Ana

The exhaustion of the day slams into me all at once like a semi. I guess the adrenaline wave I've been surfing since the moment I discovered the unresponsive lightswitch had to crash sometime. I lay my head down on my folded arms and close my eyes. My head feels hot and fuzzy, like I've been awake too many hours and my brain is about to overheat. The lighting in this dismal little interrogation room is harsh and pierces through my eyelids. I want to go back home and sleep. And eat. Then I realize I've gone back to not having a place to call home anymore. Not that the safehouse was really ever a home, not in the way my parents' house or Ryan's cabin was. I didn't realize until this moment that the house I shared with Ben meant something to me, however small.

I open my eyes to stare at the blank wall before me. Two months ago I was in this room for hours, being peppered with questions about one of the worst moments of my life. Here I am again, finally done with another round of questions. That feeling of nothingness and numbness and emptiness threatens to overcome me again. What's the point of my life anymore? I gave my statement about the night my family died. I completed the grand mission of this new half-life that replaced the one they fractured. But then nothing came of it. The police couldn't find anything to help in the investigation. The FBI hasn't been able to do any better, despite their promises. I've been living in a fog for weeks, waiting for someone to discover something that will finally crack the case open. But nothing's happened. It's as if all that bravery and courage it took to finally talk about that night amounted to nothing in the end.

After the events of tonight, I realize that my life has become a broken record. Everything stays the same. Nothing I do makes any difference. The people who killed my family still want the money. The police and FBI still want the money. And everybody seems to think I know where it is. Is this how I'll be spending the rest of my life? Surviving in witness protection, always being chased by criminals, always being a threat to anyone close to me?

I'm the reason Ryan's dead. I'm the reason Ben almost died tonight. How long until someone else close to me is killed? My eyes slide closed again and this time nothing stops me from sinking down into an uncomfortable sleep.



"Ana."

I open my eyes and see Ben standing over me, a hand on my shoulder. I blink and sit up, feeling like I'm inside a dream still.

"It's time to go," he says, stepping back. His hand is still on my shoulder as I rise and comes around my back, gently holding me as he leads me out.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"We're staying at Jones's house tonight. The FBI will have a new place for us tomorrow."

"I don't want to do this anymore," I mutter.

"I know, Ana," Ben says with sincerity and understanding. "I know."

~~~

Despite the sleep that came so easily at the police station, in the darkness of Jones's living room, my mind is racing with the memory of the moment I pulled the trigger. I see Ben, pinned to the wall and with a knife to his throat, his terror evident even in the darkness of the unlit room. I see the large man holding the knife, one of the men who aided in my torture at the hands of his gang.

My eyes pop open and I stare blankly at the ceiling. "Ben?" I whisper.

"Yeah?"

Guess he's not sleeping either.

"I can't sleep."

"Rough day?"

"No, I shoot people all the time," I say. I don't have enough energy to enthuse my voice with sarcasm, so it comes out flat and cold. "Can't you tell?"

"Are you OK?"

I sigh. After a moment's silence, "Do you even have to ask?"

I hear a rustle on the floor beside me. "Thank you for saving me," he says, his voice much closer now.

I turn my head to see him sitting up, his face about a foot from mine. Tonight he's sleeping on the floor, next to the couch I'm resting on, positioned between me and the door in case someone breaks in and tries to murder us. I turn back to the ceiling above.

"You're welcome. I just wish you didn't have to get caught in my mess. It seems like I bring danger or death to everyone who comes close to me."

Ben actually has the gall to laugh. I turn to him with a frown.

"Don't act like you're the reason I almost died today. I got myself involved in this case long before you were ever on their radar. I went undercover in their gang over three years ago. My role protecting you is hardly the biggest reason they want me dead."

"But he broke into the house for me," I remind him.

"How do you know it wasn't me that he broke into the house for?"

"Uh, because they think I'm their golden ticket to millions of dollars?" I'm surprised he even has to ask.

"That guy wants me to die a very painful death. I knew him. His name's Pablo. He's the one who brought me into the group in the first place. You can only imagine how much trouble he's in for that."

"Oh," I say. Maybe I'm not the sole reason Ben's in danger, but I'm certainly a large contributing factor.

"But, if we're ever in a similar situation again, might I suggest you aim a little higher?"

"I didn't want to kill him."

"And what if you'd missed and he slit my throat and headed for you next?"

I sigh and look back at the ceiling. Ben couldn't have known that I've been asking myself the same question for hours now.

"I thought a lot about what I'd do if I found myself with my gun in the same room as the men who killed my family. Or what I would have done if I'd had a gun that night. I used to think I'd end them the way they ended my little sister and my mom and dad."

I prop myself up on one elbow and look down at Ben on the floor. "But now I'm not so sure. Ry- someone - told me that taking a life weighs on you. I'm not sure I could handle that. Being the one to cut off someone's life permanently. Living the rest of my life knowing that I killed a person. Even if that person was really horrible. I don't want to think about who I'd become if I ever killed anyone. It would change me forever, and not in a good way. It's not like I believe that committing murder splits off a piece of your soul like when a Horcrux is created, or that it could even be considered murder if it was in self-defense, but..."

I trail off, seeing Ben's lack of expression. What if he's killed someone before in the line of duty and I've just compared him, however loosely, to unspeakable evil? And Ryan, who I know had to kill people during his service?

"I don't mean to say that killing people in the line of duty or in self-defense makes you a bad person, obviously not, and I don't mean that cops or soldiers aren't brave and heroic for protecting people by means of deadly force, but..."

I stop again before I can dig myself into a deeper hole. Ben is giving me a weird look, almost a smirk.

"Did you just make a Harry Potter reference?" he asks.

"Sometimes I ramble," I say, laughing nervously. "Couldn't you tell?"

He smiles before his expression becomes serious again. "I think I understand what you're trying to say. And whoever 'someone' is, he's right. Taking someone's life isn't easy and it never should be. It's the second-worst part of the job."

I'm glad Ben doesn't push any further about my vague reference to Ryan. I guess he's finally learned after all these weeks that I'm not going to talk about him.

"What's the worst?"

"Seeing how people hurt each other."

I lay back down and stare up at the ceiling again. I hadn't considered that. Working a job where you see things like my family's murder all the time? Maybe I haven't given cops enough credit before.

"Does this mean you'll stop asking me to give you a gun?" Ben asks teasingly.

"Not necessarily. I can still use a gun without killing a person," I point out.

"I think you're over-estimating your ability to aim."

"I think my aim was pretty spot-on today. Saved your life and his." I can't hold back a tiny bit of pride. I'd been assured that the man who terrorized us today would make a full recovery from the wound I'd inflicted upon him. "And besides, it's mostly a deterrent."

"Don't count on that." The teasing is gone from his voice. "If you draw a gun in self-defense, you should be 100% prepared to use it. If you aren't, you could be putting yourself in even more danger."

Now he's reminding me of Ryan again. I remember that day out in the woods when Ryan taught me how to disarm someone so fast, they wouldn't even realize what was happening until their gun was in your hands. There was one technique in particular that stands out in my memory: how to escape when someone has grabbed you from behind and is holding a gun to your head. In order to teach it to me, Ryan held me against him tightly, muttering instructions into my ear and his hair brushing my cheek. Concentrating was difficult. I took much longer to learn that technique than any other he'd tried to teach. Once I finally got the hang of it, I feigned incompetence a few more times. But I think Ryan figured me out. After half an hour, he refused to demonstrate it again. My heart spasms painfully and tears threaten in my eyes. I miss that feeling of his body heat engulfing my back and his arms around me. It's been over two months since Ryan was taken from me. But it still hurts like it was yesterday.

Ben doesn't say anything for a long time. I would think he's fallen asleep, but he's still sitting up. I close my eyes and prepare to attempt sleeping again, but then he decides to speak.

"I thought I was going to die today. I've been in dangerous situations before, but I've never been that close to dying. I'd say I've never felt so powerless, but with my sister, that's not really true."

I turn back to him, but my sideways view of his face doesn't give me a good view of his expression. I move up to my elbow again and his expression is more vulnerable than I've ever seen it in our two months living together.

"But I've never been more scared," he admits, looking into my eyes.

"Of death?" I ask.

He looks down. "Of never finding my sister's killer. Of leaving my mother behind. And you." He looks back up to me.

"I made your top three biggest fears?"

He smiles. "Didn't you know? You cut a terrifying figure with my gun." The humor leaves his face. "No, I was afraid of leaving you alone in that house with Pablo. You might be convinced he wants the money more than to permanently silence a witness, but I'm not. But you're more than just a professional obligation. You're important to me."

I regard him silently. In these months, he's become more than just the cop who rescued me or the bodyguard assigned to me. He's become a friend. I care about him. Like a protective older brother who doesn't realize that sometimes he needs to be protected.

"You're important to me too."