Luring

If she achieved her goal of becoming an FBI agent, would she really spend long days making everything perfect for when Ryan came from work? It didn’t seem likely.

But right now Riley had a hard time visualizing that future—or any specific future.

She plopped herself down on the couch.

She closed her eyes and realized she was very tired.

What we both need is a vacation, she thought.

But a vacation wasn’t in the cards for the near future.

She felt a little drowsy and had almost dozed off when a memory forced its way into her mind …

She was bound hand and foot by a madman wearing a clown costume and makeup.

He held a mirror to her face and said …

“All done now. Have a look!”

She saw that he had smeared makeup all over her face so that she, too, looked like a clown.

Then he held a syringe in front of her. She knew that if he injected her with its deadly contents, she’d die from sheer terror …

Riley’s eyes snapped open and she shivered all over.

It had only been a couple of months since she’d barely escaped death at the hands of the notorious so-called “Clown Killer.” She was still having painful flashbacks of her ordeal.

As she tried to shake off her memory, she heard someone coming down the apartment building steps to the basement hallway.

Ryan! He’s home!

She jumped up from the couch and checked the oven to make sure it was at its highest temperature. Then she turned off the apartment lights and lit the candles she’d set on the table. Finally she dashed toward the door and met Ryan just as he came inside.

She threw her arms around him and gave him a kiss. But he didn’t kiss her back, and she felt his body sag from exhaustion. He looked into the candlelit apartment and blurted …

“Riley—what the hell’s going on?”

Riley’s heart sank.

She said, “I’m fixing something nice for dinner.”

Ryan came inside and set down his briefcase and collapsed onto the couch.

“You shouldn’t bother,” he said. “It’s been a hell of a day. And I’m not very hungry.”

Riley sat down beside him and rubbed his shoulders.

She said, “But everything’s practically ready. Aren’t you hungry enough for ribeye steaks?”

“Ribeyes?” Ryan said with surprise. “Can we afford it?”

Fighting down a surge of irritation, Riley didn’t reply. She handled the household finances, and she felt like she knew pretty well what they could afford and not afford.

Apparently sensing Riley’s dismay, Ryan said …

“Ribeyes sound nice. Give me a few minutes to wash up.”

Ryan got up and headed for the bathroom. Riley hurried back into the kitchen, took the potatoes out of the oven, and seared the steaks and broiled them so that they’d both be medium rare.

Ryan was seated at the table by the time she put their meals on the table. He’d poured glasses of wine for both of them.

“Thanks,” Ryan said, smiling weakly. “This is nice.”

As he cut into his steak he added, “I’m afraid I’ve brought some work home. I’ll have to get to it after we eat.”

Riley suppressed a sigh of deep disappointment. She’d hoped their dinner would end more romantically.

She and Ryan ate in silence for a few moments. Then Ryan started to complain about his day …

“This entry level work—it’s practically slave labor. We’ve got to do all the heavy lifting for the partners—research, writing briefs, making sure everything’s ready for the courtroom. And we put in longer hours than the partners by far. It feels like some kind of fraternity hazing, it except never stops.”

“It’ll get better,” Riley said.

Then she forced a laugh and added …

“Someday you’ll be a partner yourself. And you’ll have a team of entry level guys who’ll go home and complain about you.”

Ryan didn’t laugh, and Riley couldn’t blame him. It seemed like a lame joke now that she’d said it.

Ryan kept grumbling during dinner, and Riley didn’t know whether she felt more hurt or angry. Didn’t he appreciate the effort she’d gone to make everything as perfect as she could tonight?

And didn’t he understand how much their lives were about to change?

When Ryan fell quiet for a few moments, Riley said …

“You know, we’re having a get-together tomorrow at the FBI building to celebrate the end of the internship. You’ll be able to come, won’t you?”

“I’m afraid not, Riley. This is going to be a seven-day week.”

Riley almost gasped.

“But tomorrow’s Sunday,” she said.

Ryan shrugged and said, “Yeah, well, it’s like I said—slave labor.”

Riley said, “Look, it’s not going to take all day. There’ll be a couple of speeches—the assistant director and our training supervisor will want to say a few words. And then there will be some snacks and—”

Ryan interrupted, “Riley, I’m sorry.”