He hung up, leaving me staring at my phone, certain in the knowledge that everything was not fine. And that something was most definitely going on.
Chapter 7
Living the dream. That’s what my father always told me I was doing.
To him it must have seemed like it.
I was only hoping that one day I could. But I would have to pass the bar first. And then I’d have to get a job—a high-paying one—at one of the big firms downtown. My ex had lined up a job for me at one of them. At the time, I’d thought it was sweet. Now I understood it to be just another way he’d tried to control me. Not that the firm wouldn’t have wanted me. It was more that I didn’t want to owe him anything.
But I still didn’t have a job, and I was worried.
Though I had several interviews in June, none of them worked out. I did, however, have an interview tomorrow afternoon at a firm that had a practice area in international economic law. I got out the notes I’d taken on the firm and the list of things I wanted to mention in the interview.
I definitely needed to highlight the internship I’d done for the congressman who chaired the House Financial Services Committee.
Since I couldn’t recall faces, I took notes on everything. People I’d met, things I’d done. My ex used to call my notes The Life and Times of Whitney Garrison, volumes 1–101. But detailing conversations and events sometimes helped me remember things about the people involved. So I dug out my journal from the year before and flipped through bullet points to find my notes on the cryptocurrency meetings I’d sat in on.
The attendees had been a mix of people from the Federal Reserve, the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation, and the FBI, as well as from blockchain companies, Silicon Valley, and Wall Street. Representatives from nongovernmental organizations and the World Bank had been in attendance too.
Everyone was interested in cryptocurrency. It wasn’t clear yet, however, whose interests would best be served once the government got around to regulating it, mostly because so few people outside the relatively small, impassioned cryptocommunity actually understood it.
When I was little, my father always made me wash my hands after I touched cash. Coins or bills, it didn’t matter. “You never know where it’s been,” he would say. That’s the advantage of cryptocurrency; you never have to touch it, and you always know where it’s been. Every cryptocoin carries identification papers. Every exchange is attached to the coin as a permanent record.
As I sat in those congressional hearings, my curiosity about the technology had turned into a growing passion. As I listened to representatives from NGOs and the World Bank talk about how cryptocurrency allowed citizens of third-world countries to participate in the global economy, I thought about how much it could do for America’s own underclass. How it could be used to address some of the biggest problems in our society.
I mined a few of the observations from my journal for the interview, noted a few more things I wanted to make sure I mentioned, then slipped those notes into my attaché. After that, I took a few minutes to write down in my current journal what had happened in the alley behind the coffee shop. If I put it down in enough detail, maybe my mind wouldn’t feel the need to keep replaying everything.
I wouldn’t have to keep remembering the pool of blood congealing underneath the victim’s head. Or how his hands had begun to turn a terrible shade of gray.
I swallowed the bile that had risen in my throat and decided to start with my memories of the detective instead. I guessed he was probably in his midthirties. He’d been efficient but not pushy. Effective but considerate. Professional but reassuring. That hair, I’d recognize anywhere. It was black and he’d combed some gel through it in an attempt to keep it off his face. Despite that effort, his bangs kept falling off both sides of his widow’s peak. He’d been taller than me, but that didn’t take much height. The top of my head probably would have glanced off his chin.
What else would help me remember him?
The cologne he wore. It reminded me of the woods back home. Clean, fresh. Green.
He was nothing like my ex. Unlike the stereotypical hipster tech mogul, my ex had been polished to a shine. His hair was sleek; when he combed it back from his forehead, it stayed. His clothing was always styled. Precise. Even his casual wear had edges. His cologne had been a feral-smelling musk.
But I didn’t have to think of him anymore.
He was gone and I wasn’t going back.
I steered my thoughts toward the victim.
First impression: the wind. It had been relentless, pushing his hair away from his face, prying one side of his jacket loose and lifting it away from his body.
He’d been wearing a suit. But that wasn’t unusual. Not in DC.
White shirt.
Brown shoes.
Striped socks. Green, yellow, and dark pink.
And he had a hole in his head.
His suit jacket had been flapping in the wind. And the hole . . . I didn’t like thinking about that hole. Didn’t like thinking about his coffee cup either.
Less than an hour before I found him, I had made him that drink.
Joe.
Who were you, Joe?
He’d come in every afternoon. I remembered his drink but had no memory of him.
I shifted my focus to the killer, closing my eyes as I tried to remember how he looked. He’d been wearing a dark suit jacket. Had I seen anything else?
I’d clocked out, put my apron on the hook. Took my backpack from the locker. Went out the back door. Joe was lying on the ground.
Maybe the detective was right. Maybe my memories were going to come back to me in pieces, like a puzzle. Already, images of the alley played in my mind like a slideshow every time I blinked.
I shut the journal and put my pen down.
I didn’t want to remember any more.
For the first time since I’d moved in, I went to bed before midnight. I closed my bedroom door, locking it, before I clicked off the ceiling light and slipped beneath my blankets.
It was dark—pitch black—down in that basement. But it seemed to me that I could still see Joe lying in the alley, blood puddling around his head.
I punched my pillow into a more comfortable shape and turned over.
Closed my eyes.
Immediately the specter of the killer appeared. I blinked in an effort to clear him from my mind.
It was replaced by an image of Joe with a hole in his head, his hair ruffling in the wind.
I turned over to my other side. Stared into the dark. Thought of all the study questions I hadn’t gotten through in my race to lock myself into my bedroom. When I closed my eyes again, trying to ignore the guilt, I saw that congealing puddle of blood.
I sat up.
Threw off my covers.
If I wasn’t going to be able to sleep, then I should study. At least that would take care of the guilt. Everyone at law school, all of my professors, would have told me I had no reason to worry about the bar. I was going to pass; how could I not pass?
But I also knew, from life experience, that the unexpected seemed to happen on a completely predictable schedule.
Exhibit A: Joe.
Easing up on studying had always felt like tempting fate. So I studied and then studied some more.
I threw the light switch, unlocked my door.
Eased it open.
Listened for a long moment.
Then I gave myself a pep talk. I was twenty-eight. Much too old to be afraid of the dark.
I raced to the bar, grabbed my book and study materials, ran back down the hall to my bedroom, and locked the door again. Then I burrowed into bed and flipped through the pages of my study guide.
One review question always led to another. And then to five or six more.
At least it kept thoughts of the shooting at bay.
I could study twelve hours a day and still not study enough, because I couldn’t afford to fail the exam. Literally. Between the money I spent trying to pa
y down my credit card debt and the money I put toward my student loans, I didn’t have enough money left to stay in the area without the salary that a job in one of DC’s prestigious firms could supply. So whatever life plan I came up with, it could only work if I passed the bar my first time.
If I didn’t?
Panic wrapped its steely fingers around my throat.
If I didn’t pass?
That wasn’t an option.
But reason insisted upon being heard. What if I don’t pass?
I would pass. I just had to study. I’d been studying; I would study more.
But what if it doesn’t work? What if I can’t do it? What if I don’t pass?
I would pass.
And then what will I do?
I would do what the vast majority of law students who passed the bar did: work for a few years in a big law firm as an associate in order to make enough money to pay off my student loans. Those first few years were a necessary stop on the road to a career in law.
So although working for a big firm, even in international trade and finance, wasn’t really what I wanted to do, it was something I had to do. A pit stop before I could get on with the pursuit of my dream. Was I looking forward to it? No. I was looking beyond it.
But that assumed I passed the bar.
My throat constricted again.
I forced myself to swallow. Made my fingers pick up my pen.
If I didn’t pass, I would find a job doing something different.
Doing what? What do I know how to do?
I could go into business for myself.
I don’t know how to do anything but study. And help other people study. And if I didn’t pass, that meant I would be a failure at the thing I was best at doing.
Despair pressed its chill palms against my chest. But I wasn’t going to fail.
I couldn’t.
Chapter 8
As I parked my scooter in front of the Blue Dog the next morning, a crowd of reporters swarmed in front of the door.
I wasn’t worried about anyone trying to interview me. How would any of them know that I was the one who’d discovered the body? I was, however, worried about breaking through the circus in order to get to work. If I hadn’t vowed never to use the back entrance again, I would have done it.
As I stood there trying to figure out a way through the crowd, I waved at Ruth.
She stood out by the metro station every day in her bright yellow reflective vest selling copies of a newspaper written by the homeless in the region. She was a former drug addict who was trying to get her life back on track.
When I’d first started at the coffee shop, the trauma I’d experienced in leaving my ex must have shown on my face. As I walked past her that first day, she’d reached out and touched my arm.
“Hey,” she said gently. “It’s going to be okay. It’s all going to be okay. When Ruth tells you it’s going to be okay, it’s going to be okay.”
I still couldn’t think about that, about the hope she’d given me that first morning, without tears welling in my eyes.
A few steps ahead of me was someone I also recognized as a regular at the Blue Dog. Her name was Kim. I’d never really talked to her before, but she always ordered a cappuccino with extra foam. I’d once heard her tell someone that she’d been injured in an explosion in Afghanistan. She had a prosthetic leg and came by every other day or so dressed in workout gear.
She appeared to have given up trying to get into the shop, as had many other potential customers. Normally there was a steady stream of people flowing from the mouth of the nearby metro station into the shop. That morning, however, they all seemed to be swerving away.
As she turned from the shop, I reached out and tapped her on the arm. “Maybe we can get through together.” I’d ditched my normal backpack for a more professional-looking attaché. My rolled-up interview suit, blouse, and shoes were stowed inside. Wielding the attaché like a shield, I plowed my way into the crowd.
She followed.
One of the reporters stopped me and shoved a microphone into my face. “Are you a regular customer? Did you see the shooting?”
I chose to answer the first question. “No.”
* * *
It was dead until about lunch and then customers started flocking in. I worked the espresso machine for a while and then I switched with Corrine. As I took her place at the counter, a boy stepped up to order. Headphones collared his neck and shaggy hair curled out from his baseball cap. He was chewing at the edge of his thumb as he stood there. He seemed like an undergrad. Tall, but angular in the way of boys who hadn’t quite yet grown into men. He came by between 1:00 and 1:30 every afternoon.
He lingered this time, letting the line build behind him as he asked me what I was doing over the weekend. Because his family had this great house in Delaware out past Millsboro, kind of near Rehoboth but not really and not ever very crowded and he was maybe thinking that—
Ty ambled over. He was a grad student at one of the nearby universities. He had a slow way of moving that made it seem like he’d just rolled out of bed. The scent of Ivory soap always wafted from him like cologne. His standard uniform was a cowry shell necklace, some sort of concert T-shirt, and a pair of Vans. He nudged me aside.
As I slid a cup from the stack and marked it for the order, Ty took the boy’s loyalty card and hijacked the conversation. “I know what you’re thinking, man. ‘She’s really pretty. She always smiles at me. I think she likes me.’ Here’s the thing”—he leaned toward the boy—“it’s not you. It’s the money. She’s paid to be nice. To you. To everyone. We clear here?” He handed the guy back his coffee card.
The boy took it, jammed it into the pocket of his shorts, and slunk away toward the far end of the counter.
“Awww.” Corrine leaned away from the espresso machine, pointing her finger at Ty. “Meanie.”
Ty snorted.
I thanked him for saving me.
He ignored my gratitude. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to rescue me from overeager customers.
“I didn’t do anything to encourage him. I honestly didn’t.”
“You never do.” He pulled an empty plate out of the pastry case and headed toward the swinging door that led from the counter area into the back room. “It’s part of the charm.” That last part he said under his breath as he disappeared through the door.
At the end of my shift, Corrine dumped two mobile orders that had been waiting for pickup for over half an hour.
She shook her head as she did it. “Why would you go to the trouble to order yourself”—she paused and took a look at one of the labels—“an iced coconut milk latte, or a”—she read the other label—“soy mocha, one pump, no whip, if you weren’t going to bother to pick it up?” She snorted as she poured them down the sink. “At least they paid for them.”
It took a few minutes for the information to click.
Soy mocha.
That was Joe’s drink.
I went to the trash can and tipped it toward me so I could see inside. I removed the two cups on top. I read the label of the first one.
Joe.
Soy mocha.
One pump.
No whip.
A chill went up my spine.
How could Joe have ordered himself a drink?
She started pulling another shot. “Hey—aren’t you on your way out?”
“What?”
“Your shift’s over. And don’t you have that interview today?”
Interview! “Yes. Bye.” I tossed the cups back into the trash. If I didn’t move it, I was going to be late.
* * *
After I clocked out, I changed from jeans and a shirt into my interview clothes. They came courtesy of a consignment shop. The charcoal-gray jacket and skirt and the white silk blouse were understated and classic. My black heels were tipped in rubber so they wouldn’t click when I walked. I washed my hands with the flower-scented soap, hoping it might seem like perfume. After si
de-parting my hair, I spun it into a sleek, low bun.
My ex had always told me that people underestimated me. “They focus on that face and don’t even see the intelligence behind it.” What did it say about him that he was always encouraging me to show more of my body and less of my brain?
What did it say about me that I went along with him?
I shoved my shame to the back of my mind. I needed to put the best version of myself forward. The law firm didn’t need to know I’d been terrifically stupid in all the ways that really mattered.
After rolling up my work clothes, I left them in a locker; I’d come back for them later. As I walked to the front of the shop, Corrine whistled. “You go, girl! Break a leg.”
I waved and then thumbed open Google Maps and checked the traffic before I brought up my ride-sharing app. Jammed on both of the closest bridges. I entered the address of the law firm.
Forty minutes. But I knew I could make it there by metro in twenty-five.
I was going to have to. Otherwise, I’d be late. I pulled up the metro schedule on my phone. There was a train headed to DC in three minutes. Taking my metro card from my wallet, I left the store, hurrying to the metro entrance.
“Looking good!” Ruth shouted as I approached.
A man coming out of the metro bumped into her as he came off the escalator and rounded the corner.
The newspapers tumbled from her arms.
He kept on going.
“Hey!” I shouted as I bent to help her collect them.
He didn’t even pause in his step.
“Bless you,” Ruth said. “I can do this. Do it ten times a day, seems like. Don’t worry about me.”
I handed her the newspapers I’d collected.
Over to my right, a man wearing a dark suit and a green tie walked out of the convenience store and headed in our direction. His hair was slicked back from his forehead.
I walked over to the stairs that led down into the station.
By the time I hit the bottom step, the man had begun to close the distance between us. There was nothing about him that was overtly sinister, but he made me uneasy.
My metro card nearly slipped from my suddenly sweaty grasp.
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