Red Widow by Alma Katsu (interesting books to read .txt) 📕

There was a tiny, distant voice questioning whether she should listen to Eric’s advice. A survivor’s voice. After years of suffering, she was finally gaining some distance. Healing. She was able to see a future for herself and for Brian. This had reawakened all the old feelings, ripped her hard-earned peace away like a bandage off a wound. Taking Eric’s advice might be the smartest thing she could do.

Except she couldn’t. Eric Newman was not their friend, not hers, not Richard’s. This was proof.

She knew that she couldn’t go to Eric’s bosses in the Clandestine Service, the ones who had opposed Eric’s scheme in the first place. Eric was right there: as far as they were concerned, it was over. They would never change their minds to side with her. They cut their teeth on the spy business during the Cold War. They were craven old men, notoriously conservative with a high instinct for self-preservation. What’s done is done, they’d say. Let sleeping dogs lie. Richard Warner would not be the first CIA officer sacrificed to preserve the Agency’s honor or to cover up another man’s mistakes.

Theresa turned a corner and headed into a little-used hall, turning thoughts in her head the whole time. Should she go to her congressman? She snorted at the idea: CIA would play the national security card and stonewall any official who pressed for an inquiry—if she could get anyone to believe her. They’d say she’d become unhinged by grief. Their word against hers. This never, ever worked. It was a dead end.

She sighed, a heavy weight in her chest. They wanted to think they held all the cards and that she was powerless, nothing more than a helpless little widow. They wanted her to go away, go sit in the corner, be trotted out at ceremonies. Smile, wave, be a brave little trouper.

But that wasn’t the case. No, she knew the answer. It had been with her all along.

Richard could be saved, and it was up to Theresa to do it.

NINETEEN

PRESENT DAY

It’s been less than twelve hours since Lyndsey was last in the office and even with the sunlight streaming through the windows and the bustle of people coming in to start their day, she can’t shake the feeling that she never left.

Because she didn’t sleep a wink. She spent the night drifting through her cheerless apartment like a ghost, unable to rest, her mind still in the office. She is haunted by two thoughts. First, that lingering shadow of a doubt about Theresa . . .

Second—and more immediate—Kate Franklin’s suicide. She hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it, not for a minute. To feel guilty for her part in it, for she certainly was a factor. The woman killed herself shortly after their interview. Lyndsey studied psychology and so she knows there had to be other factors, that their conversation alone didn’t drive Franklin to do it. Still, she can’t shake the guilt.

Was Kate Franklin the mole? Lyndsey is ninety-nine percent certain that she wasn’t.

Will Raymond Murphy agree with her? She is almost as certain that he will not. That he will use the suicide to declare Franklin’s guilt and to pack up his investigation.

Which would be disastrous. It would enable the real mole to continue, and what’s more, the mole would know that CIA is on the alert and so would be more careful than ever.

Lyndsey can’t let that happen. She might not be able to convince Murphy to keep his investigation open, but she vows not to let him make Franklin the scapegoat.

Even if the evidence takes her someplace she doesn’t want to go.

—

Lyndsey stops at Jan Westerling’s desk. The young woman doesn’t notice her at first; she’s too busy taking off the walking shoes she wore in from the parking lot and slipping on high heels, black pumps with four-inch stilettos. Her head jerks up when she sees she has a visitor.

“How are you doing, Jan? Feeling better?”

“I’m fine,” she responds curtly. Westerling is defensive about crying in the office. She doesn’t want Lyndsey or anyone else thinking less of her for it. They can smell weakness in the air here.

“That’s tough for anyone to go through,” Lyndsey hurries to say, thinking of the ugly photos of Kulakov’s broken body filling Westerling’s screen. It was hard enough reading Popov’s toxicology report; she’s grateful there were no autopsy pictures. “I have a question for you, but it’s one that needs to stay between us”—Westerling nods quickly—“Has anyone shown an unusual interest in Kulakov? I’m not talking about recently. This would be before his death.”

The young analyst’s brow furrows. It might be that she doesn’t understand the question, but Lyndsey thinks she’s reluctant to give out names. Her natural instinct would be to protect a coworker by assuming she misunderstood the coworker’s actions.

Lyndsey studies Westerling’s face, looking for clues that the young woman is suppressing a suspicion. And she is. There’s something there—she’s just not ready to talk about it. Yet. Doesn’t want to betray someone she sees as a friend—not to Lyndsey, who is still an unknown quantity. An outsider.

Westerling shakes her head. “No. Nothing comes to mind.”

“That’s fine, but if you think of anything, no matter how trivial, come see me, okay?” She has to trust that duty will prevail and Westerling will break the traditional veil of silence.

Westerling nods quickly, and Lyndsey takes her cue to leave.

—

Lyndsey waits until after the morning team meetings to approach Kyle Kincaid. His face drops slightly when he sees her: this man will never be good at poker.

As a matter of fact, a change has come over Kincaid since the last time Lyndsey saw him. Something is going on, but she can’t put her finger on what it might be. He’s more guarded than the first time, but isn’t that perfectly natural? Now that he knows what she’s interested in?

Kincaid follows her out of the office, Lyndsey leading him to