To get there I had to take the train back up to the Loop again then transfer to a bus. This time I was fully aware and present for the trip, and paid special attention to the scenery along the way, to try and get a sense of how the city had changed. I needed to get to know the new Chicago.
Traffic on the expressway seemed as thick as ever, but somehow more smooth, with driverless cars shifting and flowing in a steady stream. You'd see a few eddies and whorls caused by the rogue drivers in older vehicles or who chose to drive their own commute, but the overall traffic pattern didn't seem to give them much leeway to make a nuisance of themselves.
The industrial buildings on the south side were large and featureless. The older buildings, warehouses and factories, had a neglected look to them, with boarded-over windows and overgrown landscaping, while the newer structures forewent windows and lawns altogether, blending into a concrete sameness broken only by sporadic graffiti. Many of the structures sported reflective solar panels on the roofs.
The further north the train rode the more prevalent the advertising became, and as we shifted from industrial to commercial the buildings became taller, leaner, more aesthetic. I saw more buildings like Greg's, serving as animated billboards, at least until the train went underground.
An interesting note: I didn't have to use my card to get onto the train. Or rather, the CTA station automatically drew its fare from the card in my pocket, without me having to pull it out or swipe it or anything. Transferring to the bus at the Roosevelt station was the same way, with the added thrill of a driverless bus. There wasn't even a seat for a driver.
From the Loop my bus headed west, through Little Italy (which looked much the same as it had in 2015) and the Medical District (which was all new gleaming buildings and state of the art medical facilities). The FBI's three building complex was sleek and modern looking to me, but archaic compared to the structures in the medical district.
Finding Lonnie's office wasn't difficult, and to be honest it was just what I'd expected from my impressions of its resident. Scarcely larger than a walk-in closet, windowless, and containing little more than his desk and a chair for me to sit in.
"Thank you for coming down," Lonnie said, wiping coffee-cake crumbs off of his mustache. He had a second little piece, but didn't offer it to me.
"You said it was important."
He nodded, still chewing, and opened his desk's drawer. He flipped through a number of files before drawing out a folder that had my name scrawled over its tab.
"Surprised it's not digital," I said.
"They'll get around to it." He closed the drawer and opened the folder. "Especially now that you're no longer missing."
"Anything new?" I asked.
He grinned. "I was hoping you'd have something to tell me. Remember anything yet?"
"Not really." I wondered if I should tell him about flipping over the railing or buying the gun.
"Okay." He scrawled a short word in my file, then closed it. "Thank you for coming down."
My jaw dropped. "That's it?" That couldn't be it.
"Hey, you don't remember anything, you don't remember anything."
"No, that's why you called me down here?" Heat blossomed in my cheeks, and I felt myself pulling back, into myself, while a frustrated anger surged and strained to be released.
He seemed surprised. "Well if you had remembered something there'd be more—"
"You could have just called and asked!"
His brow furrowed. "That's not how we do things, Ms. Crawford."
"What do you even do here?" I watched myself stand, knocking my chair over backwards.
"What do I do here?" He pulled open his drawer. "I have thirty different cold cases on my docket, Ms. Crawford. Of which you are only one. I don't know what you're expecting me to do." The little shit actually sounded offended.
"Sorry! I didn't realize this was the Federal Bureau of Sitting On Your Fat Fucking Ass. Shouldn't you be out, I don't know, Investigating?" I felt the urge to throttle him. Was I going to assault a Federal Agent in his own office?
His face darkened to a beet red. He stood, teeth bared. "I. Am. An. Analyst. I analyze data. If you don't give me any data, how the hell do you expect me to analyze it?"
"I expect you to—"
The door to one of the other offices down the hall opened, and a young man in a dark suit stepped into the hallway. "Is there a problem here? Agent Park?"
We both stared at the Agent, and then each other. Almost instantly, I felt myself backing down, felt that anger returning to its place deep inside me.
"No," Agent Park muttered.
I dropped my eyes, ashamed and horrified by my sudden outburst. "I'm sorry." I grabbed my jacket off of the back of his chair.
"No wait," Lonnie held out a hand. "I'm sorry, Ms. Crawford. I shouldn't have... you have every right to be upset. I'm the Agent, I should be the professional one. I know you've been through a lot."
"It's okay."
"No, listen." He lowered his voice. "I shouldn't tell you this, but my job, I'm not investigating your case. That's not what I do. I'm just here to take your statement, to check in with you every so often."
"Then who is investigating my case? Is anybody?"
"I honestly don't know. I was assigned your case two years ago as part of a batch of cold cases to do routine maintenance on. To be perfectly honest, I think they've forgotten it's been assigned to me."
"I see."
"The calls I make are logged. That's why I asked you to come here. That's why I've been leaving you texts from my personal account."
"You think that if they see you calling me they'll take the case from you."
"It's the first interesting case I've been attached to since I started working here." He glanced at the door to his office. "Listen. I'll... make some inquiries. If I hear anything I'll let you know. And if you remember anything..."
"You'll be the one I come to."
"Thank you. And again, I'm sorry."
"It's okay," I said. "Thank you for being so understanding."
"And if you need help with anything else... well. You have my number."
Another ally. I felt a burst of actual optimism. "Thank you, Lonnie."
***
Confused thoughts swirled through my head as I headed back to the bus stop. Was the FBI investigating me? If not, why hadn't they officially contacted me with questions?
Maybe they didn't have to. Maybe they were just watching me. My ChicagoCard left an electronic footstep every time I used it. Every time I got on the train or took the bus. Every time I passed an advertisement, as far as I knew.
My limited research had shown me that the Internet was tiered. Nearly free at the bottom layer, the public Internet provided as a service, but you could buy access to more exclusive networks with faster connection and greater privacy. If you could afford it.
I could not. Anyone with the resources... from marketers to the police... could find out anything they wanted from the data trails I left behind.
Then how had I managed to stay off the radar for the last decade? What secrets to anonymity had I forgotten? What wasn't the FBI telling me?
And my actions. My reactions. I know that depersonalization could make me feel distant, feel like I was just watching myself, but that genuinely hadn't felt like me. I'd never have yelled at him like that. Even when at my most upset, even when dealing with obstinate clients, I'd have kept my cool, been subtle, worked him like he was a problem. That anger, that direct attack... it just wasn't me.
I was halfway back to the Loop when the call came in on my ChicagoCard, so wrapped up in introspection that I almost missed it. From Baxter. Took a moment to compose myself, then held the plastic slip up to my face and thumbed the contact button.
"Hey, what's up?"
"Oh, hey, Erica." The voice coming from the card was clear and resonant. I'd seen people talking on their cards before, and knew that the other people on the train would only be able to hear my half of the conversati
on. "I was just checking to see if you were free tonight, wanted to get together after work."
"I had an appointment," I said, stopping myself before telling him it was with the FBI. "With my caseworker. Just got out."
"Oh, right. How's that going?"
"Complicated." I didn't lie. "I could use a drink."
"Want to get together?"
It was tempting. I really didn't want to go home and deal with those punk kids in my building. And I needed something to distract myself from the alienation I'd been feeling. But I really couldn't afford to spend any more money, now that I knew there wasn't some golden job coming from Matthews. "Well..."
"Dinner and drinks. My treat."
"Your treat? You're on."
He laughed. "How does Roasted Gold sound? Seven?"
I glanced down at myself. I'd shown up for my appointment in the outfit I'd bought for my interview with Greg. Baxter had already seen it, but it was the only nice clothes I had, and it'd do for dinner. "Where's it at?"
"Streeterville."
"That sounds spendy?"
He laughed again. "I told you I'd pay. Don't worry about it."
"Fine. Meet you at seven."
I disconnected with a sigh. I really didn't like depending on people, mooching off of them, but it was quickly becoming a reality of my existence. Hopefully I'd be able to find a decent job soon.
***
Roasted Gold was even more upscale than I'd feared. It was on the 59th floor of one of the newer buildings on the lakefront, an outdoor-only place on a balcony terrace jutting out from the structure's otherwise clean lines.
"What do they do when it rains?" I'd asked.
"There's a nearly invisible screen above us," Baxter said. "And windshields on the side."
They had staff. Real staff, unlike the casual places I'd tried. Not just waiters either — bartenders, hostesses, the whole deal. Even dressed in my nicest outfit, I felt crude and out of place. It seemed like too much for a casual dinner, but Baxter was in good humor, and I guess his orthodontic practice was doing well for itself. I refused to feel guilty over the potential cost of my penne.
"So how did your meeting with Matthews go?"
"Don't ask."
His face fell. "Oh no."
"Yeah."
"Shit."
"Yeah."
"So what are you going to do?"
"My caseworker suggested that I see if Greg can find me work in a related industry. Say, you're not hiring are you?"
"Oh yeah, that'd go over well. Hey, honey, do you mind if I hire my ex-girlfriend to work the front desk?"
I laughed. "She wouldn't take that well?"
"No. No, she would not."
"Jealous type?"
"June's funny," Baxter said. "About certain things. But how's your case worker? Helpful?"
"Yeah, he's okay." If Baxter didn't want to talk about his wife, I didn't want to talk about my crush. "Says he can get me into a job placement service if Greg can't find me anything."
"So what's like pharmaceutical marketing but not pharmaceutical marketing... what about a pharmacy?"
"You need licensing to be a pharmacist."
"What about just... working the counter?"
"Retail? Baxter, I don't need VP level industry connections to get a job as a cashier."
"Call center?"
"Eww, no."
"Well, if you're going to shoot down all my ideas..."
I laughed and lightly slapped his arm.
The waitress came back with the check. "Can I get you anything else?"
Baxter blocked it with his arm so I couldn't see, slipped his card into the jacket. Was that another sign of luxury? Taking the card up to the front instead of just scanning it? Maybe that was part of the experience. "We're going to have a few drinks over at the bar. Can you start us a tab?"
She smiled and nodded, slipping away.
"To the bar?" Baxter asked.
We linked arms and headed over.
"Can we get some Moscato?" he asked the tender.
"Actually, could I get an Old Fashioned?" The words just slipped out of my mouth.
Baxter looked as surprised as I felt. "Since when do you drink Whiskey?"
"I don't know." I let out a nervous laugh. These moments of... I don't know what, my forgotten past bleeding into my daily life... were becoming more frequent. Maybe I did need a therapist.
Baxter watched me intently as the bartender served my drink. "Go ahead."
I smiled around the straw. "I'm going."
"Stop stalling."
"I'm not stalling." I took a long sip. The whiskey was cool on my tongue and hot going down my throat, but it wasn't a painful heat, more of a pleasant spice. And it was smooth. Very smooth. "Wow."
"Wow good or wow bad?"
"Wow." It was... I don't know. It didn't taste like the kind of thing I'd enjoy, and yet I did. There was a heat left on my tongue that spread all the way to my chest, then back up my spine to the pleasure centers of my brain. "That's good."
Baxter laughed and slapped the bar. "Erica Crawford a whiskey drinker."
"What's so funny about that?"
"It's just not... you."
"What's me, then?"
"I don't know. Fruity drinks girl. Margaritas and Mai Tais. Fun drinks."
"I like this better." It felt more serious. Margaritas were fun, sure, but I had a lot to do, and not a lot of resources to do it with. Whiskey just felt like more of a serious business drink, and if I was going to get by I had to be a serious business girl. I took another sip.
"So tell me about your wife," I said. "The woman who snapped you up when I went away.
He winced. "I don't want to complain your ear off."
"Trouble in paradise?" I have to admit a petty satisfaction. I'd loved Baxter. Still loved him, I guess, though I had accepted that he'd moved on. I wanted him to be happy, of course. Just... not with anyone else.
"It hasn't been paradise for a long time," Baxter said. "Look, I don't want to vent–"
"I don't mind." I took a long sip of my drink, then signaled the bartender for another.
"The honeymoon ended shortly after the honeymoon ended. I think we rushed things, you know? It wasn't easy to give up on finding you, even after a few years, and then June came along... I wanted to lose myself in someone else. Only instead of being a rebound, it turned into a relationship."
"Poor boy," I said, swinging on my stool, biting the end of my straw.
He turned towards me, knees brushing against mine. "I didn't mean to get so wrapped up. If I was thinking straight... I would have seen the signs earlier."
"Signs?"
"June's a lot like you. Only not so much. You're supportive, she's pushy. You're ambitious, she's scheming. All I wanted was my Erica back, and before I knew it, I was married."
Guilt sent a pang through my core. "God, Baxter, I'm so sorry."
He slid a warm hand over mine, his gaze holding me still. "It's not your fault, sweetheart. You didn't choose whatever happened to you. It's not your fault I couldn't let go."
His voice grew tinny, distant, and the guilt I felt was smothered in what felt like a cotton cloud. It was easier to assent, to go with Baxter, to just let things happen. Not to sleep with him, but to return to my life with him, to get our life back. I wanted to wake up next to him in our duplex, not in some crummy West Chicago block housing. And the thought of him trapped in a loveless marriage with an inferior version of me... it was almost too much to take. The whiskey burned in my stomach and buzzed in my brain.
His blue eyes burned into me. "I thought I could handle it. Keep it together. I thought I'd killed the part of myself that wanted more. But then you show up again out of nowhere, reminding me of the love I once had... and it's not enough anymore. June's not enough."
I could hear his words, and while I understood what he was saying, they didn't really mean anything. I just stared at him, watching in fascination, knowing where this was heading but
unable to change its course.
"I need more. I need you."
"Do you have a place we can go?" Who'd said that? Did I say that?
Baxter smiled, pushed back his chair, and stood. "Let's get out of here."
I watched as my body stood, as I let him guide me back into my jacket, as he led me from the dining area with a firm hand in the small of my back. This was what I wanted, wasn't it? Baxter? A return to what I'd lost? Sure, he was married, but he'd been clear that he wasn't happy. I wasn't happy. It was okay for us to make each other happy, right?
I was too numb to decide, too distant from what was happening to my body to object. Following along was the path of least resistance, so I walked with him to the elevator. Part of me wanted to stop, another part was excited to accompany him, but their conflict was as distant and muffled as anything else, as incomprehensible as whatever it was Baxter was saying to me.
CHAPTER 9: JUMP CUT
Baxter kisses me in the elevator, puts his hands on me, but I don't realize it until the doors open up to the parking garage. My awareness of what's going on is lagging behind us by several degrees. I don't know if I kissed him back. I guess I must have, because he seems pretty pleased with the way things are going.
***
We're down in the garage, next to the elevator, and his hand's up my skirt. I'm chewing on the side of his neck. The lights here are bright white, and everything is casting sharp shadows. I can feel the cold concrete under my bare feet — apparently I've taken off my pumps.
***
We're moving again, heading to the car. Going from up against the wall with a hand up my skirt to crossing the garage is disorienting, and I stumble. Baxter must think it's the whiskey, because he just laughs and helps me up. I want to explain to him what's happening, that I'm skipping through time, but cannot deviate from what is to happen.
Can not or will not.
***
At his car now. Baxter fumbles with his keys, and I lean back against the hood. It's expensive, I think, more smooth curves than sharp angles and a white finish with silver trim. Two seats. It doesn't seem like a family man's car. Maybe it's a rental?
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