“I don’t want to deal with politics today,” I say, returning to my desk. Running the brush through my hair a few times, I find George’s eyes in the mirror.
“It’s not about politics,” he says. “Marcus waits in the library. He claims to have pressing business with you this morning.”
Heat rises in my cheeks and I must close my eyes to control the sudden anger rush. Marcus knows I need to work on my novel. I can’t be fucking disturbed for every little piece of bull shit he comes up with as excuse to see me.
“Tell him to go away.”
George doesn’t answer and instead maintains eye contact in the mirror. He never argues and chooses to correct in such a way that eliminates disagreement.
“Why can’t he just wait for tea?” I ask. Can I possibly avoid going to see him and ruining my writing hour?
“Men aren’t allowed at tea, Ella,” he says and turns to leave. As I hear the door close I rise. If I must, I won’t delay it another moment.
Exiting through my private entrance, I take the winding stairs to the library. Placing my hand against the wall, the machine reads my palm and opens the door, a loud clicking sound anyone inside will hear.
Marcus reads something at the desk I can’t see, but I make no effort to get into a better position to view and instead sit in a plush chair to watch television. The men kick the ball around the field and the crowd screams with delirium.
“I like this story. Do you happen to know the author?”
“Yes, but can you feign interest in my fiction projects another time and get to the fucking point of your visit. I haven’t had enough coffee to fake it with you.”
He lets out a low whistle and stands. Removing files from the briefcase, he places photographs on the desk.
“Fine. Enough with the pleasantries. Can you tell me anything about this?” he asks, rubbing his chin with a palm as I lean closer to look at the photographs.
All of the pictures show a tall thin man with wispy blonde hair. In most of the photos, he carries a long-gun and wears military style clothing.
Ryan Holden in Vegas. This can’t be. I just saw him in Uxbridge, Ma.
“Have you seen him, Ella?” Marcus asks with an intensity that shocks me.
“What did he do?” I ask.
Removing a pack of smokes from his shirt, he lights one and leans against the desk.
“He is wanted for Terrorism, Ella.”