Chapter 9: Secret Society

Alvirez kept his rifle pointed at Owen's feet. The boy held his position for a long time. The agent waited. Eventually Owen advanced, shotgun aimed downward.

"Your girlfriend tends to leave you in the lurch," Alvirez observed.

"She doesn't deal well with surprises," Owen replied.

"Like an animal."

"Like an animal," Owen agreed.

Alvirez nodded, impressed. Owen didn't just know that Abby spooked easily. He knew it and accepted it.

"I liked your collection of books," Alvirez noted. "The only brothel in New York with its own library."

"The ones in juvie were better," Owen said, taking another step forward.

Alvirez tried to get a feel for Owen. The boy had certainly grown, though he was still small for his age. He had managed to fill out a bit. Short haircut, hiking boots, backpack – he looked nothing like the pictures being circulated in the press. Which was all to the good.

"You think she'll be back tonight?" Alvirez asked.

"I'm guessing not," Owen answered. "It's too close to sunrise."

"Excellent. That gives us time to talk."

"What makes you think I want to talk to you?"

The absence of light frustrated Alvirez. He really needed to observe Owen's eyes and facial expressions. The darkness left him with nothing but the posture of Owen's body and the tone of his voice.

"Five reasons you owe me a conversation," Alvirez explained. "First, I didn't kill you on the roof when I had the chance. Second, after you flew away I told everyone you were hiding in the building. That gave you time to escape. Third, no one but me knows you're here. Fourth, I didn't shoot Abby in the head just now. Fifth, I brought your girlfriend a meal." He kicked the lump at his feet.

"That's a person?" Owen asked.

"Don't feel sorry for him. Child molester fresh out of prison. They'll think he's skipping parole. Abby can eat him, and then you can learn how hard it is to cremate a body."

Owen took some time to process. "Why are you here?" he finally asked.

"Because I'm interested in Abby. They say there's nothing new under the sun. I disagree. Abby's new. I want to study her."

"Too bad," Owen said. "All you get to study is me and my 12-gauge."

"I'm here to make you an offer," Alvirez announced. "I work in Washington now. I've set up a house in Maryland for you. I've arranged for Abby to receive a steady supply of food. In exchange you deliver regular samples of Abby's blood, and you let me get to know her."

"You want to keep us prisoner in a house?"

"I didn't say prisoner. What I'm offering is illegal. You would live under false identities. You would be free to come and go as you pleased. You could try the arrangement, decide you hate it, and go back to your wonderful life as fugitives."

Owen moved closer. "Why would you do that?" he asked, his voice suspicious.

"You think I'm a police officer, Owen? A lawman? I'm really just a psychologist with a badge. I figure people out. It's what I do. Those doctors in Maryland, they want to study Abby's blood. But me, Owen, I want to study Abby. I want to build a psychological profile of her. I want to understand her mind."

"That doesn't make any sense," the boy protested.

"Every man wants something," Alvirez mused. "Haven't you figured that out by now? Some men seek money, power, sex, fame. There's a select few, however, that crave only what's hidden. We lust after knowledge. We want to discover new things. That is Abby's attraction: the promise of discovery."

"This is stupid," Owen said. "You expect us to trust you?"

"I'm breaking the law. You really need to think through the implications of that. Talking to you is illegal. Concealing your location is illegal. Serving as an accomplice in this loser's murder is illegal. I've turned to the dark side, Owen. The FBI is just my day job. What I'm doing here I'm doing for me.

"But of course I don't expect you to trust me. I'm just putting the offer on the table. My guess is you'll need another two or three years on the run before you'll really consider it."

"Where would we live?" Owen asked.

"In Chevy Chase. That's a suburb of Washington, D.C. It's close to the hospital where I'll be getting Abby's blood."

"Hospital blood doesn't work."

"That's not what I mean," Alvirez clarified. "Fresh blood can be collected from patients, students, employees. People will think it's for research. I can gather it and drive it to Abby within the time limit you used in Brooklyn. Assuming an hour is really her max."

"I think it is," Owen said. "I know it has to be fresh."

"Well fresh blood is what I can get you, and as much as you want. You were trying to do eight pints a week at the end there. I can get you at least twelve pints a week. More if you want."

"I don't know," Owen objected. "It sounds too easy."

"It won't be easy," Alvirez said. "I'll be providing you with blood, security, and reintegration into society. In exchange I expect to be paid. Samples for the researchers. Information about Abby for me. You'll have to talk to me about Abby, and you'll have to talk to me about Abby a lot. If you think that's going to be easy, we haven't spent enough time together."

Alvirez could tell the boy was taking him seriously. This confused the agent. Owen should be ignoring him, dismissing him, telling him to get lost. Alvirez filed his puzzlement aside, pressed his advantage.

"You had a good idea in Brooklyn," he continued. "But how long do you really think it would've lasted? Even if the Russians hadn't kicked you out of Brighton, it was only a matter of time before some reporter or social worker started asking questions. And Lisa might have kept her own counsel, but Carlos was a blabbermouth. You need a long-term solution. Something that gets you off the grid for real. That's what I'm offering."

"I don't understand how you could get blood," Owen mused. "It's not as easy as you make it sound."

"These NIH guys study blood. It's what they do. They're drawing blood from people all the time. People expect them to draw blood."

"They'll tell."

"They won't know where the blood is going. And they won't know where Abby's samples are coming from, either. At least not at first. A few will be let in on the secret eventually, I suppose. But their numbers will be strictly controlled."

"We're doing OK on our own," Owen muttered, but Alvirez could hear the doubt in his voice.

"Do you know how I survive in this world, Owen? I have friends. It's amazing what happens when you save a man's life. He becomes willing to do anything for you. And not just him, but his father, too. Washington's a very good town to have friends. You need a friend, Owen. Someone willing to help you. Someone able to help you. Someone who won't kill himself when he gets the holiday blues."

Owen squeezed his 12-gauge. "You're not the only one with a gun," he threatened.

"What did your little Bronx whore ever do for you? She went for walks on the beach? She played Parcheesi? I can actually do for you, Owen. What better person to hide you than the very agent tasked with your discovery?

"And there's something you've got to understand," Alvirez added. "You're going to get caught. You've no idea of the resources being devoted, the technology that's starting to be utilized. It's like something out of Star Wars, Owen. You're going to get arrested, and convicted, and stuck in some hole that an entire battalion of Abby's couldn't break you out of."

Alvirez noticed the sky beginning to brighten. He slung his M16 over his shoulder. "I'll be back in seven days," he said. "I don't expect to find you when I return. If you are here we can head to Maryland at once. If not, think about my offer while Abby's body count piles up. Think about it next time you get sick and need a doctor. I'm the only friend you've got, Owen. Sooner or later you're going to have to realize that." He began walking away.

Owen pursued him. "She must get blood in a way that does not involve people dying," the boy insisted.

"That's the plan," Alvirez said

"I want a tutor," Owen added.

"A tutor?"

"A teacher. I want to keep up with school."

"I can work that out, no problem."

"You can make it all sound as great as you like," Owen said. "You'll never convince Abby."

"Will she follow you? Will she do what you say?"

Owen considered this. "Yes," he decided.

"Then I don't have to."

*****

Alvirez merged onto the Capital Beltway and headed north. It was Monday evening, March 12. Owen had fallen asleep in the passenger seat. The agent assumed Abby was awake in the rear of the van, but she refused to talk to him or even look at him. That was OK. Her very reticence was a useful datum. And right now gathering data was what this was all about.

He couldn't believe his good fortune at having Abby inside his vehicle. After so many months searching, the girl was his at last. How desperately he wanted to pick her brain! Unfortunately Abby had no reason to interact with him. For the time being Alvirez was going to have to settle for indirect learning.

Of what Owen had told him so far, three things especially interested Alvirez. The first was the boy's distinction between Abby and Monster. Owen even used a special word for the transformation, saying that Abby "vamped." This naturally raised the question of whether or not the girl was schizophrenic. Even more tantalizing, did Abby suffer from that rarest of jewels, a genuinely dissociative personality? Alvirez could end up constructing two profiles!

The second matter of note was Owen's assertion that Abby had been born in the 1700's. Alvirez didn't really believe this, despite admitting Abby looked no older than when he had seen her in the fall. But if it were true…the implications! What a unique personality she would present: a two hundred year old twelve-year-old. And the generational carnage she would have wrecked! Twenty-five kills a year times two hundred meant what? That Abby had murdered at least five thousand people? The resultant ruination of her psyche was scarcely conceivable.

The third piece of information that fascinated Alvirez was the claim that Abby could not enter a private residence unless invited in. What sort of disease, genetic or otherwise, could possibly account for such a "symptom?" He figured it was psychosomatic. Abby was so convinced that she would bleed upon entering a home uninvited, that when she entered uninvited she actually did bleed. The agent thought of Christ bleeding in Gethsemane, was thrilled at the prospect of discovering a related phenomenon.

A delicious stew of ailments, conditions, and issues, all simmering in a beautiful, deadly crock pot. Alvirez could understand why Owen had devoted himself to Abby, why her previous caretaker had done the same. And Alvirez had gone rogue for her. The potential negative outcome of his choice didn't bother him, though. As long as Abby clicked – as long as he experienced the magic moment when she suddenly made sense – Alvirez could depart the world in peace.

He crossed the Potomac, took the exit for Bethesda. "Wake up," he said to Owen, shaking the boy's shoulder and pointing out the window. "That's the National Institutes of Health. The blood Abby lost in Colorodo has enabled me to get two senior researchers on board, a hematologist and an infectious disease specialist. The latter won't help if Abby's condition is genetic, but from what you've said that doesn't sound like the case."

Within five minutes they were pulling into a suburban driveway. "You have to tell Abby she can come in," Owen insisted.

"This is your home," Alvirez said. "I've rented it for you."

"Say it anyway."

"You can come in," the agent projected into the back seat. He activated the garage, pulled inside, and shut the door. He did not get out of the car. "This is your house," he maintained. "Take your stuff inside and settle in. I'll bring Abby's lunch over about 12:30."

"She can't eat during the day," Owen said.

"I'm afraid she'll have to, at least for now. Once the Society has enough members, they can gather in the evenings to donate blood. But for the time being it's students and patients."

"Waking her while the sun is up is dangerous."

"I'll need you to deliver the first samples at the same time," Alvirez continued, dismissing Owen's concern. "You'll find the necessary supplies inside. From what I hear you know how to do it. Five vials minimum, please." The kids unloaded the vehicle. Alvirez said goodnight, drove to his home in the adjacent neighborhood, and went to bed.

The next day he made it to their house a little before one o'clock in the afternoon, half wondering if Owen and Abby would even be there. He pulled into the garage and entered the kitchen. He delivered to Owen twelve bags of blood, then ordered a pizza.

Fifty minutes later the boy reappeared. "You've no idea how hard it was to get these," Owen complained, passing a small bag to Alvirez. "I don't think the monster likes losing blood."

Alvirez opened the pizza box and started eating a slice. "I hope to make it here most afternoons," he said. "My contact information's on the wall. Obviously you should only use it in an extreme emergency. You're free to do what you want. Just remember I'm not the only person looking for you. Until you've got your disguises and false identities in place, you're probably better off staying put. Catch up on your sleep. Watch some TV. Make a list of what you need." He turned to leave.

"Why are doing this?" Owen demanded.

"Because Abby is a mystery," Alvirez reflected. "I've proven I can catch her. So what? Lots of people can catch bad guys. But understand her? Comprehend her? How many men do you think even have the potential, the capacity, to figure her out? I have to try. Why are you doing this?"

"Why do you think?"

"I'd say you're tired of running, except you're not. I'd say Abby eating people makes you feel guilty, but I think you only feel guilty when you actually participate in the kill. Maybe you're just afraid of going back to jail." But Alvirez could tell from the boy's reaction that this wasn't true, either.

"You want to understand Abby," Owen challenged. "You don't even understand me."

Alvirez got in his car and drove to FBI Headquarters, annoyed. The little twerp was right.

*****

The next day he took Owen to a Chevy Chase mansion and began showing him around. "The Society will be headquartered here," Alvirez explained. "You see how close it is to your house. When members donate blood I'll be able to get it to you quickly."

Owen wandered from room to room. "How do you pay for this?" he asked.

"You can't break just one law," Alvirez answered.

He led Owen into the basement, pointed out the many boxes stuffed into corners. "Research equipment. This level will become the lab. They'll have to do their serious work here. It is a secret project, after all."

"Just how many people are you talking about?" Owen inquired, his voice concerned.

"Let's go to my office." They went back upstairs. Alvirez unlocked a heavy metal door, invited Owen to sit down, and produced a diagram from his desk drawer.

"Concentric circles," the agent explained. "People in the outermost ring get access to research results, but they don't know where the data come from. Next circle gets to examine Abby's blood. Third group is allowed to come to this building and work in the lab. Men in the fourth circle are told that the specimens come from the vampire girl. Fifth circle members gain access to Abby's file, including a list of her symptoms and powers. Sixth circle gets to meet with you. The innermost is the most restrictive, of course: people who get to talk to Abby herself."

Alvirez gave Owen a minute to study the figure. "Obviously you're the only person in the middle. I'm talking to you right now, which puts me in the sixth circle. Currently no one else is past the second. Key men will go deeper as the project develops."

"What makes you think they're going to keep it secret?"

"Remember what I told you. Scientists crave knowledge. Their desire to be let further in will persuade them to keep their mouths shut. Plus they'll feel privileged, elite. They won't want to mess it up."

Owen seemed unconvinced.

"Granted," Alvirez admitted, "there's certainly the risk that someone spills the beans. But remember that involvement in this scheme is illegal. Every participant will know that joining the Society means breaking the law. Breaching the secret would get a man into legal trouble and ruin his career. Then there's me, of course. I'll always be here to enforce the silence."

"You can't hurt anyone," Owen demanded. "If a single person gets killed, we're out of here."

"Don't worry," Alvirez assured him. "I know all the best ways for manipulating people. None of them involve violence."

Owen shook his head. "Abby thinks it's stupid, trusting you. She's probably right. A couple of weeks ago I saw a bear that got on Abby's bad side. You do know the same thing's going to happen to you if you screw us over."

"Well, I certainly wouldn't trust me," the agent allowed.

"Abby doesn't sense danger from you. That's the only reason I was able to get her to come. I'm sure you're up to something, though."

"Of course I am. I'm going to examine your girlfriend until you get sick of it. Then I'm going to examine her some more. Just be glad I didn't put any hidden cameras in your house. I could've gone either way on that one."

"You're sick," the boy declared.

"No," Alvirez corrected. "I'm obsessed."

*****

Alvirez returned a week later, bearing blood plus the name of a possible tutor. "Do you want Abby to study with you?" he asked.

"I hadn't thought about it," Owen admitted. "I don't think she'd be willing to sit with a teacher."

"Why not? You said she's smart."

"She doesn't like being around people. That's not the right way of saying it, though. She has no problem going to the movies. I guess she doesn't like talking to people."

"Except you."

Owen frowned. "Well, I suppose it depends. When she's hungry she doesn't like talking, period. But even when she's happy it depends on the topic."

"Aren't all people that way?" Alvirez suggested.

"Guess I never thought about it. Are there things Abby wishes I would talk about?"

The notion seemed to disturb Owen. Alvirez grabbed a soda from the fridge and settled into a seat at the kitchen table. "Tell me an Abby story," he said. The agent listened patiently as Owen marched through the disastrous attempt at giving his girlfriend a "snack."

"Why do you have me keep telling the same stories?" Owen asked. "This has to be, like, the fifth time I've told this one."

"It's an old interview technique," the agent explained. "You have a person repeat the same story over and over again. You listen for changes, inconsistencies. It's a good way of determining whether or not a person is lying."

"You think I'm lying?"

"You don't attempt direct lies," Alvirez observed. "You do conceal things, in particular thoughts and feelings about the events you're describing. That's normal, though, especially for a male. I wish you were just generally more talkative. But you are what you are."

"Abby doesn't talk much, either."

"From my perspective Abby doesn't talk at all. My knowledge of her is entirely mediated through you. It's frustrating, but there's nothing I can do about it. That's why I need you to tell me about her."

"I have been telling you about her."

"You've been recounting events," Alvirez clarified. "And that's helpful, certainly. It enables me to build my list of questions. But to be satisfied I need a lot more than a timeline of her activities."

Alvirez got up and began pacing. "I'm moderately interested in her vampirism, as you describe it. I possess independent evidence supporting three traits you've listed: super-strength, an ability to heal rapidly, and an ability to fly. Everything else I've got nothing but your word to go on. She lives forever? Burns in the sun? Bleeds when someone doesn't let her in? Can't eat regular food? You understand my skepticism. I realize you think you're telling the truth. But maybe you're just misinformed.

"I'm willing to assume it's all true and move on, though, because my real questions are more psychological than biological. You say Abby is afflicted with an assortment of phobias and compulsions. What else is there? Is she psychopathic? Schizophrenic? Fractured into multiple personalities? Does she love killing? Hate killing? Has she stopped feeling anything at all about killing? What was she like before she became a vampire? How much of that original Abby is left? Does the initial sexual assault dominate her, or is it just a drop in the bucket compared to everything that's happened since?

"Is Abby one person or two? Is she an adult trapped in a child's body, or is she mentally still twelve? Why doesn't she hide the bodies after she feeds? Why doesn't she change you into a vampire? What is it that drives her decision-making? What are her deepest motives and desires? These are the questions, Owen. It would be great if you could find the answers."

Owen's shoulders slumped. "I'll never understand her," he lamented.

"Girls are hard to figure out," Alvirez agreed. "Abby's a girl and a vampire. That's a tough combination."

"Nothing I do works," Owen complained.

"What do you mean?"

"I can't seem to make her better."

"You want to cure her?"

"No," Owen clarified. "I mean I want to help her feel better. She's so miserable. I'm trying to help her improve. It's hard to explain."

Alvirez thought about this. "That's why you bought blood," he concluded. "I thought you were trying to hide."

"We were trying to hide," the boy acknowledged. "But that wasn't the main reason. I'm thinking it'll help Abby if she doesn't have to kill people anymore. That's why no one can die here. I'm really serious about that."

"Abby's not the only person with too much blood on her hands," Alvirez said. "I assure you, her food is coming from willing donors."

"Why should I believe you?" Owen challenged.

"Well, for starters I almost always tell the truth. Lying is a useful interrogation technique, and on rare occasions I use it. But the suspect has to be a really unique individual for me to stoop to a lie. In most cases speaking truth is how you get others to do the same. Then there's Vietnam, of course. I have no interest in hurting anyone."

"No one can get hurt," Owen echoed. "We have to give her that much, at least."

Alvirez decided he was going to have to radically reevaluate Owen. He had assumed the boy was driven by two motives: sex and survival. But if the child had some deeper plan in mind, a longing to have an actual redemptive effect in Abby's life, it made everything much more complicated.

It also provided opportunity. A young man hoping to do nothing more than get Abby in the sack would have no real desire to understand her. But if Owen wanted to help her, heal her, save her – those were the sorts of goals that required genuine insight into her character. Which of course was exactly what Alvirez wanted himself. At the end of the day, he and Owen might actually be pursuing the same thing. The question was how to use it.

Owen wants to understand Abby. I want to understand Abby. I have the training and experience. Owen has the relationship. The solution was simple. Alvirez would teach Owen how to figure Abby out. Owen would communicate his new insights to Alvirez. Everybody would win.

Such a project would take time. Owen would need to be instructed in logic, formal anthropology, psychological theory and pathology, basic neurology, psychotropic pharmacology, communication skills, marriage dynamics, personality types, hierarchy of needs, interrogation techniques, and stages of cognitive development. Alvirez was confident he could do it, though. He and Owen were both bright, after all. And they were highly motivated.

For the plan to work, however, there was one thing about Abby that Alvirez simply had to know. And to obtain this vital piece of information, he would have no choice but to go straight to the source.

*****

The golf course lay quiet and damp at 2:00 AM. One moment Alvirez walked the green alone. The next instant he sensed Abby behind him. He turned to stare at her, wondering if she would simply eat him and put this whole grand experiment to an end. But she just stood there in the dim light, brooding, pensive, grasping his note. She wore a dark sweatshirt with the hood pulled up. Her legs and feet were bare below a thigh-length miniskirt.

She took several steps toward the agent and lifted the note. "Owen would never leave me," she insisted.

"He's thinking about it," Alvirez countered. "You have to try and see things from his perspective. I'm definitely the better caretaker. I get you more than enough blood, and no one dies in the process. I keep you safe from the police. I give you a nice home in the suburbs. How can he possibly compete with all that? You don't need him anymore."

Her expression grew even more worried, but she said nothing. Alvirez shifted so what illumination there was reflected off Abby's eyes. She looked confused, uncertain – exactly what Alvirez wanted.

"What's Owen really supposed to think?" Alvirez asked. "You've had friends before him, maybe even other lovers. You got what you needed out of them. When they were used up you moved on to someone else." The agent could see that Abby didn't agree with this narrative. He shifted tactics.

"Or maybe you really did love them," he allowed. "They're still dead. And you're still here. What is there for Owen in all that? A life of slavery as your next caretaker? Can't I be your slave as well as he? Why should he stay with you?"

Abby starting wringing her hands. "I do love him," she protested.

"Does he know that? You keep secrets from him. You won't really talk to him about your former caretakers. Not enough to help him, anyway. You refuse to discuss the details of your condition, even though he desperately craves this information. You won't explain why you don't hide the bodies, or why you won't turn him, or why you don't like to talk about serious things. Understand how frustrating that is for him: you won't talk about why you won't talk. It's enough to drive him crazy."

Abby's expression degenerated into vacant despair. Alvirez had seen the look before, of course. In Vietnam soldiers had called it the "thousand-yard-stare." The emptiness seemed utterly out of place on such a young, beautiful face. It made Alvirez' heart surge with compassion, but he shoved the emotion down. Now was not the time for mercy.

"You keep so many secrets," Alvirez said, "that he's starting to keep secrets of his own. The older boys in jail raped him dozens of times. He was eventually forced to kill one of them. In Brooklyn he became good friends with a girl named Lisa. She helped Owen sell jewelry and obtain blood. He rented a room for her in your hotel. She went for walks with him on the beach. She committed suicide on Christmas day. Her death is tearing him apart. When he's alone during the day, he thinks about her and misses her. He misses his friends from juvie, too. But he never tells you any of this, does he? He's learned from you that he shouldn't talk, that he can't talk. He buries his feelings and suffers in silence."

Abby gazed into the distance, shell-shocked.

"It makes sense that Owen would consider me better qualified," the agent continued. "In 1968 I dropped a one-five-five fire mission on an enemy village. Afterwards I patrolled through. There was this cluster of children, eight, ten – it was hard to tell, they were in so many pieces. Their mother lay among them, bleeding, screaming, begging to die. I shot her in the head.

"That's why I'm better qualified, you see. Maybe I haven't killed as many people as you have, but after the first two or three hundred they do start to blur together, now don't they? I understand the guilt and the horror, Abby. The images you can never erase from your mind. The numbness, the deadness, the hopelessness. Owen can sense it, Abby. He can sense I'm able to understand you in a way he never can."

"I want nothing to do with you," Abby protested.

"Maybe not," Alvirez granted. "But you're willing enough to eat my food and sleep in my house. You're willing enough to let me do your job for you. I'm the one talking to Owen and listening to him. All you ever do is sleep in the bathtub."

The hurt in her eyes was just horrible. Alvirez didn't stop, though. "He wants to go to school so badly. Do you know that, Abby? Do you care? He guards you all day, every day. Do you really think he can keep that up? And even if he can, so what? What do you think it'll do to him if he spends the rest of his life alone in your living room?"

Alvirez closed on her. "Owen's becoming a man," he declared. "A man feels a need to protect his woman. But a man needs more than that. He needs to feel like a good provider. He needs a career and a calling and a sense of place. He needs a vision for the future. You won't even talk about the future. Here and now, that's all you care about. That might be fine when Owen's thirteen. He won't think it's so fine when he's twenty.

"And you already know this! You've seen people grow up. You know how they change. You understand where Owen's headed better than he understands it himself. And tragically, outrageously, appallingly, you have the power to do something about it. You can turn him into a vampire."

Abby was crying now. Alvirez pushed the dagger deeper. "I know you hate being a vampire. But here's what you have to ask yourself. If you changed Owen in these current circumstances, he could feed without killing anybody. I'd get him all the blood he needed. So if you changed him, and he never hurt a soul, and he got to be with you forever, would he be happy?"

Abby hung her chin and nodded.

"I think so, too," Alvirez agreed. "So here you are, with the power to make him happy. He knows you can do this for him. Yet you hold back. You refrain. What is he supposed to conclude? He cares about your happiness, but do you really care about his? Do you actually love him? Or are you just using him? And if all you're doing is using him, he might as well let me get used instead."

"I do love him," she declared.

"Then prove it," Alvirez ordered. "Prove you're more than some selfish, self-centered, manipulative little brat. Give yourself up for him like he gives himself up for you. Commit yourself to making him happy."

The agent studied her as she processed this challenge. She looked trapped, helpless, hopeless, distressed. She glanced to both sides, buried her face in her hands, and fled.

Alvirez watched her go, wondering idly if her relationship with Owen would change in any significant way. Not that he really cared. The agent had discovered what he had set out to learn: when it came to communication, for Abigail Wheeler body language was everything.