The General

by Gadziala, Jessica

"I'm sure I could find it somewhere."

  "I'm with you on the colored lights, though. Christmas should be full of color," he told me, folding up the table, slipping it away, closing the closet door. And the moment suddenly felt over.

  That stab of disappointment in my belly, yeah, I was going to ignore that.

  "You must be exhausted," I said as we moved back into the hallway. And, upon closer inspection, he looked it too. His eyes were small, his skin pale. He was going almost two full days without rest.

  "I'm starting to feel it," he agreed as we moved down the stairs, making our way toward the kitchen where the junk food - and his luggage - was situated.

  I'd missed it last time, sitting beside the back door - a giant sand-colored duffle bag under an identical - but more beaten up - green one. The telltale garment bags hanging over a chair must have been the suits Bertram told him to wear.

  I generally liked a man in a suit - it was classic, gentlemanly. But there was something about Smith in his rugged clothes that appealed to me perhaps more than a suit. Though there was a part of me that definitely wanted to see how a body like his could hang a suit.

  "I'm sorry about the suits," I told him when he caught me staring.

  "Don't worry about it. You wouldn't believe how many clients demand it actually. Even just to be in their presence, not just for special events."

  "It's ridiculous that we both have to wear a uniform just to live in my house."

  "Speaking of," he said, latching onto that. "When you get dressed tomorrow, get dressed like you normally would. Do your hair. But don't put makeup on."

  "Why?"

  "A grieving widow might want some normalcy during her grief. Might get dressed to greet guests. But she wouldn't be ashamed of her cuts and bruises in this sort of situation."

  "Right," I agreed, nodding. "Got it."

  "Don't stress about it. It might be a long day, but you are in control now. Remember that."

  "Thank you," I told him, giving him a nod I didn't quite feel.

  Because, well, it didn't quite feel like I had control of anything yet. I was still walking on eggshells, hushing my voice in fear of being overheard by staff, worrying what my social circle - and especially Bertram - would think. Compared to all of that, washing my sheets before bed and hiding snack food wrappers deep in the garbage felt like a silly, childish illusion of freedom.

  But at least my sheets smelled like fresh laundry detergent, fabric softener, and dryer sheets instead of Teddy's expensive cologne.

  It was the first night in years I fell asleep quickly and easily.

  It was Maritza who woke me, well after nine in the morning, knocking, then bringing in tea that she always refused to put sugar into. Even now.

  "Missus, I think there might be some guests today," she told me, walking into my room while I was in it like she owned the place, something that she never would have done if Teddy were around, something that would have gotten her fired, in fact. But because it was me, spineless, tongue-tied me, she moved across the space, drawing open the dark blinds, letting in the harsh morning sun, made all the brighter by the fresh dusting of white snow covering everything that could be seen. "You might want to consider dressing. I know you have had a shock, but it is probably best to get back to life. Mr. Ericsson would have wanted that."

  A shock.

  Those didn't sound like her words. Those sounded like Bertram.

  So she was in touch with him behind my back.

  Lovely.

  That was just lovely.

  My teeth ached from how hard I had to grind them together to keep from snapping at her about how I could dress however I damn well pleased in my own house.

  "Of course. If she hasn't already, could you tell Lydia to throw some baked goods in the oven? Madeleines or something."

  Not that any of my guests would actually eat them. Everyone was keto now. Just like last year, everyone was gluten-free. And the year before that, it was all about paleo. Mediterranean. French. Cabbage soup.

  Another year, another fad diet that would never last. It was exhausting to even think about it. Quite frankly, now that I could, I didn't care if I got as round as the goddamn sun.

  "Yes, ma'am," Maritza said, moving out of the bedroom, leaving me alone to slide open my nightstand, unraveling the bag of chips I had mostly devoured the night before, taking a handful and eating it before I went about my morning routine.

  Half an hour later, I was showered, hair dried, sitting at my vanity in off-white silk slacks and a fitted navy sweater, looking at my reflection, trying to tamp down the small swelling of insecurity.

  The scratches had scabbed over. The one on my split lip had peeled off in my sleep, just leaving a small pink line through my lower lip. The bruising was the worst - stark blue against my skin that was paler than usual. Maybe due to worry and the diet of junk food. I had a brilliant black eye still. A purple smudge across one cheekbone. And then there were the fingerprint bruises at my throat. Luckily, the ones on my arm were covered by my sleeve.

  It would take just a few swipes.

  Just a couple dabs of the special makeup I kept in the drawer of my vanity meant for just this purpose. A couple dabs and swipes and no one would ever know there was a bruise there. I'd been doing it for years.

  Who would have thought that that would be a hard habit to break?

  Vanity had a way of making even rational people ridiculous.

  I sighed, standing, slipping my feet into blue ballet flats, and making my way downstairs.

  And almost fell down them.

  My brain, not quite ready to accept my new reality, saw Teddy.

  And my heart just about gave out.

  "Whoa, you alright, sweetheart?" a male voice called.

  Not Teddy.

  Smith.

  And, sure enough, the figure standing in the doorway to Teddy's library was not Teddy. It was Smith. In a black suit.

  And, oh, yeah, it looked good on him. Better than I could have imagined. He had the perfect wide shoulders, solid center, and height for one. The tailoring was perfect too, the material good. His shirt underneath was slate. There was no tie and the topmost button was left open - a tiny rebellion I found myself liking more than I should have.

  "Yeah, sorry. I just got a little light-headed," I fibbed.

  "You haven't been eating anything of sustenance," he said as I got to the bottom step. "Let's get you some breakfast. I asked Lydia to make some eggs. Actually, I said I was going to, and she shooed me out of the kitchen saying it was her job. We'll have her throw some extra on for you."

  So we did.

  And I insisted he eat in the dining room with me which got me looks of disapproval from Maritza and Lydia who clearly thought it was inappropriate, that he was staff and should eat in the kitchen.

  But, just this once, I didn't care.

  So we ate over-easy eggs with toast and bowls of fruit in stony, uncomfortable silence, both of us all-too-aware of Maritza constantly moving by the room to see if she could catch any snippet of conversation.

  The bell rang when I was halfway through my fruit.

  "So it begins," Smith said, piling his plates for Lydia to take when she rushed out of the kitchen with Maritza who was spraying air freshener around, grumbling about the house smelling like eggs.

  "So it begins," I agreed with an utter lack of enthusiasm.

  The next three hours were a blur of fake condolences, prying questions, and pretend crying when I needed to steer the conversation away.

  When one crowd left, another seemed to trickle in.

  Until there was only a trio left, and two of them needed to get going for very important facial visits, leaving only Maren hanging behind.

  Maren was the woman who none of the other women liked. Independently wealthy, unmarried, beautiful in a natural way.

  She was nearly six feet with a Victoria Secret model body - long legs, thin waist, wider hips, big breasts, and a high butt. Her long chestnut hair casca
ded carelessly down her back, framed her face full of sharp features and large brown eyes. She had never, in all my experience in seeing her, worn a stitch of makeup.

  "I know this is wildly inappropriate of me," she said, stopping in the doorway of the living room, turning back to face me. "But good riddance."

  "I'm sorry?" I asked, shocking back a bit from the harshness in her tone more so than the words themselves.

  "See, Jenny. My mom used to get her ass handed to her by her ne'er do well husband. I know all about those bruises you hid so well under all that makeup. And I know how many women he hit on when your back was turned. So maybe this was a shock for you, but good fucking riddance. You can finally be free of that asshole. One little bit of advice, though, hon," she said, having turned to walk away, but spinning back, leaning closer. "Fire the staff. Change the passwords. If you really want control over your life, you need to pry the senator's grip off of the controls."

  And with that, she was gone, her five-inch boots clicking all the way down the hall and entryway before the front door slammed, and I could vaguely hear her car rumbling to life.

  "What's wrong?" Smith asked, appearing out of nowhere, having been mostly a ghost, just a shadow in the distance, for the past several hours.

  "Maren knew that Teddy beat me," I heard myself whisper, moving further into the room in case some of the staff was around. With their rubber-soled shoes, it was almost impossible to hear them coming most of the time.

  "Because of the whole Mallick thing?"

  Ugh.

  That name always felt like a gut punch, knocking out all my air, making guilt like I could never explain flood my system.

  He'd saved me.

  And he was rewarded by having his freedom taken away.

  I had lied in court.

  Under oath.

  I'd go to hell for that whole situation, I knew it. It was my first-class ticket down into the underworld where the Devil himself would spend eternity making me suffer.

  "Hey," Smith's voice called, sounding far away. It wasn't until his hand closed around my elbow that I seemed to shock back out of my own thoughts.

  "Sorry. I'm just... not feeling great today," I admitted.

  "Here, sit," he said, leading me by my elbow over to the couch, helping lower me down. "Is it because of Maren?" he asked.

  "No. No. I was surprised she knew. But she was more... telling me I was free now. And told me to fire the staff and change the passwords because the senator still has his... hands on the controls of my life."

  "I think I should look into Maren. It's not a name I recognize. What's her last name?"

  "Banks. Maren Banks. She is independently wealthy. She's more on the outskirts of the social circles. Goes to the charity events because she genuinely wants to help, not to rub elbows."

  "Interesting. Quin will want to know about her. Do you think she... suspects an..."

  "No. No. She just was happy that I can take control of my life now."

  "Aren't we all?" he said. And, what's more, he meant it. "And she is absolutely right. Soon. You just have to hold on a while longer. Then your life will be yours again."

  But right then, it belonged to the wealthy upper echelon of Navesink Bank.

  The next three days went almost exactly the same.

  I dressed. Ate breakfast with Smith. Entertained guests until almost dinner time. Choked down some of Lydia's dinner, then said goodbye to the staff.

  Them leaving was my favorite part of the day. Because Smith would order in Chinese or pizza. And we would eat out of the box or cartons right there in the family room in front of the TV, watching shows he recommended because I could never pick anything, commenting on things as we did so, occasionally just talking about life in general between episodes for long enough that bedtime came long before I wanted it to.

  And he went off to his room.

  And I went off to mine.

  Each day became a torturously slow parade that eventually led to the perfect grand finale.

  Time alone with Smith.

  And the morning of New Year's Eve, I woke up, lying in bed with a new, unexpected, though not wholly unwelcome, thought.

  I wonder what it would be like for him to kiss me at midnight.

  FIVE

  Smith

  There was a kidnapping in Navesink Bank.

  And my awful ass thought was Oh, that works in our favor.

  And I was going to hell for that.

  But it was true.

  Even Senator Ericsson couldn't lean on the NBPD too hard since they were all-hands-on-deck trying to chase down leads about where she might be. And, as anyone who watched any kind of crime TV show knew - real or scripted - they knew that first twenty-four hours was vital.

  That, along with trying to keep the masses calm on one of the craziest party nights of the year all but ensured that just about everyone forgot about Theodore Ericsson.

  At least for the time being.

  From what Lincoln could get from some of our contacts inside the police department, no one was even looking at Jenny anyway.

  "Well, if it isn't my favorite fixer in the whole world," Gala greeted me after I waited on line for fifteen minutes. They really needed more staff with how popular the place was, but I imagined Gala and Jazzy's speed wasn't for everyone. Even now, on one of the more exciting nights of the year, were they playing New Year's type music? Nope. They were deep in a Alice in Chains hole. And it was loud.

  I had left Jenny with Lincoln after he came over to fill me in since Quin was serious about us not having much of any of this case communicated via text, figuring if we were going to be stuck in, it was time to stock up on some things. Snacks. A bottle of champagne that I didn't mention, but was hoping she didn't find completely inappropriate.

  This new year was a new beginning for her, after all.

  Then I ordered Chinese and while I waited, figured I would hit up She's Bean Around.

  I was under strict orders to be back in under an hour. And I planned a quick drop by my house to pick up something. Which was cutting it close. But Lincoln's date could wait.

  It was important.

  "I have a feeling you say that to everyone in the office," I told her, shaking my head.

  "I sure do. But you know I only mean it when I am talking to you," she told me with what could only be called a smolder in her eye. But this was Gala. She smoldered like most people smiled. On cue. Knee-jerk.

  "Jazz, get this woman a man, would you?"

  "You are sadly mistaken if you think just because she has a man, she will stop flirting with everything with two legs and a penis. Well, the legs are even optional," Jazzy told me, stepping fully away from the drink she was preparing to talk to me, not caring if it meant the customer had to wait a moment longer.

  Such was the atmosphere of She's Bean Around.

  "I noticed you stopped flirting," I observed.

  "What? Because of him?" she asked, jerking her chin toward my other side where I turned to find Detective Lloyd sidling in by me.

  Detective Lloyd.

  He was on her case. Not the lead, but on it regardless.

  "Lloyd," I said, nodding my head at him as Jazzy made him a black coffee with one hand while mixing the previous drink with another, popping lids on both simultaneously.

  "Smith," he said back, giving Jazzy a warm smile, their fingers brushing on the cup as he did so.

  "I hope you're having some luck on that missing little girl."

  There was a pained look in his eye at that, at knowing the clock was running down. "Thanks. How's your detail going?"

  "Detail?" I asked, stiffening a bit. Hopefully only on the inside. The man had eyes like an eagle.

  "Your new security gig," he said, giving me a knowing look. "Beaten widows, of course, need protecting," he added, but there was an edge to the words I knew not to trust. Like he knew something. And I couldn't tell what that might mean. "Are you ordering for the two of you?" he asked, nodding toward Gala wh
o was leaned on the counter, her chin in her hand, watching us aptly, completely unconcerned that the line, once again, was out the door.

  "Right. Black coffee. Tea with regular sugar."

  "Black tea?"

  "Ah... I guess? Hers say Stash on them..." I offered, feeling a bit lost.

  "Probably black then," Gala decided, moving away to make them while I tossed a twenty their way, knowing they had a long ass night ahead of them. There was no partying on their horizon. Not that Jazzy would want to be home anyway with Lloyd pulling all-nighters until the girl was found.

  "Smith," Lloyd said, voice a bit low, like he didn't want to be overheard.

  "Yeah?"

  "You can tell her to breathe," he said, giving me a knowing look. "There's not a single lead. The case will be cold in a week, connections or not. She can start moving on. There will be no... issues." His words were careful, but his tone pointed.

  He knew.

  He one-hundred-percent knew.

  And he wanted to reassure me that he wasn't going to act on that knowledge.

  "Were you in town with the Mallick thing?" he asked, voice so low it could almost be called a whisper.

  "No."

  "I had to question that woman who had to spend a couple days in the hospital for what that fuck of a husband did to her. She could barely speak her jaw was so bruised, her back teeth loose, her eye was swollen shut. He damn near knocked her unconscious. And in my line of work, you learn things about domestic abuse. Namely if it happens once, it will happen again. And that woman was trapped. And likely spent the last decade or more enduring more of that. I think you and I both know that sometimes the justice system isn't just. So it is better for some of us to focus elsewhere."

  He was going to let it go, despite knowing there was a murder. For a detective that had been by-the-book when he first joined the force, it seemed like he was starting to take a page out of Collings' book as he got more seasoned, understanding the intricate workings of our town, that some things were worth looking over in search of worse evil.

  "Well, you know, some hunches are wrong anyway," I agreed, shrugging. "We can't chase down all of them."