What She Did

by Veronica Larsen

  "Jesus, woman. Don't you ever answer your phone?"

  I open my mouth to respond, but she holds up a hand. "Never mind that, let's grab lunch. Have you eaten?"

  "I haven't but..." I glance at my watch. "I've been out all morning and I've got so much--"

  "Nope, twenty minutes. You've got to eat and this is work related. I promise, you want to hear what I've got for you."

  She takes my hand and leads me back to the parking lot. I give in and follow her. Once we are both inside her car, she starts the engine and says, "By the way, your security guard is fucking useless. What? He is. He nearly shit his pants when I asked him simple questions."

  "Emily, what questions?"

  "I asked him what he's doing to ensure you don't get attacked again. Just one look at him and I pulled on my rant-y pants. I don't feel like that place is safe. You think they care about beefing up security to make sure it doesn't happen again? Nothing's changed. Sometimes you've got to make a lot of noise to incite even the smallest changes."

  "It's a newspaper, Emily. They've got cameras, and a guard, and--look, he must've thought you were a reporter from another paper or something. Of course he's not going to tell you anything."

  We reach In-n-Out, order our burgers, and sit at one of the outside tables. All the while, I'm aware of the impatience vibrating inside of me, the sense of urgency I carry around all day long, making simple events such as eating a meal with a friend feel like a dangerous waste of time. It's a side effect of my attack, one I just can't shake. The need to move, to do something, to be somewhere.

  I sit as still as I can, I chew without tasting my food, and I look my friend in the eye and, with a calmness I don't feel, I ask, "Anyway, are you going to tell me what you've got for me? You said it was work related."

  "Are you ready to hear this? I don't want you breaking my bones when you jump this table to tackle me with a hug, the one I've always dreamed you'd give me. One that will last longer than three seconds. Are you ready for this?" She pauses for effect. "I know how to get access to the mayor's home office."

  "Seriously?"

  A small smile forms on her lips. She nods, clearly enjoying the way I lean into her.

  "The chief of police is retiring. Mayor Connolly is hosting his retirement party at his house next week, and guess who's invited? Me. Well, not me, Owen. But Owen's bringing me. I can get you those Polaroids."

  I shake my head. "No. Emily, no, I can't ask you to do that."

  "Good thing I'm volunteering."

  "Absolutely not. You could get Owen in trouble. I can't drag you into this, for a story. No."

  I stare past her, my sights falling on the man sitting behind her. Alone. He's facing away from me, dark hair cropped short. Dark blue sweater. His head turns a fraction, giving me the impression he's listening to our conversation.

  I know I'm hypersensitive, but I lower my voice just in case. "But this is good information. Maybe I can get in as press."

  Emily checks over her shoulder, curious as to what I am so intent on seeing. I catch her only in my peripheral, as I keep my eyes fixed on the back of that man's head, daring him to turn and look at us. I want to memorize his face. Just in case.

  "All right, but if you can't find a way in, I can help," Emily offers. "I'm sure I can sneak into his home office without anyone noticing. Although, yeah, you're shorter and all around sneakier..."

  I'm barely listening. The man gets to his feet and the hairs on my arms prickle awake. I'm certain he's going to come to our table. Instead, he greets a blonde woman who comes out of nowhere to give him a kiss before sitting down across from him. She's carrying a baby, who the man takes from her arms.

  The muscles of my face relax and I exhale a trapped breath. Emily looks back again then leans across the table and snaps her fingers in the air in front of me.

  "Hello?"

  "Sorry. What were you saying?"

  Concern is etched on her face. I don't like it. I wish she'd quit looking at me like that. It's been years since I had anyone worry about me like this.

  I tell her not to worry. I tell her I'll figure out a way into the mayor's party. She takes me back to work and I consider apologizing to Dale for Emily's harassment, but he's not behind the desk when I walk past.

  Back at my own desk, I settle my fingers over the keyboard and stare at a blank document on my screen. But slowly, the initial rush of energy I felt after leaving the mayor's office, after what Emily told me, returns. My focus sharpens and my fingers begin to fly across the keyboard, typing up the details I remember from my meeting with the mayor. These are just my own notes, a transcription of my thoughts and impressions, much of which I'm not aware of until I see it in text.

  The mayor doesn't know Susan contacted me, or that she has evidence that could ruin him. If he knew any of this, he wouldn't have wasted time calling me into his office to feel me out. He would rush to plug the leak.

  Leaks.

  Multiple holes, all of his own doing. His boat is sinking and him trying to threaten me? That's just him bleeding into the water.

  His intimidation tactics won't work on me.

  Doesn't he know I'm a shark, too?

  I head to Duncan's office and knock on his already open door. He shakes his head when he sees me, as if he already knows I'm going to ask him for something.

  "What is it now?"

  "The induction of the new chief of police is on Friday. But is there some sort of retirement party for the current chief?"

  Duncan just stares at me for a beat, before returning his attention to the paperwork in front of him. "There is. What are you up to?"

  "A sharp angle."

  He doesn't look up, but shakes his head. "Doesn't matter. Your going isn't a possibility."

  "Why not?"

  "For one, it's not news."

  "It can be."

  "For two," he continues over me, "it's a private event. No press was invited. Anyway, I need you on the transportation strike and I don't recall approving any other assignment. I'm already short-staffed, I don't have time for your whims."

  I stare at him, open my mouth to argue, but think better of it.

  "Sure thing," I say. And before I can stop myself, more words spill from my lips. "I'll be sure to not stumble upon anything important again."

  Duncan sets down his pen, rather forcefully, sending it scattering across his desk. He lets out a sharp exhale, then drags his eyes up to me. The frustration emanating from him is held back just thinly. "Look, I don't give a damn what you do on your own time, Amelia. But if you miss your deadline on your assignments, you're out. I mean it."

  It's not permission, exactly, but it's the closest to an endorsement as I could get from Duncan. I settle behind my desk again and two words keep repeating in my head, private event. Access to the mayor's home office. Party. Drinking. All those city officials properly impaired. It's a goldmine.

  I'm getting into that party.

  But how?

  I twist my chair from side to side as I think, eyes glued to the monitor in front of me, on the picture of the mayor at his latest campaign event, hand up in a wave to the crowd. Then my focus darts to the men standing behind the mayor, uniformed officials just out of focus.

  Of course.

  If Emily's boyfriend was invited, it stands to reason other police officers will be there as well. I just happen to know a detective who's dying to give me peace of mind. Getting into the mayor's home seemed impossible just a few hours ago. Sometimes, impossible is just a barrier. Just another barrier you can climb right over.

  CHAPTER 18

  Amelia

  NOISES FROM OUTSIDE POUR IN to mix with the sounds of exertion from the students in the center of the gym. The man I know to be Travis guides the class, correcting students as he walks between them.

  If there were a war zone in the middle of San Diego, this place would be it. But not a war zone in the traditional sense of the word. Not one riddled with death and destruction, victims an
d villains. This studio is a war zone for fighters. Just fighters. Moving through obstacles and pushing forward at all costs. The sight roots me by the open door.

  It's like this gym exists as a limbo for my worries, holding a promise of something I crave. Control. Over this situation. Over my life. Over what waits for me, out there in the dark.

  The sensation of reprieve is only an illusion.

  And illusions are dangerous.

  Even so, I'm strangely empowered as I step farther inside, allowing the door to shut behind me. Without even trying to, I hone in on Reed. He stands by the office door, arms crossed over his chest, seemingly lost in thought. He stares out past the current class that's in session as though he barely sees them.

  Reed's eyes snap in my direction. His brow furrows for the briefest of seconds before releasing into an expression I'm not at all expecting. Relief? Or is that surprise? Either one is strange considering he's expecting me. I left him a message to meet me here tonight. I expected him to decline, seeing as how I stormed out on him last time. Yet, there he is, not an ounce of resentment in his lingering gaze. Instead, a satisfied energy hovers around his straight lips.

  I move toward the back wall and he nods over to the group of students between us in a silent, let's wait for them to finish.

  I respond with a nod.

  "All right guys, let's run through it one more time," Travis says to the group. "Leonard, I want to see those knees high this time. Let's go."

  He smacks his hands together and the small group of students begins a choreographed routine, moving across the gym floor like a tiny army. Their arms cut through the air in sharp movements, followed by purposeful grunts, and ending with a roundhouse kick before returning to a defensive stance then back to an idle position of their hands behind their backs.

  The group faces away from me, but their reflections in the mirrored wall tells me they are quite satisfied by their own routine. Small smirks form on various lips and a few of them turn their heads slightly to share looks with their friends.

  Travis stands in front of them, serious-faced. Then, his expression melts away to a huge grin as he says, "Hell yeah. That's what I'm talking about." A couple of the kids snicker, probably aware that the phrase isn't one they are allowed to repeat at home. "Let's break for ten then finish up for the day. Go grab some water."

  The kids, each of whom is wearing a brown belt, are all red-faced and visibly worn out, many with their hair matted to the sides of their sweaty foreheads. A copper-headed kid walks past Reed first and the two high five. The other eight boys follow suit as Reed compliments some of them on their form.

  The sight of him is like a mirage at the end of a desert, cool and refreshed in his white button-down shirt, tie loose around his neck like he's getting ready to pull off his suit jacket. Watching the traces of a proud smirk as he interacts with the kids floods me with a fleeting sense of normalcy so soothing that I almost forget what drove me to come back to his studio in the first place.

  When Reed's eyes connect with mine again, his expression falters and I get the urge to look away just to hide the fact that I was staring.

  He walks toward me, unhurried, eyes never leaving mine, and stops just an arm's length away.

  "Detective," I say.

  "Ms. Woods."

  Ms. Woods.

  Here we are again. I've asked him to call me by my first name and he's done the same. Yet, we revert back to formal. Why? Any time I'm around him the energy abuzz in the room brings my senses to collect at a pin. There's familiarity in his gaze, in the way he assesses me as though holding up what he sees to his memory. Still, his posture is very much closed off. He's careful not to stand too close and yet the distance is at odds with what I sense in his eyes.

  "I'm glad you called," he says. "I didn't like how we left things off last time."

  "I tend to get a bit angry when it's implied that I'm a lunatic."

  His demeanor shifts, shoulders lowering just a sliver. I notice, for the first time, that there's a tiny scar on his left eyebrow. The kind that gives just a little bit of an edge to his handsome features.

  "I apologize. Really. Making you feel that way wasn't my intention. I just wanted you to realize there's nothing to be afraid of."

  "My fears aren't yours to decide."

  "I get that. I'm not ignoring them and I'm not dismissing them. I can promise you that."

  He raises a hand to scratch the scar on his brow. There are scars on the backs of his knuckles as well, old white scars, tiny and jagged. My sights move uncontrollably down the line of buttons of his shirt, and I wonder if he has other scars anywhere else on his body.

  His voice falls over me, a notch softer than I've ever witnessed.

  "You've yet to tell me why you wanted to meet me here tonight."

  I tilt up my chin and meet his eyes again, pretending my pride's not lumping up in my throat at what I'm about to say.

  "I can't sleep. You said you wanted to teach me self-defense, and I want to learn. I can't sleep until I know how to break free if someone tries to grab me again. So teach me."

  It's the truth. It may not be the whole truth, but how true the words ring surprises even me.

  "Tonight?"

  "Tonight," I say. "If you're free."

  He looks momentarily surprised by the request. My lips part and his gaze moves to them. His eyes soften just a fraction, the elusive but blatant proof I needed that he finds me attractive.

  Guilt tickles at the back of my mind. Followed by a sudden panic at how utterly nonsensical my plan is. Do I expect this man to melt at my feet, invite me to accompany him to the retirement ceremony? That's assuming he's even going. And assuming if he is going, he'd be going alone.

  Jesus.

  My brain is not firing on all cylinders. How did I not consider any of this? I raced here on the fuel of intrigue and overconfidence. I know nothing about the man. How exactly am I supposed to worm my way into his plans? Seducing him?

  He could be married.

  I steal a glance at his hand, finding his ring finger bare.

  "We can start tonight," he says, "if that will give you peace of mind. But we'll have to wait for this class to be over. Travis is getting them ready for the state championships next month."

  Reed motions over to a short bench that runs along the wall, where two people already sit, scrolling through their phones. Parents, I'm assuming. I sit beside one woman who doesn't even glance at me, and stare out as Travis conducts his class. It's warm in the room, and the rhythmic sounds of the kids' martial arts calls combined with the routine swooshing of fabric cutting through the air lulls my consciousness into submission. I try to fight it, but once my lids find the closed position for just a split second, it's clear the war is lost. I lay my head back against the wall, listening to the increasingly faint noises around me. I close my eyes without witnessing a flash of an unpleasant memory, without the sickening clench in my stomach that warns me of what's to come, without the frantic heartbeats that rise with the acknowledgment of the unknown dangers ahead. I close my eyes, just for a second, and slip into a thousand more.

  "Hey." At first it's just a sound, not a word or anything I can attach meaning to. Not until I hear it again. "Hey."

  I stir, then jolt upright, my eyes springing open, arms swinging up in front of me.

  "It's all right," Reed says.

  He comes into focus as he bends over to bring his gorgeous face level to mine. The class is over, the last of the students heading out of the door now, accompanied by their parents. Travis is pulling a large gym bag over his shoulders, casting a curious glance in our direction before leaving as well.

  "Are you sure you want to do this tonight?" Reed asks, and at my confusion he adds, "Have you seen yourself?"

  He watches me in silence, sights hovering over my face where I'm sure he can tell my exhaustion hides behind a thin layer of makeup. His words pull down hard on strands of insecurity that shouldn't exist in the context of this conve
rsation. They shouldn't exist because I shouldn't care what this man thinks of me. But to say that I can stand here in front of this attractive guy and not care that he's basically insinuating I look like shit...well, would be a lie. Vanity is one hell of a buoyant creature. It rises to the surface even in the most turbulent of times. And here it is now.

  I turn to the mirrored plaque hanging on the wall beside me. My reflection makes me cringe internally. Damn it. The little makeup I'm wearing just seems to add to my exhausted appearance. The bruises on my neck are clearly visible, peeking out from the top of my jacket. My lips look more swollen than usual, telling me I may have been biting them without realizing. It's not so much any of those things that make me look so bad, it's the expression in my eyes. The fatigue.

  This was a bad plan, all around. I'm in no shape to charm anyone into anything. The warm wash of insecurity comes over me and my spirits sink a few degrees.

  He seems to regret what he said. Or, at least, the dismissive way he said it. A bit more apologetically, he adds, "What I mean is, we can pick this up tomorrow evening, no problem."

  I stand a little straighter.

  "No," I say. "If we're going to do this, we start tonight."

  CHAPTER 19

  Amelia

  EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS SHOULD SCREAM bad idea, but I wouldn't be here if I weren't comfortable with the thought of us being alone. After all, isn't this the nature of a private lesson?

  "I didn't anticipate a lesson tonight," he says, indicating his attire. He removes his navy suit jacket and heads to the far wall to hang it on a hook. He keeps his back to me, unbuttoning his shirt cuffs and rolling up his sleeves. The white fabric of his button down stretches across his broad back and around his arms.

  He turns to face me, dropping his arms to hang loosely at his sides.

  Focus.

  "If you didn't think I called to meet about a lesson," I ask, "What did you expect, then?"

  I say this with a sliver of playfulness creeping into my tone, to test the waters.

  In response, his energy only grows a shade more detached. He's wound tight. There's a battle behind his eyes, between wanting to help me and wanting to keep his distance.