Unwritten: The Brooklyn Pieper story (continued)

Disclaimer: all characters in this short story are fictional/creations of my own imagination. Sights and locations are based on real cities/towns/National Parks located in the Western United States.

Brooklyn slammed the book shut. She squeezed her eyes and tears pooled out like juice as though that would banish the last words from her mind. Instead, they glowed like neon across her eyelids, forcing her brain to accept the conclusion.

Declan O’Reilly was the son of Nathaniel McGinty.

“No.” Despite her whisper, the words seemed to echo off the bookshelves and walls. “No!” Brooklyn’s senses were overwhelmed. She rocked slightly in place, her eyes closed tight and her hands covering her ears. Yet, Brooklyn could still hear her pounding heart mixed with McGinty’s voice. She was right back in that abandoned warehouse, watching Declan’s torture. Hearing McGinty’s taunts and jeers. The joy in his voice.

It was different now. It was worse, and Brooklyn found herself questioning everything. She read Declan’s novel, and yet her thoughts were spiraling out of control. Why was Declan with her? Did he know McGinty was his father from the beginning and just string her along? Was their entire relationship a lie?

Brooklyn felt something moved at her side. Her body tensed and her eyes bopped open. She wanted to reach for her gun, but relaxed when she saw it was only the squirrel nestling closer to her body. Its pointed little nose was arched towards her, its eyes filled with concern. For a moment, Brooklyn allowed herself a moment of insanity. She believed the squirrel was a reincarnation of Sokka and allowed herself to feel comforted by the small snuggle.

“Sorry,” she apologized, wiping the tears from her eyes. Brooklyn’s analytical mind took over, shutting down her emotions and reconstructing her walls. There wasn’t time to process this as a woman or Declan’s fiancee. If she wanted to make sense of it, Brooklyn needed to look at the information as an FBI agent, and there was one indisputable fact she couldn’t ignore.

Jackson.

Jackson was involved in this. She knew it down in her core. Jackson never trusted Declan, at least not fully, but Brooklyn always figured it was some alpha male thing. The two of them were in constant competition in the initial stages of the La Rosa Juane investigation, so much so, that one day Brooklyn pulled Declan and Jackson aside to remind them she was in charge and was more than willing to kick them off the task force. They would never capture the assassin, McGinty or the hacker if the two of them were too busy trying to one up the other. Plus, Brooklyn reminded them she was fully capable of defending herself.

Frustrated, Brooklyn picked up her phone and ripped it from the charger, sending the chord flying back into her face. She barely felt the contact against her slightly damp cheek. The screen temporarily blinded her, burning a neon 1:00 A.M. into her blackened vision. It was one in the morning in Nevada, meaning it was almost three in Boston. Brooklyn didn’t care. She wanted answers and needed them immediately, regardless of time.

She punched the number and listened as the other line rang once. Twice. The FBI agent in her desperately wanted the phone answered, but the woman, the fiancee, the broken girl wanted nothing more than for the rings to go unanswered. Part of Brooklyn wanted to forget, to ignore the words she just read and pretend like they didn’t exist. Declan would be nothing more than her dead fiancee, and Jackson her best friend.

“Brooklyn?” Jackson’s anxious voice cut through her thoughts and worries. Again, the FBI agent took over, banishing Brooklyn’s emotions for another day. She analyzed Jackson’s voice, listening for strain or deception. She heard none. Only worry and concern.

“Brooklyn?” Jackson continued when she didn’t initially respond. The words were stuck in her throat, lodged there by her emotions. “Are you ok?”

“Did you know?” Brooklyn forced out the words, but they tasted like acid in her mouth. She wanted to wash out the taste with water or more preferably wine. Anything to numb the pain and agony waging war inside her body.

“What?” A soft plodding filled the air. Jackson was moving out of his bedroom, probably toward the kitchen. It was where he did his best thinking. “Brooklyn, what’s going on?”

“Declan.” Brooklyn’s voice strained as he said his name, but she managed to hold it together. She forced herself into interrogation mode, flattening her tone and separating herself from the task at hand. “Did you know about Declan?” Silence filled the line. Brooklyn’s emotional side tried to rationalize it. It was three in the morning in Boston after all. There was a chance Jackson misheard her or fell back asleep. He may have been yawning or trying to figure out what the hell she was talking about, but Brooklyn knew better. He was nothing more than a criminal caught in his own lie, and fortunately, she knew exactly how to play his guilty conscience.

“Brooklyn.” She heard the warning in Jackson’s voice, the caution he was trying to convey.

“Did you know Jackson?” She screamed the words into the phone, no longer able to contain her emotions. Water freely flowed from her eyes and down her face. Brooklyn already lost her father and Jackson. She couldn’t handle this kind of betrayal from Jackson. “Did you know he was his son?”

“Brooklyn, it’s not that simple.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Brooklyn was struggling to keep herself in check. Emotions were clouding her judgement, and her analytical mind was starting to lose control.

“I wanted to.” Jackson pleaded with Brooklyn. She could tell he was all but begging her to understand, to see his side of things. “But you were undercover Brooklyn.” “You should have told me Jackson,” Brooklyn’s heart was breaking even though she didn’t think it could anymore. “Why didn’t you? You knew how to get in touch, even when I was under.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Why not?” Brooklyn couldn’t stop her questions anymore. Her FBI instincts took over the interrogation again. She was a lioness with a confession in sight. “Why couldn’t you tell me Jackson? Was there someone else involved? Someone else you had to tell?”

“Jackson?” A weak, mild female voice jutted into the conversation before Jackson could answer. “Is everything ok?” “No,” Brooklyn stifled a maniacal laugh spurred by tears. “Don’t tell me that’s Chelsea.”

“Brooklyn, come on. Don’t do this.”

“I’m sorry for interrupting your evening, Jackson. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” She heard Jackson’s protests as she hung up the phone and powered it off. Heat radiated off Brooklyn’s cheeks as she buried her face in her hands. Her sobs filled the empty library, reminding her how alone she really was. Not just in the mountains, but in life. Brooklyn ran through the list of dead loved ones. Her mom died before Brooklyn even knew her. Sam was taken from her in her twenties, and Declan was tortured and killed before her eyes.

Yet somehow, Jackson’s betrayal was worse. Brooklyn’s heart physically ached, and it felt like part of her was ripped away that night. Jackson was her person. He was her best friend. He was the one who helped her piece her life back together after Sam’s murder, and it was Jackson who sat with her while Declan was in surgery. Jackson was there from the moment they met at Quantico. They were fierce rivals and even better friends.

And now, he was the latest person to break her heart.

Defeated, Brooklyn crumbled into her sleeping back and curled into the fetal position. The squirrel curled up next to her, snuggling up next to her chest to provide warmth and comfort.

Not for the first time that year, Brooklyn fell asleep crying.