Greetings from Witness Protection!: Chapters 6–11

Basically, my choices are the outfit I flew in with, a pair of jeans and a Sweeney Todd T-shirt, or some of my U.S. marshal couture.

“Just...um...gonna get a drink first,” I ad-lib, spinning off toward the water fountain nearby. It’s one of those obnoxious ones where you push the bar as hard as you can, but only a trickle comes out. You’re basically French-kissing by proxy whoever used it before you.

I want to say something. I want to seem eloquent, and strong, and brave. I have to say something.

I don’t expect to get crushed in a hug, but Harriet sweeps in before I can interpose any carnations between us.

“I’m sure we’ll all need a little time to acclimate to this new situation, Doctor. No need to rush things.”

I have to stifle the compulsion to inch closer to Harriet’s lilac hair.

As we speak, the U.S. marshals are hard at work creating photo albums, schoolwork, old family vacation itineraries—everything necessary to fill in your backstory.

Still staring at me, Dr. Coustoff finally declares, “Actually, I think perhaps a break is in order. Why don’t we head to our rooms for a bit? It’s been a big morning. We’ll review our backstories in our folders, reconvene after lunch, say twelve thirty, and start with our role-plays.”

As he’s wriggling free and dashing to the corner to wallow, he whispers, “No. You don’t.”

“Oh, Charlotte, you’re so silly,” she says woodenly, eyes riveted to the script.

I pause before reading my next line and look at Dr. Coustoff, who is beaming proudly and nodding to goad me on.

So when Janice announces that we’re meeting in our little room for the final debrief, I’m so hyper I can barely stand it.

Being standoffish, mouthy, and unruly does not inspire confidence, but hard work and well-placed fear does.

Whispering down into the box reverently, I murmur, “I shall call you Glamdring, Foe-hammer that the king of Gondol—”

“Yes, Deputy Marshal,” I say, chastened.

We get back to signing, and I’m on my thirty-fifth form or so, the Taser tucked beneath my seat, when I have an epiphany.

“You’re kidding, right?” she responds wryly.

“I wonder if I should change it....It’s emerald green, but I’ve always been partial to royal blue, too.” She wistfully holds out her left hand, fingers extended.

“I didn’t read your file. They gave us one, of course, but Jonathan and I decided we didn’t want to know. We wanted to accept you for who you are, not for what you’ve been through.”
This is a revelation.

I nod, though I do notice Harriet’s hands trembling as she opens the cooler and reaches for a bottle of water. My hands aren’t faring much better.

I notice the trees first. They’re huge, sprawling, and so colorful that they’d give Mr. Jordanson’s considerable crayon collection a run for its money.

Two of those old oak trees flank the walk leading up to the porch, shading the front yard, and a sugar maple runs right up along the side of the house, forming a sort of trellis with its branches.

On the whole, it looks pretty plain, with one very noteworthy exception: It has a turret.

Harriet pushes the door open and immediately says, “Ooh. Real hardwood floors! I love these!”
Sure enough, there’s nary a carpet to be seen.

His cloying boy-cologne stench fills the entire passage, and he’s taking each step with exaggerated slowness, his legs bowed and arms low to prevent me from getting around.

It’s stressful work, actually, since every time I touch something, I imagine exactly how the Cercatores might take advantage of a slipup to exploit the mistake.

My last thing to check is the fireplace—yes, apparently hit men have been known to Santa their way in—and once I’ve confirmed that the flue is closed, I pause to look at the pictures Harriet arranged above the mantel.

Her own small, slender fingers are outstretched in a pantomime of Harriet’s wave.

There’s even a cadence of sorts to them, and it’s finally enough to calm my nerves, to help me settle in and fall asleep.

The eerie sound obliges me by repeating itself, only louder.

He’s carrying something so strangely shaped that it’s hard to discern.

He looks exhausted, paler than the moonlight that dapples his pajamas.

It takes me another hour to drift off, and when I finally do, I sleep fitfully, my dreams full of Nazgûls, broken phones, and creaky porch steps.

You know, Jackson, rule five doesn’t apply in the confines of our own kitchen, I’m fairly sure.

“Just...stop brandishing breakfast at your brother.”

“I’ve already eaten, so Jackson can have it,” I say demurely.

However, I’m also aware that I’m supposed to balk at such restrictions; if I’m going to perform normal girl, I’ve got to freak out at the notion of being forced into fashion conformity.

However, I’m also aware that I’m supposed to balk at such restrictions; if I’m going to perform normal girl, I’ve got to freak out at the notion of being forced into fashion conformity.

My face scrunches up, and I stick out my tongue. She hurriedly waves her hands at me, trying to ward off my feigned hissy fit.

At first, I don’t know what to think about it, but I deftly slip behind a bush and peek back.