The Assassin's Weakness

A Funeral and Relocation, Sort Of ( Edited)

It was raining. The usual for what seems like all funerals. Of course my father's funeral was no exception. The rain was pouring down my black umbrella and I watched the little droplets collect at my feet right in front of my father's grave.
There at the edge, was the orange flowers that someone had gotten him.

I was alone, like most of my life it seemed. I heard a horn honk and I knew I had kept the sheriff waiting too long for his liking. Pretentious bastered.
I was to be put into protective custody. Already there was a government agent waiting at a safe house for me. The sheriff's job was to get me there in one piece though I doubted very much if he would or just kill me himself.

My father, to me, was a good man. What I didn't know about him was, he was a major snake. He embezzled a million to a half billion dollars from a crime bosses in New York. Now he's dead because of it.
Unfortunately for me, a particular crime boss was not satisfied with killing him and him alone. He swore he would wipe out his family as well, and unfortunately for me I am my fathers only living family.

Walking across the the cemetery, I felt the cold almost seeping into my bones from the cold rain. I hadn't felt sadness like this since my mother passed a few years ago. I thought that would be the end of my mourning and loss. I was wrong.

"Took you long enough. Get in we have to be there by five." The sheriff grumbled bitterly. No doubt regretting his life choices of professions, and cursing the higher up that put him in charge of my safety.

"Who exactly am I staying with?" I asked quietly.

"He doesn't have a name, everyone calls him Twenty-three. He's government agent material. Seems your father was working for them while in Washington D.C. for a few years." The sheriff gave me the 'shut-up-now' look, and went back to staring at the road.

After a few hours we reached a stretch of road that ran next to a stretch of beach that looked like the east coast.
The next thing I noticed was us pulling onto a dirt road that looked unused for a very long while.

"Where are we?" I asked breaking the silence as we pulled up to a cabin in the rustic woods to the left of the ocean.

"Maine." Came the reply, but it wasn't from the sheriff. A man had opened my door for me to get out. After I did I closed the car door and turned my head toward the house. The man was in dark blue jeans and a flannel shirt. It was the traditional red plaid flannel. Like the kind you see lumberjacks wear on the old westerns. That wasn't what caught my attention, it was his eyes.

They were a starting shade of silver blue.

His face was stern and his jaw set. There was no trace of emotion in his voice.

"Hello, you must be Miss. Miller." The man looked at my shocked face. Trying to regain my composure I held my hand out.

"Yes. And you are?" I asked as calmly as I could.

"I'm your keeper. You can call me twenty-three. " He shook my hand.

"My names April. If you would like, since we're apparently going to be spending time together." I tried to make my voice sound casual, like I didn't care that my life was turning upside down. But it didn't work, there was still an edge of panic to my voice, and Twenty-three raised an eyebrow at me. He didn't believe my tone, neither did I for that matter.

"You have nothing to worry about while you are here. I will keep you safe." His face was earnest and he looked into my eyes as if he was trying to convince me.

"Well, hate to drop and run, but I have to be getting back to town." The sheriff jumped back into the SUV and left.

"This way, Miss. Miller." Twenty-three said to me and gestured to the house.

"Am I really supposed to call you a number the entire time?" I questioned him softly.

"You can call me any name you wish." Came the reply. His voice flat, still not showing emotion. I thought for a moment.

"What was your father's name?" I asked trying to get him talking.

"I never knew my family."

Great. That helps so much.

"Fine, how about James?" I ask, running thin on patience and just about every other other emotion.

"As I said, whatever you wish." He opens the door for me and I step inside.

There was a large fire place on the far wall. It was a small cabin. No doubt the hallway lead to the only two bedrooms and one bath. The place had a homey feel to it. A big leather sofa and a few lazy boys were in the living room.
To the left, there was a small kitchen decorated in some obscure yellow.

If I owned the place, I would have fired the decorator. The walls were completely devoid of any personal touches, not even a photo print of a famous piece of art.

I sat on the sofa and thought about my father's three story condo in Florida. Unfortunately doing that got me crying again.
Just when I thought the tears had run out, they managed to come back with a vengeance.

"Are you hungry?" James asked not noticing my tears yet.

"No, I'm fine, thank you." I told him trying not to let my voice break. But of course it did anyway. Suddenly I felt cold again, and I felt myself crumple into a ball on the couch feeling the same sadness sinking into me again, just like the cemetery.

After that I only vaguely remember a tissue box being left on the coffee table in front of me. I knew what was happening, I had felt this before at my mothers funeral. James seemed to understand and take it in stride, leaving me be on the couch to do what I had tried not to do on the way here.

I was falling to pieces.