Reckless Touch

by Veronica Larsen

  Walking into the studio brings relief that threatens to relax my shoulders, but I resist. I rub my face and try to remind myself of the urgency that propelled me through these front doors. It's been a day full of unsettling revelations. The jarring suspicion my attack was premeditated and the terrifying fact that the police are no longer looking for the person who tried to harm me.

  I stare at the class of white-robed students as their instructor guides them in a routine. On my right, I pass the wall of framed pictures and awards, the studio's history in photographs. I didn't pay attention to these the last time I was here, but seeing them now bolsters my confidence in my decision to come back. The pictures show groups of adults as well as groups of children. The students all stand tall, faces beaming with pride.

  Movement reflects off the glass as someone steps beside me.

  A shriek bursts from my lips. The noises in the studio die down, the class disrupted at my yell of surprise. A few students stumbled mid-kick to look back at me where I stand. The instructor struggles to regather their attention.

  Embarrassment blasts my face as I bring my attention to the man beside me. His powerful posture and build stand out before the rest of his features, causing a lag before recognition hits me.

  "Jesus," he says. "I didn't mean to startle you."

  I falter, blinking in bewilderment. "Detective Reed?"

  I almost don't recognize him. He isn't dressed in the business attire I've seen him in. His jeans and black t-shirt are in stark contrast to his stern posture.

  He doesn't seem surprised I'm here and I figure it's because he referred me. In turn, I bite back my own question of what he's doing here.

  Instead, I say, "I'm looking for Travis, he asked me to come in."

  "Of course, follow me."

  Reed leads me down a narrow hall and into a small office crammed with a couch, desk, and filing cabinet. The place sets my nerves on edge. I look around at the pieces on the walls. Frames stuck up without rhyme or reason, all different sizes, shapes, and colors. Pictures, awards, and other random martial arts related items strung up as decoration. Aesthetically, the place is a clusterfuck.

  Reed motions for me to have a seat and, after squeezing past the filing cabinet, settles down behind the desk. I'm left looking around, puzzled, halfway expecting Travis to pop in and ask the detective what he's doing behind his desk.

  "I'm sorry—am I…is my meeting with you?"

  "Ms. Woods—"

  "Amelia," I remind him, my brows still furrowed in confusion.

  "Amelia, I'm sorry, I thought Travis explained it to you. This is my gym. I haven't taught any classes for a while now, but I offer private lessons from time to time."

  Oddly, what surprises me isn't that he owns this gym.

  "You're offering me private lessons?"

  "I am."

  "With you?"

  "Yes. With me."

  Thinking, I fold my hands over my lap and his gaze falls there. When I pull a hand back up to tuck my hair behind my ears, his gaze rises there, too. He's watching me so closely it's making me wonder what he's searching for.

  "Detective—"

  "Please, call me Reed. Or Sebastian, it's my first name."

  Sebastian.

  A guy like him couldn't have just any name. It had to be a name that stirs your tongue. The way his appearance stirs your eyes when you look at him.

  He stares right back, patient as always.

  "Have you looked into the gifts being left at my desk?"

  "You've only just told us about them this morning. You'll have to give us time."

  Fair enough.

  "But you will look into them? You'll handle my case separately?"

  He looks out toward the door behind me, undecipherable thoughts fleeting past his expression. Seeming to come to some deliberation, he meets my gaze again.

  "That isn't my call," he says, plainly. "Your case is still part of the investigation on the string of assaults. And that investigation is coming to a close."

  "So, why did you call me here?"

  He sets his hands down in front of him and brings his fingertips together. All the while, he takes in my features more freely than before. With more open appreciation than before.

  His lips part slow and hesitant. "I'd like to offer you peace of mind."

  "You know what would bring me peace of mind? You catching the guy who did this to me." I zip down my jacket to reveal more of the bruises peeking out from under my V-neck t-shirt.

  Reed looks at me with a steely focus I couldn't break if I tried. At the sight of my bruises, something darts past his eyes like a fleeting shadow. Anger. He shakes his head as though to clear it, glances down at his hands then back at me.

  "We've got our suspect in custody. He's not cutting loose anytime soon. He's our guy. We've got him."

  Small tendrils of anger shoot through me.

  "With all due respect, fuck your certainty, Detective."

  First, he looks surprised, but then a struggle forms in his eyes, as though he's keeping himself from saying what he really wants to.

  "Amelia, listen…"

  I take a quick breath. There's a delicacy to the way he says my name. A fragility that hints at how he sees me, like he has to handle me with care so that I don't fall apart suddenly in a spectacular show of neurotic emotions. Because he knows. He has the file, a window into one of the worst times of my adult life.

  I get it now. I get why he called me here. Why he's offering me these classes.

  The careful tone of his voice, the pity in his eyes, it all sets my teeth on edge. I'm reminded of all the times I've been looked at like this. Poor little girl with no one to vouch for her, no one to be outraged on her behalf.

  I've been victimized in the past. I've been underestimated. I've been made to look crazy and seem like a liar. I walked through these doors because sitting alone in my apartment tonight made my skin crawl. I came here because learning to defend myself rose to the top of my most urgent needs. But I recognize the expression in Reed's eyes. He's straddling a white horse. I came here for strength, not to let someone who only sees me for my weaknesses handle me. The pain and soreness in my body are on such a low frequency, my thoughts about it all perfectly numbed.

  "You know what?" I say. "Never mind. Never mind this whole thing. Thanks for the offer, Detective. But none of this is for my peace of mind. It's for yours. It's so you can battle with the guilt of knowing you're sending me out there, alone. Someone out there is antagonizing me, at best, and trying to kill me, at worst. It doesn't matter if you choose to believe it or not. If you won't help me, I'll have to find a way to help myself."

  I turn from him, but right before I do, I could swear he wants to reach out to stop me. I hesitate, in the same way he hesitated yesterday, eyes glinting with a hope he couldn't bring himself to say aloud. I wait for him to ask me to stay. But he doesn't.

  So I leave. I walk away from him, out of the studio, and into the crisp night, all alone, where every single shadow makes me jump right out of my skin.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Amelia

  BEING A WARD OF the state taught me some useful things. Inside of me, there's a switch I can flip to rein in my emotions. Anger, sadness, even fear. I learned to shut them away, gather myself in an internal bunker to weather out tough times.

  There was a catch.

  It's impossible to pick and choose emotions, what you want to feel and what you don't. It's all or nothing. And when I shut myself off to everything I don't want, I shut myself off to everything I do want.

  I become a shell.

  Tonight, as I lie in bed, my apartment dark and quiet, I decide I need to bunker down. I can't allow fear to paralyze me. I'd rather feel nothing at all.

  I shut my eyes and will myself to sleep.

  You're on your own.

  The phrase is one I've repeated to myself before, many times throughout my life. Anyone else might find it discouraging, but I find it gives me stre
ngth. Weakness comes from thinking you have a choice, thinking there's a reprieve on the horizon. Strength comes from not having any other choice but to be strong.

  From being on your own.

  Minutes stretch out before me, impossibly long, then turn to hours in the single blink of an eye. Time slips away as I remain frustratingly aware of every nuance in the silence around me. Some hours later, I sink into fragmented dreams where long hallways end at doors with water seeping from under them.

  I dream of my father, of the time he took me to a gun range after school, only this time the gun kept getting jammed. And when a stranger appears out of nowhere, the gun disappears from my hands all together.

  I startle awake and fumble around in the dark to turn on my bedside lamp. Half-drunk with sleep and driven by irrational fears, I pull open the drawer to confirm my gun still lies inside. A 9mm I inherited from my father. It's never once left my bedside drawer. But as I turn off the light and try to go back to sleep, I decide it's time to start carrying it in my purse.

  Thursday morning comes like a cruel and unusual punishment. I lie in bed listening to my alarm, muscles aching in protest as I finally push past the fatigue to get ready for the day. I'm sure I slept less than three hours.

  I think of my gun again, but I can't carry it around today into City Hall. Today, I meet with a shark.

  I go in to work for just an hour before heading to my meeting with the mayor. A cup of coffee sits on the edge of my desk. My stomach grows smaller at the sight of it, of the notecard sitting on top of the single rose. It's a flawless rose, not the putrid one left behind yesterday.

  I sit down just as Caleb walks by. He stops as if caught by a sudden thought and turns to my desk. He eyes me with wariness, as if expecting another outburst. I get the feeling I'm being watched from all sides.

  "Don't bite my head off, but you look tired. Are you all right?" he asks.

  I drag my forearm across the top of the desk, sweeping the coffee, rose, and note right into the trash bin in one swoop. The contents land in a muffled thump and the soft splatter of liquid within its container.

  "I'm great," I say, tone flat.

  He ambles off, unconcerned, and I scan my surroundings. I can't shake the sensation someone's looking at me. But, still, I need to know. I reach into the trash bin and retrieve the notecard. It trembles in my unsteady fingers as I open it.

  It's blank.

  Someone's trying to unnerve me and I'm not going to give them the satisfaction. I toss it back into the trash.

  On my way out of the building, I pass the break room and halt mid-stride by the doorway.

  "Holy shit," I blurt out.

  Kathleen stands in the open refrigerator door. "Hello to you, too," she says, voice slightly muffled by the low hum of the fridge.

  She closes the door and her body comes into full view, revealing that her left arm is in a cast held by a sling over her shoulder. Seeing this stabs me with guilt. She visited the hospital and showed concern for me, but I've been so preoccupied and distracted that I didn't do the same for her.

  She nods to her cast. "Broken. Hurts like a bitch."

  "You're crazy, what are you doing back so soon?"

  "Really? Says the girl who was attacked on Monday?"

  It's like looking into a mirror, witnessing the same unhealthy obsession with the job I can't shake.

  "I'm so sorry, I…I should've called. Are you okay? What happened?"

  "My truck's falling apart, that's what happened."

  "Huh?"

  "Brakes failed. Nearly died of a heart attack more than anything else."

  "Holy shit."

  "You keep saying that." She adjusts the strap of her arm sling, seeming unconcerned by her close call. But her words bathe me in worry that tenses my expression.

  I move past her and grab some water from the dispenser, the cup cool in my hands. I take a casual sip and ask, "Are the police looking into it?"

  "Looking into what?"

  "Why your brakes malfunctioned."

  "I told you. My truck's a piece of shit. It's in the shop every other week for one thing or another."

  Kathleen watches me and I can feel the way my eyes are beady and tired after a long night of tossing and turning in my bed. She's trying to read into my line of questioning, but coming up short.

  "What is it?" she asks.

  I shake my head, a ridiculous worry creeping over me.

  Once again, I'm left to consider whether something is just a coincidence. With how little sleep I've gotten lately, the reasonable part of my brain has to wonder if I'm really losing it.

  Kathleen's brakes malfunction for the first time, right after she offers to give me a ride to work. Really, how can I not find this strange?

  I take another sip of water, the cool liquid flooding my mouth. I swallow, hesitate, then, "Don't you think this is a little weird—your brakes giving out?"

  Stop it. Stop.

  It has nothing to do with you.

  "What are you getting at?" Kathleen's face softens with realization. "You think someone tampered with my brakes?"

  "Did you tell anyone you were picking me up?"

  I don't like to be looked at the way she's looking at me. Like I'm beyond ridiculous, like I'm the punchline to a dark joke, just around the corner.

  "You can't be serious, Amelia." Her head shake is slow and almost pitiful. "Okay, look, I'll call the repair shop right now."

  "You don't have to do that."

  She pulls out her cell phone and starts scrolling through her call log. "No, I missed their call anyway. I'll ask them about it right now and put this to bed."

  I don't stop her. I stand there, waiting. She speaks to someone on the phone, gets put on hold. Then has a short conversation with someone about her repairs. She holds the phone tight to her ear, listening intently and nodding, when suddenly she freezes.

  "Motherfucker." Her face drains of humor as she lowers the phone, eyes fixed on me.

  I see the answer in the fear that flashes across her eyes. The styrofoam cup cracks in my hand where my grip tightens. Silence hangs heavy as we stand there, frozen, for several long seconds.

  "It's possible," she starts, voice low and uncertain, "something snagged my brake lines. And that's where the puncture holes came from."

  I just stare at her, pulling my lower lip into my mouth in what I know isn't a vote of confidence in her theory.

  "Okay, Amelia. I'm listening," she says. The bright white cast encasing her other arm might as well be an exclamation mark on our conversation. "What the hell could my brakes being tampered with have to do with your attack?"

  I look over my shoulder, toward the open break room door, and then back at Kathleen. After a moment more of deliberation, I blow out a breath, head to the door to shut it, and round back on her.

  "I don't know. Nothing makes sense," I say, lowering my voice but speaking quicker. "Someone's out to get me. But not just get me…it's like…" I think of the gifts. "It's like they want to toy with me first."

  "Why you?"

  "It may have to do with a story I'm working on. About…some influential people."

  "Who?"

  "I can't say yet."

  She half-laughs then rubs the space between her eyes. When she straightens, it's clear she's not sold. "I love a conspiracy theory as much as the next girl, but this isn't adding up. Someone puncturing my brakes. For what? To keep me from picking you up? To force you to go—"

  "Go to work alone, and come home alone," I finish automatically. "The night of the attack, it was the first time in months that I'd walked alone to my car after work. I was typically with Sabrina. But Sabrina left early that day and whoever tried to overtake me in that parking lot knew that." I look her square in the eye, conveying the rest of my thoughts wordlessly.

  "No way." Her mouth hangs open, but she shakes her head slowly. "These guys? Yeah, they're competitive, but not like that. Amelia, they wouldn't hurt you for a story. I mean—" She cuts of
f, hesitates. All I can think is, she doesn't understand my point. Then she adds, "Listen, don't take this the wrong way, but you've been through a lot. Are you talking to anyone about it?"

  Her tone says it all. She thinks I'm paranoid.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Amelia

  THE MAYOR'S SMILE IS dazzling. Perfect rows of polished white teeth peek through his smooth lips. His tan, on the other hand, falls a little short, leaning too heavily on orange hues to be genuine.

  "Ms. Woods, thank you for meeting with me."

  "Mr. Mayor," I say, tentative.

  I shake his hand. His eyes shine a grayish blue, to match the gray in his hair. But the smile doesn't sit right with me. There's an edge to his friendliness that makes me squirm. A subtle suggestion.

  "I was surprised when you asked to meet with me," I say, taking a seat on one of the two sofas. He sits across from me, pants hiking up to reveal socks with a playful diamond pattern in purples and greens.

  He notices me looking at them, smiles, and says, "A birthday present from my niece."

  "Ah."

  Without prompting, he gets up and heads to the bookcase lining the wall behind him. His hand hovers between two pictures sitting on one of the shelves before he grabs an ornate black frame and brings it to me.

  "This is her, here." He taps the glass over a picture of a young girl, five maybe six, smiling so wildly for the camera that her eyes are reduced to slits over her pink cheeks. Her dark hair is in a braid that runs from ear to ear. She wears a Girl Scout's uniform and holds hands with the mayor, who stands at her side, beaming down proudly. It's a candid shot, his mouth half-open as though he's about to say something.

  What exactly is he trying to accomplish by bringing up his niece? Am I supposed to look at him differently because an innocent child admires him?

  "She's lovely," I say flatly.

  He sets the picture down on the table between us before sitting back to rest his arm across the frame of his chair. All the while, he doesn't take his eyes off of me.