber. Angie reached out and squeezed Emiere-Gray’s hand gently. Angie was everything Emiere-Gray had ever wanted to be, to have.
“You’re lucky, you know? Having parents.”
“Yeah,” Angie whispered. “I am. I’m sorry.”
A totally, completely ordinary Tuesday, some months later, found a downtrodden Emiere-Gray arriving at her desk, doing her best to put on a facade of happiness. She frowned at an unfamiliar jewelry box atop her files, and set her briefcase down to inspect it. She unfolded the note first.
Congratulations on the conclusion of your successful case! The note read.
Emiere-Gray opened the small box, revealing a stunning set of earrings. They were silver, with small sapphires embedded in the center. There were words printed on the inside of the lid, so small they were nearly invisible. The ambiguity of the note suddenly clicked.
Emiere-Gray’s breath caught.
Happy Birthday, Emiere-Gray.
“Do you actually think that you got recruited because of your talents?” Angie continued, her gaze merciless. “You’re sent into this room when my parents need your father. You’re the perfect tool, the perfect instrument to employ against uncooperative witnesses, because you’ll punch the living daylights out of people if it’ll give you praise. If you truly believe that you’re upholding your legacy. You crave approval like it’s water. You follow Jane around like a downtrodden puppy, of course you’re her first pick for her successor! You’re the only agent pathetic enough for your every move to be an attempt to ingratiate yourself. Even your actions aren’t your own. That’s all to say, Emiere-Gray,”–Emiere-Gray felt Angie spitting her name like a floundering boat rapidly taking on water– “You’re in this agency because my parents needed your father. You’re here because you’re a replacement. Because you lied.”
Emiere-Gray let out a stream of profanities. That little bitch. Angie ducked as Emiere-Gray chucked her legal pad at her head. It clattered to the floor behind her, flaxen pages fluttering.
“Thompson,” the earpiece hissed. Emiere-Gray started; she had almost forgotten it was there. Forgotten that her and Angie’s lives were on display to be picked apart like a piece of meat. “She’s winning. You have to dig deeper. The Board of Directors is getting impatient. If you can’t get the reason out, they’re going to make me do things to Agent Carter-Sanstrea, or order someone to do things–and I’d never ask it of you– that I really, really don’t want to do.” Jane’s voice cracked a bit in the last part. Emiere-Gray passed it off as the earpiece’s quality, rather than the fact that Angie had known Jane since she was seven and tagged along with her parents to work. Faulty audio quality made things easier.
“So,” Emiere-Gray folded her hands, words dripping venom. She was positively seething. They had to get back on track. Or so help me God. “We’re going to give you an incentive to speak, since you clearly can’t function when presented with basic questions.”
“Such as?” Angie sneered.
“Michael came looking for you,” Emiere-Gray helpfully supplied, voice beyond nasty. “Jane’s talking to him right now. In the room next door.”
“He’s being interrogated?” Angie’s eyebrows disappeared into her hairline. “Fuck you, Emiere-Gray. Genuinely, fuck you.”
“There’s your incentive. Speak and he’ll be okay.”
“‘He’ll be okay?’ You won’t hurt him. You’re not capable of that, Emiere-Gray. You’re a great many things, but a coward using my twelve-year-old brother as leverage is not one of them. I know you’re not heartless, despite all evidence to the contrary. You’re smart, though I’m loath to admit it. You’re gunning for a promotion, you wouldn’t needlessly torture the Director’s son. I know you.”
“You said it yourself. What was it again? Oh, yeah, that I would ‘punch the living daylights out of people if it’ll give me praise?’” Emiere-Gray allowed her typical cockiness to flood her voice. It didn’t matter how furious she was. In these rooms, she was supposed to be smooth and polished, voice leaking honeyed poison, slipping under her victim’s defenses like a cat. She ignored the fact that she had been unsuccessful in this endeavor so far, allowing Angie’s words to crawl beneath her skin. Angie was smarter than her; she had demonstrated as much in her ability to steer the interrogation away from the attack, but this was supposed to be her arena. She wouldn’t allow Angie to get away with reaming her like that. With disrespecting the Thompson name like that.
“You wouldn’t.” Though Angie’s words were resolute, for the first time, there was a note of uncertainty. “My Mum and Dad will be back by tomorrow.”
“Would it convince you if I showed him to you?”
“No.”
“I can pull up the footage of next door, real time.”
“No.”
“Don’t let him get hurt because of you.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Don’t want more blood on your hands, do you?” Angie just about leapt into the air, shaking like a leaf.That, apparently, had been the wrong thing to say. Or right, if one were Emiere-Gray Thompson. Bingo. Emiere-Gray smiled triumphantly before digging in further.
“So you’re hiding something big, Carter-Sanstrea. Bigger than my secret.” The thought flooded her veins with epicaricacy.
“You’ve hurt someone before. Killed, I might even say, based on your reaction.”
“No. Never.” Angie’s voice was pathetic at best.
“I’ll ask again. Why did you attack them? To cover something up?”
“No.”
“Just for fun?”
“No. You can’t– think that of me?”
“As revenge?”
“Stop it.” There it was. Another point, Emiere-Gray.
“As revenge?” Emiere-Gray repeated, raising a manicured brow.
“Stop, Emiere-Gray.” Angie’s voice was easily climbing octaves.
“You don’t want more blood on your hands. What did they do? You can tell me.”
“I can’t!” Angie shrieked finally, slamming her hands down. A sob tore through her throat. The angle forced the handcuffs deeper into her wrists, and she seemed to pay no attention to the small rivulets of blood it produced. Emiere-Gray could not tear her eyes away. “You could never understand! You could never bring shame to your parents’ legacy like I do. You haven’t lost what I have.”
“You’re bleeding,” Emiere-Gray felt compelled to inform her, voice far meeker than she hoped. After all, she had Angie on the precipice of confession. She was going to win the game.
It didn’t feel much like a game anymore.
“I have enough blood on my hands as it is, like you said,” Angie sobbed, fingers scrabbling through mousy hair, chunks drifting to the tiled floor. “You don’t know who I am. What happened to her. What they did. What happened to me.”
“Angie-” Emiere-Gray’s usage of her first name hung hot and heavy in the air.
“I couldn’t let them walk free–Not when– Not when– she,” Angie cut herself off. “Alice. Not when they killed her. Just for being involved with me.”
“Involved?” Emiere-Gray’s voice sounded foreign to her own ears. Everything was crashing down. She wished she could take it back. She was wrong, some secrets weren’t meant to be extracted. There was no way that Angie, of all people, was…
“Romantically involved, you twit,” Angie spat, “go ahead, there’s my secret. Get your goddamn fucking promotion. I- I- kissed her- and they- they saw, and- no one could find them until– I mean, I looked so hard–”
“You did it,” Jane’s voice was gravelly through the earpiece, but undeniably proud. “I knew you could do it. I know it’s hard to believe, but this is a better outcome than the alternative.”
Delicious approval settled in her stomach. Emiere-Gray got the confession. She was the one able to make Angie confess; not Jane, not the other directors, no one else they sent in. Emiere-Gray was the one to beat the ticking time bomb of Angie’s parents swooping in to save her, to absolve her of all blame. She got out the fact that Angie was a—
The approval began to sour, her gut churning. But why wasn’t she proud of herself? Why did it feel like this?
Breaking Angie Lily Carter-Sanstrea was not as satisfying as she imagined.
“It’s my fault, my fault,” Angie repeated, “My fault that they- I as good as killed her. I wasn’t careful and I killed her! She always wanted to be careful– I killed her, Emiere-Gray! I killed her!” The shrill of her voice bounced around the room, the echo panels she crafted only intensifying it.
There was nothing Emiere-Gray could do but watch, the pit in her stomach expanding each second as contrition flooded her veins. Angie showed her kindness when she truly needed it, and this was how Emiere-Gray repaid her.
There, perfect genius infallible prodigy Agent Angie Lily Carter-Sanstrea was, looking none too much like any of those adjectives, flailing against the handcuffs, emerald eyes unrecognizable with horror, scarlet splattering the walls from her wrists. Her own design encasing her in a cacophony of her cries.
I killed her! I killed her!