“You mentioned they died when you were fifteen.”
“Car accident. My grandmother raised me after that.” Her fingers trace the rim of her mug. “She was...formidable. Strict, but she loved me fiercely.”
“And she’s the one who pushed you toward Harvard.”
“She didn’t push—she expected. There’s a difference.” Alicia’s voice is fond. “She’d already lost her daughter. I think she was terrified of losing me too, in a different way. So she made sure I had every opportunity, every advantage.”
“Sounds like she did a good job.”
“She did.” Alicia’s quiet for a moment. “I wish she’d lived long enough for Stella to know her as she got older. She died when Stella was seven. Old enough to remember her, but not old enough to really know her.”
“That’s hard.”
“It is. Stella asks about her sometimes. I tell her stories, show her pictures, but it’s not the same.”
Thunder rumbles, distant now. The worst of the storm is passing.
“Do you have family photos around?” I ask. “I noticed the ones of Stella, but I haven’t seen any of your grandmother.”
“Upstairs. In my office.” She tilts her head. “Why?”
“Just curious. Trying to picture the woman who raised you.”
“She looked like Grace Kelly. That’s what everyone said.” Alicia smiles. “Very elegant, very composed. She wore pearls every day, even to the grocery store.”
“And your Cartier watch is like her pearls.”
She glances down at her wrist, surprised I noticed. “This was hers, actually. One of the few things I have left of her.”
She’s looking at the watch, not at me, and I take the extra second to study her face. I shouldn’t. I look away, toward the rain-streaked glass. “It suits you.”
“Thank you.” She’s quiet for a beat. “Can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“Why security? I know you said you wanted to stay stateside, but...why this specifically? You could’ve done anything.”
I lean back, thinking. “I like solving problems. And I like helping people who can’t help themselves. This job lets me do both.” What I don’t tell her is that when I was recruited for KOAN, they pitched it as more than security.
“That’s noble.”
“It’s selfish, actually. Makes me feel useful.”
She studies me with those sharp blue eyes. “I don’t think you’re as selfish as you pretend to be.”
If she met my dad, he’d set her straight. “Maybe not. But I’m no saint.”
“Good. Saints are boring.”
That makes me chuckle. “Is that your professional opinion?”
“Personal experience. I’ve worked with a few. They’re exhausting.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
We fall into comfortable silence. The rain has softened to a gentle patter. Outside, the sky is still gray, but lighter now.
“This is nice,” she says quietly.