The Woman Left Behind: A Novel Read online

  He knew where she’d left her car because the bus always picked up the newbies at the same place. He gave a quick grin at how she’d fallen for that bullshit about putting a GPS on her car; sooner or later she’d find out he’d lied, and the team would get a kick out listening to her bitch at him. He had a thick skin; he could take it. In fact, he looked forward to it.

  “Soak in a hot tub,” was Levi’s last bit of imparted wisdom just before he’d let her out beside her Corolla. “And drink a lot of water.”

  Jina had muttered a reply that was a sound, not a real word. She knew how to deal with sore muscles. Her only doubt was whether or not she’d be able to climb into the tub—and whether or not she’d drown once she was in there because she was too exhausted to sit upright.

  Her muscles had stiffened enough during the drive that she didn’t “get out” of the truck so much as she fell out and had to grab the door to keep from face-planting on the concrete parking lot. Without looking at him she closed the door—firmly, but not indulging herself by slamming it—and shuffled around to the driver’s side of the Corolla. Because she wasn’t stupid, she hadn’t taken a purse that day; her remote was on a sturdy chain around her neck, and the remote itself tucked snugly into her sports bra. She clumsily fished it out and unlocked the door, opened it.

  Levi was already rolling, not waiting for her to get in the car and start it; she, on the other hand, waited until he was completely out of sight before she clumsily dropped into the seat and used both hands to pick her legs up and swing them inside. Oh, God, she ached. Even the bottoms of her feet hurt.

  By the time she dragged herself upstairs to her condo, cursing under her breath at every hellacious step, she was almost certain she was going to die. Her arms hadn’t wanted to work enough to steer her Corolla, so she’d prayed her way through the D.C. traffic. The Corolla wasn’t a rocket or a tank like the men all seemed to prefer, but damn it, she’d bought it new last year and she was proud of it and didn’t want to wreck it. She’d taken such good care of it that it even still had that sumptuous new-car smell, though her sweat funk tonight might have killed it.

  She headed straight to the bathroom, knowing she was so filthy she couldn’t sit down anywhere without ruining her furniture. All she wanted was to lie back in a tub of hot water, and as soon as she saw her reflection in the mirror she knew that wasn’t going to happen just yet. She was mostly monochromatic, caked from heat to foot in red dust that had mixed with sweat and formed mud, which had then dried. In horror she stared at her hair. Oh my God, my hair! She’d never get it clean. Pulling it back in a long ponytail hadn’t helped; it had merely caused her hair to be glued to her head with mud.

  She turned on the shower and while the water was getting hot she painfully peeled off her filthy clothing. The worst was her socks, because the grit had worked its way through the fabric and rubbed her heels raw. Then the blisters had burst, sticking the fabric to her skin. Oh, crap, her feet were going to be sore tomorrow. Get on the bandwagon, she thought grimly; every inch of her body would likely be sore, hot tub and extra water notwithstanding.

  She shampooed twice, the water sluicing muddy red down her body. The water burned her raw heels. It was the most unpleasant shower she’d ever taken, which really griped her because normally she loved her showers. When the water ran clean, she toed the stopper closed, turned off the shower, and let the tub begin filling.

  She ran out of hot water before the tub was half full, courtesy of her extra-long, two-shampoo shower.

  Swearing under her breath, she submerged as much of herself as possible in the too-shallow water. Maybe she’d manage a better soak before she went to bed . . . or maybe not.

  Through sheer stubbornness, she made herself keep going, though she did pop a couple of ibuprofen to maybe help with the muscle soreness. She put antibiotic salve on her heels and covered them with extra-large Band-Aids. She drank a lot of water, more than she wanted. And she nuked a frozen dinner, ate it unenthusiastically, then chased it with a candy bar. There, that was better.

  Just as she licked the last of the chocolate from her fingers, her phone rang, the special ring tone for her mother. “Hi, Mom, what’s up?”

  “Just checking in,” her mother said lightly. Everything about her mother was light, from her slender build to her sunny hair to her voice. Jina’s sisters, Ashley and Caleigh, had the same light, musical tone to their voices. Jina, on the other hand, sounded like their father and had his dark hair instead of her mother’s blond. She was resigned to her fate now, but as a kid she’d been self-conscious and for a while tried not to talk much. That hadn’t worked out well, because she wasn’t great at keeping her mouth shut. “Anything new going on?”

  That was mom-speak for asking if she was dating anyone significant. Jina made a face; it wasn’t as if she hadn’t had steady boyfriends over the years, or that there weren’t already a couple of grandkids to spoil rotten: Ashley, the oldest, had two; and Jordan, Jina’s second-oldest sibling, and his wife had one on the way. The only thing Jina could think was that her mom wanted her kids settled and producing in order of birth, which meant Jina was the next up.

  There was something she needed to tell her mom, though, to head off future complications. “I got transferred at work,” she said. “More pay”—a lot more—“and there’ll be some travel involved.”

  “Wow, that sounds great!” Mom sounded genuinely pleased. “More money and travel isn’t something I’d turn down. You’ll still be able to come home for holidays, though, won’t you?”

  “At least some of the time. There’s no way to predict the travel schedule.”

  “What will you be doing?”

  “Computer stuff.” None of what she was saying was a lie; whenever anyone was hired, they were coached in how to tell the truth, which was much easier to remember, while making it sound innocuous. If any family member searched for info on the company name, they’d be reassured by the commonplace details they found, none of which included “dispatched on a moment’s notice to hot spots around the world, with a possibility of bullets and explosives.”

  “Do you start right away?”

  “No, there’s training involved.” Every aching muscle in her body attested to that. “I’ll be putting in twelve-hour days for a while.”

  “I hope you get overtime.”

  Nope, that wasn’t going to happen. She caught up with the rest of the family—Dad was actually talking about the two of them taking a cruise, which Jina heartily endorsed; Taz, her youngest brother who was in the army, was being transferred to Texas, while Caleigh, the baby, was both having a blast in college and had made the dean’s list. By the time her mother wound down, Jina was yawning and trying to prop up her heavy eyelids. “I gotta go, Mom,” she muttered. “I’m so sleepy I can barely stand up, and I have to get up at five in the morning.”

  She had to get through commiseration at her early wake-up time, give a promise to call soon, and say “Love y’all” twice before she was cleared to end the call. She limped to the bathroom, brushed her teeth, and started toward bed before she remembered her hair was still wet. Swearing under her breath, she returned to the bathroom and leaned against the counter with her eyes closed while she blasted hot air at her head. She didn’t care what it looked like tomorrow, because (a) it would be in a ponytail and (b) it would likely be caked in mud again by the end of the day anyway.

  “Perfect end to a shitty day,” she said to the night as she collapsed onto her bed. Even worse—tomorrow looked to be just as bad.

  She was right. After slapping the vicious alarm clock across the room because it wouldn’t shut up, trying twice to get out of bed the normal way—sitting up and swinging her legs over—which was too agonizing, she gave up and rolled out of bed onto her knees. The alarm clock was still bleating like an angry goat. Using the bed as support, she struggled to her feet and stiffly limped over to the clock; she eventually managed to bend over enough to pick it up, the effort accompanied by groan