The knock on my door in the wee hours of the morning is not one I would call a miracle. As much as it saved my life. As much as it gave me a purpose to live.
Because while it saved me, it also put me in as much danger as someone held at gunpoint.
I strode to the door with such small steps, such melancholic steps, that anybody watching would have noticed the lack of passion I felt for anything and everything.
Slowly, ever so slowly, I pulled the door open. Once, I used to look through the peephole to make sure I wasn’t answering the door to a stranger. Once, I was cautious, careful about who came into my house.
But it was late. I was tired. And I just didn’t care.
When I saw who was standing there—a tall, dark man in a suit and tie—I frowned with imminent confusion written all over my face. “Who are you?” I barked, keeping a hand on the frame of the door.
“We can’t be seen talking,” he said, glancing behind him.
Which was when I knew he was trouble.
I don’t know what made me do it—kick him—but something came over me. After everything I’d lost, there wasn’t really much to live for, except to actually live, as I had promised her, as I had promised him.
My foot left the ground and found the side of the man’s leg, making him stumble. I guess I had caught him by surprise. I didn’t have time to feel proud of myself, though, because in the next second, he was grabbing my wrist and holding me still with his steel hands.
“I’ll shout,” I said. “If you don’t let me go, I’ll really do it.”
It wasn’t much of a threat, but the man loosened his grip somewhat.
So he didn’t want to hurt me. That fact didn’t give me a reason to trust him, though, and I found myself taking a deep breath, opening my mouth, about to demand some answers--
And then the man clamped his hand over my mouth, and I was thrown into my own house, the door shutting behind me. I’d never known I was so weak, not before I stumbled onto my Persian carpet on my hands and knees, sweat matting my hair to my neck.
The man had followed me in, and he put a finger to his lips. “I promise, I’m not here to hurt you. But I can’t let anyone see me here, not talking to you. Not when it could put you in danger.”
I started laughing. I’m not proud of it, but there wasn’t really much else to do. I was scared, for heaven’s sake! I was alone and I was scared and this man here, this man in his fancy suit, was telling me he didn’t want to put me in danger.
It was like something out of a movie.
“What do you want from me?” I asked, my voice shaking unsteadily. A glob in my throat prevented me from saying everything I wanted to say: Why are you here? You can’t barge into my house and--
“I’m not here to scare you.”
I nodded, unsure why I wasn’t more frightened. Maybe I was hoping for danger, because a part of me for a long time really did want to die. But it wasn’t just that. Something about this man, with his round face and brown eyes, something made me want to trust him.
He helped me up, lending me a hand, and rubbed his bald head slowly. “Is there somewhere we could sit?” he asked me.
I was still getting over my shock at this stranger’s appearance, but I managed to make my feet return to where they had been before the knock on the door—to the living room.
The glowing light from my laptop screen was the only light on in the house. I closed it. Sat down. Waited for the man to do the same.
“Good,” he said.
“Good?”
“Your cooperation is vital right now,” he said.
“My cooperation.”
I tried to make myself say something else, but I couldn’t think of anything. So I waited.
“You’re a writer, aren’t you?”
Was that what this was about? I tried to come up with all the reasons why a man—who looked like he was all business—would be at my house at three in the morning, talking about my writing.
Maybe he was psycho.
“Do you not like my books?” I asked. “Because they’re damn good.”
The man chuckled softly, his laughter filling the darkness. “I’m here because I love them.”
“You love my books.”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
We both sat there, staring at each other. I could only see his outline; his features were faint, no matter how much I squinted. This was intriguing. I couldn’t help feeling excited. For a story. Something to write.
I tried to keep myself calm. I put myself in my character’s shoes, someone confident, someone who knew what she was doing, even though I was clueless.
The best way to get through the tough times is to pretend you’re someone you’re not.
I can’t remember who told me that.
I sat up straighter.
The man spoke again. “I have a proposition to make. You will be safe, I promise, but there is a risk.”
“There’s always a risk.”
“You’ll do what you do best—you’ll write. And you’ll help your country at the same time.”
I felt like laughing at that, but I stopped myself in time. Instead, I said, “My country didn’t help my husband. They didn’t help my daughter. Why would I want to help my country?”
“I know about your daughter and your husband.”
A single tear dropped onto my lap. He probably couldn’t see it, but the air around us became tense, and I sensed he knew he had broached a sensitive topic.
“What do you know?” I asked. I meant for it to come out inquiringly, but it ended as more of a yell. And then I realized that I didn’t need to be calm, not when it considered the people I loved. “What do you know?” I shouted.
“I can’t tell you everything now, not here.”
I sniffed loudly, wiping at my eyes.
The man’s voice turned sympathetic. “I know what you’re going through. I know why you’re upset. But listen to me. You can still help them—Ben, Alexandra. You can help them both.”
The sounds of their names pulled me back to reality. “They’re gone,” I said.
“And many others will be too, if you don’t help us.”
My cautious self rebelled against the idea of helping this stranger. I didn’t even know who he was or what he wanted. And yet, my heart was yearning for something new.
For weeks since the accident, all I had done was sit around, crying, mourning, feeling sorry for myself. But none of that had helped me, and it certainly hadn’t helped them. I realized now that all I wanted to do was help them, somehow.
Because that was the only way I could do what they had asked of me—to keep living, to keep going.
“What do you want me to do?”
“I won’t give you the details now,” the man said. “But I will tell you that it involves writing a book, anonymously, of course. We would never put you in danger. Your style… You make your books seem so real. That’s what we want.”
“Who are you?”
His answer was immediate. “CIA.”
I felt my eyes go wide with the announcement, but I hid my shock. “And you want me to write a book… why?”
“We’ll explain later.”
“What does this have to do with… with Ben? And Alex?”
“We’ll explain later.”
“Why would this endanger me?”
“We’ll—”
“Explain later?” I asked. He nodded. “Okay then. I’ll do it.”
The man was all business then, because as soon as the words were out of my mouth, he stood up, reached a hand into his pocket, took out a plain black cell phone that looked like something from the 90’s.
“This is for you,” he said, and I realized he had known what my answer would be from the beginning. “We’ll contact you once only. Do not write down anything we tell you. Remember it. When we hang up, destroy the phone. We can’t leave a trail.”
A trail. I nodded. Cover the trail. Use my memory. Follow directions. Easy. “Okay,” I said.
“I don’t know how long it will be before we call you.”
“I’m only willing to wait a year.”
The man chucked. “It shouldn’t take that long.”
“Okay,” I said again. “Good.”
The man headed for my front door, and I followed him. “What’s your name?”
“You don’t need to know.”
“How will I know who to trust?”
The man smiled, revealing pearly white teeth against his dark skin. “You don’t have to worry about that.”
That was reassuring.
I waited by the door as he disappeared into the night. Literally disappeared. Try as I might, I couldn’t catch his retreating figure, and I told myself it was because he was from the CIA. They could disappear when they wanted to. When they needed to.
And if they needed me to disappear, they could make that happen too.
*Something I just started writing. Not exactly sure where I'm going with it, but hopefully it's decent.