Red Sparrow

by Jason Matthews

It was agony to argue this way, especially with a chief who didn’t know the street.

It had everything to do with the hammer in his chest when he at ten years of age made himself walk along the ledge of the mansion three floors up, level with the hawks over the river, to beat down the dread, to confront the raptors of fear and failure. It was about the strain between him and his father and grandfather and omnivore brothers, raucously demanding compliance from him while practicing none themselves. It was the same hammer in his chest during interviews as he applied to the CIA, the heartbeat he had to still as he dissembled and jauntily affirmed how much he liked talking to people and meeting challenges and confronting ambiguity. But as the heartbeat slowed and his voice steadied, he had the quite remarkable epiphany that he actually could be coolheaded, and he could confront things he didn’t control. Working in the CIA was something he needed.

He led her limping to the side of the living room. The day of her father’s funeral. He had chosen this time purposely, hadn’t he? They always did.

Gable heaved himself up from the couch, a look of pain on his face. “Lovers? Jesus Christ, I couldn’t ask anybody to do that with Nash. It’s too much.”