November 23

Ana

The next morning I wake up with a lingering feeling of dread I can't place. It's a disconcerting feeling, knowing something is very wrong but not being certain of what. Then I remember Xavier's face and wish I could go back to not remembering.

It's not like facing the men who killed my family was easy either, but I was expecting it. I'd prepared myself to see them in the flesh again, not just staring up at me from mugshots with dead expressions. Seeing the man who held me back while Ryan was beaten to death was extremely jarring. I didn't know what to do. I couldn't point him out as an accessory to murder without inviting a barrage of questions about Ryan. I couldn't say anything, but the man's face kept drawing my mind back into the memory of that terrible day.

Instead, I tried to keep it in. As with most traumatic events I try to repress, Ryan's murder replayed violently in my dreams last night. Apparently I'm back to my old habit of waking people with my screams. Waking up to find Officer Ramirez standing over me with a gun and someone holding me down on the bed was enough to give me nightmares all over again.

It's not that I distrust Officer Ramirez. I just don't trust him yet. I think it has something to do with the way we met. It's taking me a long time to separate him from my initial impressions. Namely, that he was a sadistic bastard sent to torture me for information I didn't have. But first impressions aside, he's not the easiest person to warm up to. There was, of course, the nasty things he said about not caring about my sister, the moment when he seemed to think I'd taken the dirty money and run, the fact that he still seems unconvinced that my mother is innocent, and now there's his new habit of watching me like an injured puppy and asking how I'm doing every five minutes. This most recent development is starting to drive me a little nuts.

When I venture into the living room, I'm relieved to see that only Jones is there. She's flipping through channels on the sad little TV in the living room. I sit on the opposite end of the couch.

"Hungry?" she asks after a minute.

"No," I say.

We sit there without speaking for a good long time, the silence broken only by the noise from the TV.

"You did a really brave thing, you know," says Jones finally. "I don't know many people who could have survived what you've been through."

I study her for the first time since meeting her about a week ago. Her complexion is about the same hue as coffee with just a dash of creamer. Her hair is cropped close to her head, even shorter than Ben's. Her dark eyes have a way of sizing people up instantly and never letting anyone give her any crap. At least not Ben. I wish I could be as confident as she is.

"I don't feel very brave."

She hits the power button on the remote and turns to look at me. I look away first.

"I did when I finally talked. I felt like I could do anything. Like I could charge right down to whatever hell-hole they crawled out of and arrest them myself. I was ready to do whatever it took to get them behind bars. I felt invincible. And now I feel..."

I trail off and look down at my hands.

"Scared again?" Jones offers. "And afraid you won't feel that brave ever again?"

I look up at her in surprise. "Yes, exactly."

She offers a sad smile. "I know something about testifying against someone who hurt you. Someone you're scared of. It's really hard."

"Yeah, it is," I say, wondering how anyone could make this confident, strong woman feel as weak as I do now.

I remember the promise I made to Ryan's memory. My vow to get justice for the deaths of my family. What if I can't follow through on it?

"What if it was just a one-time thing?" I ask. "What if that was the great, bravest moment of all time and I'll never be able to feel that way again? What if now that it's gone, I'm just back to being scared all the time? What if I spent all my courage on that one moment and I won't be able to see this thing through to the end?"

"Bravery isn't like that. You don't get a set amount at birth and then spend it throughout your life. It's a choice. Every day, you have to choose to be brave. Every day you get to choose who you want to be. Some days will be easier than others. Some days it'll be nearly impossible. But the more you choose to be brave, the easier it'll get over time. You'll have setbacks. Things in your life will send you reeling, but you just have to keep choosing, day after day, to be brave. At least, that's how it's been for me."

"Really?" I ask.

"Really. We all have highs and lows. One moment you're absolutely certain of something, you know it as well as you know your own name. But then that feeling of certainty fades and you're left questioning what you really believe. That's just part of life."

"Ramirez thinks my mom is guilty," I say.

"What do you think?"

"That there's no way my mom could have let Julie get shot for a few million dollars. I know it, I know there's no way my mom could have done that."

"But?"

"But he says they have proof she found the money. And she knew where it was. And she did something with it but didn't turn it in or report it. It doesn't make any sense! That isn't who she was."

"Maybe there's something missing here. Something we're not seeing. Don't let Ramirez ruin your memory of your mother. He's been hanging with a bad crowd for too long. Sees everyone like a potential criminal. It's unfair, but it's kept him alive. Undercover work is dangerous."

"Thanks, ah, Sara?" I say. "Ben said your name was Sara, right? Should I call you that?"

"Please don't. My friends call me Jones. Only my mother and my ex-husband call me Sara. Mom passed when I was a teenager and Ricky hasn't spoken to me since that pesky business with the restraining order."

"You had to file a restraining order against your ex-husband?" I ask, remembering what she just said about her own struggle with fear and bravery.

"Oh, no." Jones laughs. "He filed one against me."

~~~

A few hours later, we're on our way back to the police station again. Apparently, someone wants to meet with me. I hope it's not that snarky prosecutor from yesterday. I'm not sure I have the patience to deal with that man today.

A few blocks away from the safe house, Jones asks the driver to make a stop at the supermarket. I ask to join, but the two members of the protection detail upfront insist it's not safe. Not even the old "I need more tampons" excuse works with them, probably because Jones is there. Guess who is about to become the recipient of extra feminine hygiene products. This girl right here. Maybe I could string them together and choke out one of the glorified bodyguards.

The instant the thought enters my mind, I realize it's unfair. These guys are here to protect me. At their own risk. But there's something I don't like about them. I'm not even exactly sure what it is, except that every time I speak, they glance at each other and some weird energy passes between them. They make me uncomfortable.

When Jones comes back, she hands me one bag but doesn't open the other. I'm left to wonder what was so important that she convinced our escorts to make a non-regulation stop.

When we get to the station, the first thing I notice is that Ben looks agitated. He always has a look like something's bothering him, but right now it's more pronounced. I can tell that Jones sees it too. I watch the wordless communication between the two as we walk down the hall to a private room. Jones prompts Ben to say something, but he just gives her a little shake of his head. I'm on edge.

We enter the room to find it's already occupied. Two men in suits are waiting for us.

"Officer Jones," says the one closest to us. He extends a hand to her to shake. She accepts it casually. "I'm Special Agent Rod Givens, FBI."

He steps aside to allow the other suit to approach.

"Tom Howard, US Marshals."

"And you must be Anastasia Clarence," says the fed.

I nod and cross my arms over my chest before someone tries to get me to shake their hand. I think I know where this is going and I don't like it. Ben offers me a chair and I sit, deciding whether I should start glaring now or save it for whatever they're about to tell us.

"We've been asked to hand this investigation over to the FBI," Ben says, breaking the news. "It's more than our precinct is equipped to handle and it's technically their jurisdiction.

I don't make any protests. Though Ben certainly doesn't look happy about it, I don't see the problem with this turn of events. Yet.

"As a result, the investigation into your family's murders is going to be put on hold while they investigate the organized crime ring we believe is responsible."

"What?" Now I'm seeing a big problem.

"Your mother's involvement with the stolen funds has complicated things," he says.

"My mother was NOT working for these monsters," I say vehemently.

"She did transfer the stolen money. We have inescapable proof of that. But that's not what we're here to debate today. The FBI wants your cooperation to aid in their own investigation."

"Don't you already have access to my statement?" I address this question to Special Agent Givens. "I must have answered every question you could possibly think to ask."

"We'd like to conduct our own interview, Miss Clarence."

I roll my eyes for dramatic effect, then peek over at Jones. She looks back at me and I know she can see the fear hiding behind my tough act. Our conversation from this morning replays in my mind. I can choose to be brave.

"Fine. I'll answer any questions you have. Can we start now? I'd like to get this over with and go back to the safe house before midnight this time."

"Actually, Miss Clarence, you won't be going back to that safe house at all. As a federal witness, you'll be placed back under the protection of the US Marshals Service."

And that's what I was afraid of.

"Special Agent Givens, are you aware of what happened the last time I was under the protection of the US Marshals?"

"Yes, but-"

"So you know that they almost let me get murdered twice, then they lost me in the middle of the Alaskan wilderness, miles from shelter and civilization in winter?"

"Miss Clarence,"

"And that I was left alone to fend for myself in the middle of nowhere, being hunted down by the people who shot down my helicopter killed all of my protection," I give this word air quotes, "and you think I'm going to willingly let you put me back in that program?"

Now Mr. Howard gives it a try. "On behalf of the US Marshals, I'd like to apologize for the incident in Alaska. We take the safety of our witnesses very seriously and your case prompted a thorough re-evaluation of how we handle witnesses with extreme threats against their safety. As a token of our apology, we're prepared to do something special for you. Think of it as we owe you one. Maybe you want a trip to Hawaii or tickets to a sold-out concert or the best seats at a basketball game. We can make it happen."

I stare at him in horror for a moment, so disgusted that I can't even form words. If these people hadn't gotten me stranded in Alaska, Ryan would still be alive right now. I think I'm about to actually explode with anger.

"How about we take a break?" Jones cuts in. "Let's all just take 5, OK?"

Ben catches on to this idea quickly and ushers the suits out of the room. I hear his voice distantly making comments about the nerve of that man but I'm not really paying close attention. I lower my forehead to the surface of the table in front of me and try to quiet the part of me that wants to start screaming and rip that guy's face off. Calm, I tell myself. Be calm. You won't have to go with him. You can refuse to go back into WITSEC. Just be calm and explain yourself. And don't listen to that ass... No, Ana, calm.

I don't know if five minutes or five hours have passed when the door opens. I raise my head and prepare to shoot whoever walked in a look of cold disgust when I realize it's just Jones. She's holding the plastic bag from before.

"I was going to wait until later, but the break room fridge is broken again - have you noticed that's a common theme around here? - and now it's melting, so here you go."

I open the back to find a single slice of slightly melty ice cream cake inside a plastic container.

"What is this?" I ask, not understanding.

"It's cake. For your birthday. I know today isn't turning out to be a very good day, but I figured cake certainly wouldn't make it worse."

I blink at her. "It's my birthday?"