Undercover Elite (Undercover Elite Book 2) (2 page)

It sounds like their visit is finally wrapping up, so I hurry back into the kitchen to grab the plate of the cookies I spent the afternoon baking. There’s no way I am letting my superhero leave without speaking to him.

As I make my way out of the kitchen with the plate, I look down at my chest and grimace at how the threadbare fabric of my t-shirt hugs the generous curves that have suddenly appeared this summer. Boobs. I’m still getting used to seeing them there. It’s embarrassing, really. And I’ve shot up a few inches recently, so now there’s a gap of skin peeking out between the hem of the t-shirt and my jeans…and these jeans are getting pretty snug, too.

Great. Yeah, this is definitely the last time I wear this shirt
.

I hurry toward the office and catch up to Thorn as he approaches the front door. His steps slow to a halt when he sees me, his body going completely still as I jog the last few steps. I lift the plate between my suddenly sweaty palms and strain my neck to look up at him. A longish strand of mahogany brown hair falls down over his forehead when he leans forward slightly to get a closer look at the plate I’m holding so carefully.

“Hey, little bit, did you bake these?” he asks, making a show of breathing in the heavenly aroma of freshly baked cookies.

Little bit? Not quite what I was hoping for but I guess it will do.

“Yep. They’re chocolate chip, your favorite,” I whisper breathlessly. “I think the one on top is the best one. I put extra chips in it.” I try so hard to keep from staring too obviously at his dimpled chin.

“So that’s the one I should pick, then?” he asks, grinning down at me.

“Oh, yes,” I reply earnestly.

Only the best for my superhero.

He picks up the cookie with a massive hand and takes a bite. He chews slowly, looking down at me thoughtfully the whole time. Then he’s frowning as if he’s judging a baking contest and is taking the job way too seriously. He abruptly straightens to his full height and takes a small step back. For a moment, I worry that something is really wrong with this batch. But just as quickly the frown is gone and he’s smiling down at me again, but he seems more reserved now.

“Excellent. Maybe your best batch yet,” he says solemnly. Then he turns toward the door, pausing to reach back and pat me on the head like you would a small child. “You’re still my
Wonder Windy
crime fighting partner, right?”

I give him my usual response, “You know it! Soon I’ll be all grown up and we can save the world together.” I wonder if he will ever see me as more than just a kid.

He exhales slowly, frowning again as he looks down at me. Running a hand through his hair, he clears his throat and says, “Got work to do, little bit. Gotta go.”

I can’t find my voice to respond and I feel my eyes start to sting. This goodbye feels different somehow, even though I know I’ll see him the next time he drops by to see my dad. He lifts my chin with one finger, his expression soft as he tilts his head to the side and considers me for a long moment. “You take care, now,” he says softly, then he’s gone.

I don’t see him again for ten years.

Windy

Ten Years Later

I sit at the kitchen table with my mother, sipping coffee and listening to her try, yet again, to talk me out of volunteering at Hearth and Home, a downtown Louisville women’s shelter. It is the brainchild of my best friend, Melissa, and is a lifeline for women who are making a fresh start after years of abuse. It’s also where I spend most of my spare time when I’m not in class or researching topics for my Master’s thesis in criminal psychology.

Mom’s state-of-the-art kitchen is a far cry from the bare-bones set up at Hearth and Home -- or even the cozy, simple kitchen in the nearby house where I grew up until we moved to this bigger house eight years ago. Every modern culinary convenience is at my mother’s fingertips now – even a few that are voice-activated. A lot has changed in the last decade, but one thing that remains the same is the perpetual tug-of-war between me and my overprotective parents. It’s a loving battle that is about to escalate in a big way.

Even though I grew up wanting for nothing, I’ve always felt driven by a deep-seated need to save the world. To make things better in whatever way I can. I firmly believe there is a larger purpose for me in the grand scheme of things, even if I have yet to find out what it is. So I’ve made a decision; I’m going to get a job and move out of my parent’s house. Until now, I’ve lived at home with my parents while I’ve pursued my education. Dad has happily paid my bills and controlled my life – and in all fairness, I have to admit that I haven’t done much to stop him.

It isn’t like my father’s grip on me happened all of a sudden; it’s something I’ve grown up with so it has always been my “normal.” And that was fine until I reached my mid-teens, when I began rebelling against his confining house rules. That was when I began to feel his grip on me tighten.

My father held out hope that I would follow in his professional footsteps. So it came as a surprise when my parents supported my decision to pursue undergraduate degrees in criminal justice and psychology. I don’t think they took my decision seriously and hoped I would change my mind. His displeasure became obvious when I enrolled in classes for my Master’s degree and started volunteering in the local women’s shelter in a rough neighborhood.

Though my family is all for
giving back,
they prefer to do so from behind the safety of a checkbook. Nice and tidy. They don’t understand why I want to get involved in such a hands-on way. Really, it boils down to one thing: if they can put me in a bubble to keep me safe, they will.

What they don’t know yet is that I’ve applied for a job at Our Lady of Tranquility, a local psychiatric hospital here in Louisville that is considered one of the largest and best mental health facilities in the nation. It offers the usual array of mental health and substance abuse services; however, in my opinion, its Crown Jewel is the private wing dedicated to the confinement and study of the criminally insane. Housed in that wing are some of the country’s worst serial killers who have agreed to serve as case studies – and, thereby, avoid a life sentence in prison.

Working at Our Lady will give me firsthand experience working with the criminally insane and will enable me to conduct in-person interviews in a safe environment. It’s the perfect next step for me, both academically and professionally, and I think I really have a shot at it. But for now, I need to focus on my mother and her ongoing campaign to curtail my volunteer work.

“Dear, your father means well,” Mom says carefully, eyeing me as she sips her coffee from delicate bone china. “He just worries about your safety.”

“He’s an overbearing control freak, Mom,” I mutter, placing my coffee cup on the granite countertop with a thud.

Mom’s lips purse as she reminds me, “He’s still your father, Windy. And I’m sorry, but I agree with him. Why can’t you just support charitable causes financially? Melissa’s women’s shelter could certainly use the money and it would be so much safer for you.”

I take a deep breath and try to come up with a new way to tell her the same thing I’ve told her so many times before. “Yes, it probably would be safer, but Melissa needs all the help she can get to meet the needs of the community. There are women who would have nowhere to turn if it weren’t for her. And the time I spend there counts toward the volunteer/internship hours that I need for school. Getting a Master’s degree is about more than just books and term papers, you know – life experience is important, too.”

“You’re going into a field of law enforcement, dear. I hardly see how working at a women’s shelter is going to help you get your degree.”

I take a deep breath as I close my eyes in frustration.
Am I the only one in this room who can hear me talking?!

I try again. “Mom, working with the underprivileged, at-risk segment of society is going to help me understand how the mind works and, in the long run, better anticipate the circumstances that could lead to a life of crime. A career in criminal profiling is going to mean interacting with serial killers, so the more life experience I can get now, the more effective I’ll be…” My voice trails off as my mother stares at me intently. Looks like ‘serial killers’ really got her attention. Well, damn.

“And that’s another thing,” Mom says, reaching across the table to cover my hand with hers. “The line of work you’ve chosen is dangerous, Windy. We weren’t too concerned at first because we thought it was a passing thing, and that you would reconsider once you understood the risks. How are your father and I supposed to sleep at night, knowing that you’re putting yourself in danger every day? You were probably too young to remember, but he crossed paths with criminals nearly every day in the ER. That’s why he put so much effort into keeping you safe and protecting you from the risks associated with his job. Really, you have so much going for you, darling; there are so many other things you could do.” She pats my hand lightly and settles back in her chair, raising her cup to her lips.

“Mom, this is all I’ve ever wanted to do. Nothing else interests me,” I tell her calmly, speaking the words slowly for emphasis. I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table. “And what risks are you talking about, anyway? I used to hear you and Dad talking at night about ‘security’ and ‘the day’s report,’ but I never understood what was going on and no one has ever explained.”

My mother doesn’t answer right away. She takes a sip of her coffee, then inhales deeply and purses her lips. Very slowly, she places the delicate china cup and saucer on the table, wrapping her hands around the cup as if seeking its warmth. “Your father won’t be happy with me telling you this. He truly felt he had found his life’s work in the ER. He was at his best helping people through a crisis, saving lives. But sometimes things didn’t work out. And depending on who was involved…it could become a problem.” Her hands tremble around the cup, causing it to clatter loudly against the saucer.

“What kind of problem?” I ask, baffled.

She folds her hands in her lap and raises her eyes to mine before continuing in a steadier voice. “Sometimes when people grieve, they look for someone to blame. Who better than the doctor who did his very best but couldn’t save your son or wife – or drug dealer? All it took was one threat against his family and everything changed. Your father changed. He lost the optimism that had always been his saving grace. So he did what was necessary to make sure you were always safe. You never knew because we didn’t want you to worry. We wanted you to enjoy being a child without worrying about the ugliness in the world.”

Well, that certainly explains a lot to this very day
, I think to myself. But Mom’s right; my childhood was downright idyllic. I had no complaints other than my parents’ overprotectiveness, and that only became a problem as I got older. I never felt unsafe, not even once. Sure, I didn’t get out much to make friends, but I recall countless hours trying to swing higher and higher in the backyard; endless violin lessons; Dad and Thorn meeting for long talks in Dad’s study…

“Thorn.” I say the word on a gasp and look up at my mother with wide eyes.

“Yes,” she replies softly. “He was never far away. Your father hired him as a bodyguard of sorts, just to keep an eye on you when you were away from the house. Thorn made a point of keeping his distance so as not to be a distraction, but once you were old enough to notice his presence on a regular basis you became rather attached to him, as I recall.”

“I always thought he was just a friend of Dad’s,” I murmur, breathing deeply to steady myself as so many seemingly unrelated things come together in my mind: Thorn’s many visits to my father’s study; Thorn unexpectedly showing up around town when Mom and I were shopping; a black SUV (Thorn’s, of course) parked in the distance just about everywhere we went.

Of course. He had been my bodyguard.

“Then he went away,” I whisper, clutching the edge of the table between my fingers.

“Yes, after your father left the ER for good, those risks weren’t an issue anymore. We moved on, and so did Thorn.
Undercover Elite
has become quite a success since then. But his departure was an adjustment…for everyone, I think.” She looks at me knowingly for a long moment. “Thorn and your father had an understanding; Thorn would have taken a bullet for you if it had come to that. We knew you would always be safe with him.” She starts to chuckle, “Why, he even climbed up on the roof to save your cat! I’ll never forget the sight of that magnificent man climbing down the trellis holding that ball of fluff…”