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I step around the table then kick the leg of his chair.

It doesn’t budge.

“Stop acting the maggot, colleen.”

“I’m not your colleen,” I snarl, bringing my face down to his level. He stares at me, unflinching.

Amused ... yes, he’s enjoying this.

Frustrated and feeling an unreasonable need to piss him off, I reach out, snatch hold of the tip of his beard and give it a firm jerk. As a kid, I despised getting my hair pulled, the sharp, immediate pain to my scalp. I tug once more. This has to hurt, right?

Except he’s smiling. Not only that, he’s tilted his head back like his beard is the featured item on a carte blanche menu.

I glare at him, then do it again. This time with more force.

Everything happens at once. He’s on his feet. I’m hauled into the air. Our bodies are bouncing across the mattress, me on the bottom, him on top.

I struggle to escape, but it’s futile.

“I get that you feel inclined to prove yourself,” he murmurs, soothingly, like he not only understands the sentiment but can relate. “That, or your bleedin’ mad.”

“Our definitions of mad might differ. And if I’m both, so what? Not. Your. Problem.”

“But it is. See, I feel the need to offer you advice. This is me, being kind, if you will. Go home.”

“Go home? That’s your advice? Well, allow me to offer you two words of my own,” I hiss. “Fuck. Off.”

He goes still.

My chest is heaving like I’ve run a mile. Or have had my patience snapped in two then stomped on and kicked for good measure. God, he’s infuriating. I consider threatening him. I’ve half a mind to report him for unprofessional conduct. Government agencies have rules, a quagmire of dos and don’ts. Protocol. And I get the impression this man’s violated every single one of them.

I’m inclined to hit where it hurts but, instead, keep quiet. Unless he plans on locking me up, there’s little he can do to force me home. Once we dock, I’ll disappear. We both have the uranium distribution to worry about.

“What’s haunting you?”

I blink. “Excuse me.”

“This isn’t about proving yourself, is it. There’s more.”

Oh, no. How does he know? Am I that obvious? Can he see right through me to the hole in my heart? I never discuss Christiana. Not to reporters. Not for the cameras. Not to anyone who might exploit her death for his or her own purpose. I tried to save her yet failed. Horribly. In the worst possible way.

I escaped Aleppo with Christiana.

Only to watch her die in my arms.

My colleague saw it happen. I begged, pleaded, and threatened lawsuits if the footage were ever released. He caved and sold me the exclusive rights to the video for a tidy sum of money. Despite viewers liking their happy-ever-afters, sometimes news stations show flashbacks to the days when the raw truth was told. Sensationalizing the death of an innocent girl might sell. The grief and despair expressed in every fiber of my being might have sealed the deal.

But not her truth.

This is my tragedy. My sad tale to keep buried.

But I made a promise that day. Her death wouldn’t be in vain. Or insignificant. Or meaningless. Hundreds of innocent people died in Aleppo. Not many noticed, news coverage was scant if at all. So, I vowed that no matter how honest or how raw, the truth would be told. Without it, we’re ashes. Dust in a grave with the tiniest of markers.

Whatever it takes.

My throat hitches, and a tear slips from my eye.

“What bollocks is this?” He stares down at me in horror. “That bad?”