Blacklist [h.s]

two

Grace

I am startled awake by a loud banging on my door and a man's voice yelling lowly from the other side. As if my neighbors don't already think I'm a nuisance because I dropped ramen on the floor at 3 a.m. the other night, they surely will now. Don't ask me how I know they think I am a nuisance. It's still a sensitive subject (They wrote me a letter). 

My first thought is that I am late for work so I scramble out of bed and fumble into a pair of sweatpants lying on the floor next to my bed. My second thought is that my neighbors called the cops on me for absolutely no good reason like they did last week (when I dropped the ramen). 

But I'm not late for work because when I look at the alarm clock on my side table, it's only seven a.m. and I don't have to be in until nine.  I shake my head as if somehow that would eliminate all of the confusion inside and race to the front door to alleviate the annoying pounding from the other side. I can feel my stomach flutter as the door creaks open, groaning loudly from old age. On the other side, two men (cops) stand with their hands on their holstered guns, annoyance was written all over their faces. So maybe my neighbors did call the cops.

I don't have time to ask them why they're here before they're speaking, voices so deep that I cower.

"Agent Tyler, Adam Hunter. Washington Field Office," the man on the other side of the threshold said, pulling a badge out of his coat pocket and showing it to me for a brief second. "I need you to come with me right away."

-

I sit in an old (and very ugly orange) chair across from a solid wooden desk, glancing around the office while I wait impatiently, my leg bouncing up and down nervously. I was trying to keep calm after Agent Hunter informed me on the ride here that Harry Styles was asking for me and that's why they showed up at my door at seven, not to tell me that my neighbors had called the cops on me (thank god). I fixate on a wooden picture frame that sits on the bookshelf behind the desk.

It's a photo of a man, his wife, and two little twin girls, bundled up in scarves and toboggans and ice skates. The girls clinging for dear life to the man's legs, like if they would let go he would be lost forever. I smile at the photo and imagine what it must be like to be in a family that happy. The woman is kissing the man's red cheeks. Snowflakes fall on the little girl's faces, their smiles beam from ear to ear. 

I'm shaken from my thoughts when the sound of the door opening fills the room and I stand from my chair, flatten out my blazer and hold my hand out to shake his.

"Agent Tyler, Owen Cooper," he said, grabbing my hand firmly. I smile at him and take a seat.

"Nice to meet you, sir."

I know exactly who Owen Cooper is. Assistant Director of Counterterrorism. I learned about his work in Quantico, how he stopped a second 9/11 in 2011, and how he helped find the coordinator of the Paris attacks in 2015. He was the real deal, the big shot and I was sitting right in front of him. 

But he's so much nicer in person than they make him out to be at Quantico. And he looks so much older than in the photo on his bookshelf. He has a gray beard now, and a few speckled gray spots in his once dark hair.  The twins must be older now too. 

I'm now aware of my poor posture and sit up straight while also forcing my leg to keep still. 

"I understand it is your first day as a profiler," he said.

"Yes sir," I smile, almost proudly. "I was reassigned from San Francisco, I graduated Quantico last month. I've been vetted by the agency, just as everyone else same background checks, same profiles-"