Mourn them

            Miss Parker pushed open the doors to the office that had once been her father’s and walked in. For a few moments she stood in the center of the room and looked around, as calm as if she were just examining the artwork. On the far side of the desk, Jarod sat in her father’s chair, one neat hole through his heart. He looked like he was sleeping. On the floor, on the near side of the desk, lay Sydney, her Smith and Weston in his hand, his temple shattered.

            “Oh, Sydney,” she said softly. “You didn’t have to do it.”

            Kneeling, she lifted him up off the floor so that his head rested against her shoulder, and she held his body and rocked back and forth. “I would have done it, Syd,” she said, suddenly sobbing. “It was my sort of job, not yours.”

            The doors opened again, and the head of the FBI team came in. He raised an eyebrow. “You shouldn’t disturb the bodies, Miss Parker.”

            Miss Parker gently lowered Sydney back to the floor and wiped her face. “Don’t worry,” she said in something like her old tone. “It was all recorded.”

            He nodded at the body in the chair. “Who was he?”

            Miss Parker went around the edge of the desk and put her hand on Jarod’s shoulder. “He never knew. But he was my friend…once. A very long time ago.”

            She played the recording for him. At the end he said, “What was the Pretender Project?”

            She nodded at Jarod’s body behind her father’s desk. “He was. I’ll tell you about it.”

            And she did.