by E. R. Whyte
“Sure.” He nods, tapping his fingers on the desk as I turn my attention back to his work. He has good ideas, but the writing needs help. There’s something peculiar about it. I tilt my head, considering, and jot a few recommendations down before handing the notebook back to Gunner.
“It’s not bad, Gunner, but I think if you try those things I wrote, it’ll help. You’ve got the right ideas, but it looks like you’re struggling to express it.”
Gunner nods. “Pretty much, yeah.” Then he stands, nodding toward the coffee. “I got it for you. You look like you needed it. It’s safe.”
He leaves me sitting in dumbfounded silence. Why would he do that?
As he looks back at me when he reaches his desk, I gather my wits long enough to mouth ‘thank you’ and pick up the coffee. I smile at him as I take my first sip of the steaming liquid.
I’m troubled, though, and the smile doesn’t reach my eyes. Gunner is paying entirely too much attention to me. He shouldn’t be noticing things like whether his teacher has caffeinated enough, or if she’s not feeling well. It occurs to me that he’s not thinking of me as just his teacher, though, and I have to wonder at his motives.
On the other hand, if the gesture is genuine, it has to be the single-most, sweetest damn thing anyone has done for me in… well, ever.
13
Shiloh
Twiggy is just finishing up when I get home in the early afternoon. She has a serious expression on her face and gestures at an assortment of electrical looking objects spread out over the coffee table.
“We have a definite issue,” she greets. “This is what we located after conducting a sweep.” A tall, reedy looking guy pokes his head into the room and waves before disappearing into the kitchen.
“What is all this stuff?” Moving to the table, I reach out a hand to touch one of the items, but Twiggy slaps it away.
“We have to dust for prints, babe. Hands off. It’s fairly standard spyware. Listening devices, cameras that we found in your outlets and fixtures, that sort of thing.” As her words set in, the hand that Twiggy swatted starts to shake, and I shove it deep in my pocket. All of this stuff was here, in my house. Little electrical eyes and ears, observing me chew my food, use the bathroom, get dressed, talk on the phone… it makes my stomach churn.
“Did you get them all?” I ask.
“I think so, but it’s impossible to tell without more sophisticated tech, which I don’t have.” Her face is set in a sober expression. “You need to think about calling the police. And you should stay somewhere else tonight, Shiloh. If someone has gone to this much trouble to surveil you, I don’t think it’s safe for you to be here by yourself until you figure out who that is.”
I nod, but my head is spinning. Who would I stay with? And I can’t call the police. They’ll dig this time, start asking questions about my job. “I can’t call the police, Twiggy. I already went that route, and it didn’t help. But I appreciate the information. I’ll take precautions.” I sit down on the couch and stare at the things spread out on the table, steepling my fingers in front of my face. “How much do I owe you?”
Twiggy waves the question off and sits down beside me. “I literally work for donuts, Shy. I don’t need the money. The only time I charge is when I have to pay someone else. But I do want to know why you won’t call the police. Even if you reported something before, you need to make sure everything is on record so we can catch this guy.”
“I just can’t.”
“Shiloh.” The stern tone in her voice forces my gaze to her instead of my hands. “Does this have anything to do with your job at Kendrick’s?”
I blink. “How did you…?”
“I know everything. Don’t ask how; I won’t tell you. But you should know that I’m not the only one who knows.”
I think back to the eighteen-year-old at the peep show the other night and sigh. “Yeah, I’m starting to realize that my private life isn’t so private. Who is it?”
Twiggy shakes her head. “I’m not going to say. He’s not alone, and he doesn’t mean you any harm.”
“So… what? This just came up in conversation? Shit.” Rising, I wrap my arms around my middle and start to pace. “This is a disaster.”
I need to talk to Danny stat about bar tending. I can’t keep doing this. It’s too risky with the teaching job, and even though I’m a town and an hour away, there’s too much overlap. If the wrong person sees me, my reputation will be in shreds.
“Relax. It’s not that big a deal. The police are not going to care. It’s not their primary concern.” I eye her, a question on my face. “They don’t care about your teaching contract, Shiloh.”
“Fine. Let’s call them. If they give the all clear, I’m staying here.” With a nod, Twiggy wanders a few feet away as I pull out my phone and look up the non-emergency number to dial. Once connected, I explain the situation to the dispatch officer, who takes down my information and informs me that an officer will be on the way shortly.
Twiggy stays, and while we wait, we turn on the television and half pay attention to some afternoon talk show that’s on. Two criminal justice experts are arguing about a missing girl—some college student—who’s been all over the news lately. A big-haired blonde theorizes with vehemence that she’s certainly dead by now, and likely at the hand of someone known to her. A slender, soft-spoken man tries valiantly to disagree, but he’s not making progress.
Then comes a brisk knock on the door, and I’m right back where I was, hip deep in my own intrigue.
I open the door to admit the two plainclothes officers and several techs who stand outside on the porch. In the living room, one moves immediately to the coffee table while the other shakes my hand.
“Please.” Gesturing, I sit. “Have a seat.”
One of the officers, McCall, I think he introduced himself as, sits on the couch, while the other remains near the electronics and speaks in a low voice to Twiggy. McCall pulls out a recorder and a steno pad, as Officer Jonas had, and eyes me with encouragement. “Why don’t you start at the beginning,” he says.
“I reported this earlier. Maybe a week or so ago? Officers Jonas and Tibbs came out, but they weren’t too helpful.”
“I’m sorry that happened, ma’am. We’re detectives and have the resources to dive into this further than the beat officers do. We’ll do our best to find this guy. Now… tell us what happened. Try not to leave anything out.”
It’s as though he knows I may have contemplated doing so. Looking down, I tell him everything, starting with the early morning text string and the call while I was baking. And then, after a brief internal battle, I tell him about the bracelet. “There’s one more thing.” His gaze sharpens. “I didn’t call earlier because I was worried about my job—”
“It’s okay, Miss Brookings.” McCall pats my shoulder. “What you do in your time off is your own business—although it may certainly have something to do with what’s going on. Stripping is considered a high-risk profession; you’re more likely to come in contact with individuals who target you because of your vulnerability.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, shoving my glasses down a smidge. However mild the balding detective’s words were, I feel like a chastened child. “I wouldn’t be doing it if I had any other choice. Believe me.”
“Not my business, ma’am.” He smiles reassuringly.
After answering all the questions the officers had, I show them around the house. Twiggy is beside me, pointing out each place they discovered a device. By the time the technicians finish, the house is covered with a fine coating of fingerprint powder and I’m sick at the realization that the chances of finding this person are slim. Too much time has passed. There’s no telling how long he’s been watching me, and I’m annoyed that I let it get this far to begin with. Why didn’t I trust my gut and call the police early on, when I first started noticing things?
Because I didn’t want to believe something so ins
ane could be happening. If I just ignored it, the problem would solve itself. And most important, I was afraid to tell them I worked in a strip club.
It seems so stupid now.
Leaving Twiggy talking with the cops in my bedroom, I make my way to the living room and slouch into the couch, plucking out my knitting from the basket on the floor.
Click. Clack. The needles flash as rows line themselves out, one after another in soothing hues of blue and gray. A distant hum of noise registers as the detectives and technicians leave, but I ignore it.
Twiggy sits down beside me and touches the knitted rows. “Do you have someone you can call, Shiloh?”
I loosen my grip on my knitting and it falls into my lap. “I’ll be fine, Twiggy. They said they didn’t find any other devices, right?”
“They feel confident that we got them all, yes.”
“Then I’ll be fine. Thank you, so much, for coming and taking care of all of this. You have made me feel so much better.”
Twiggy stands. “Okay. I can’t make you go somewhere else, but you know my opinion.” She pauses with her hand on the doorknob. “I’ll keep looking into who’s doing all of this. We’ll find him, Shiloh.”
14
Shiloh
The next morning I’m sitting in my classroom, looking at my schedule on my phone. I’m supposed to work tonight. It would be my first night at Kendrick’s since the peep show episode, and the idea is still making me nervous.
Nothing ever came of the cursory investigation Danny conducted. The man was in and out of the club without lingering, as if he knew to the second when and for how long he needed to be there. In reviewing the security tapes, all we could see was a man’s nondescript back side. Average height, average build, hair hidden under a ball cap. The credit card provided to pay for the peep was a dead end—a preloaded debit, so not attached to any specific individual, and the name he used, Bob White, led to a dead end.
There were too many unknowns for me to be comfortable. Paired with the creepy texts, I didn’t think it was smart of me to return to work.
Switching over to my text app, I tap out a group message to Leila and Danny, letting them know that I am not coming in tonight. Danny is not understanding.
Danny: You know you’re perfectly safe. You can’t call out every night.
Me: This is the first night I’ve called out. And I don’t feel safe.
Leila: Let me call Monica. She wanted more hours.
A few minutes later she texts to let me know Monica is covering my shift and not to worry about it. I put the phone down and twist to pull a stack of essays from the canvas bag by my chair. With a sigh, I place one in front of me and start marking.
“Miss Brookings?” A soft knock on the door interrupts my musings and looking up, I see Gunner Ford hovering in the doorway.
“Good morning?” I can’t help but phrase my response as a question. Gunner has once again thrown me with his presence. It’s early and there are few students on campus—few teachers, even.
“Sorry if I’m interrupting. I had a question, but I can come back later. Is everything okay?” His eyes glance around the empty classroom curiously.
“Everything’s fine, Gunner. Or at least, nothing important. How can I help?”
He looks at me with doubt, and I curse the transparency of the features that genetics blessed me with. Thanks to Scottish and Norwegian heritage, I have fair, freckled skin that flushes easily, eyes that telegraph everything I’m feeling, and a too-wide mouth that I’ve never quite managed to wrangle into passivity. Everything’s just there, splashed across my face like a too-big headline. My rising doubts concerning the club are no doubt telegraphing loud and clear.
“Sit. I’m good. Tell me what’s up.”
I sit too, waiting as he flips and straddles the back of the chair I keep next to the desk. My attention is caught by the stretch of his jeans over powerful thighs as he does. The denim accentuates the flex and give of the lean muscles beneath, magnetizing my gaze until his hands slide down to his knees and back up as he settles more comfortably in the seat. I wrench my gaze away and take several gulps of my coffee, unmindful that it’s lidded. The trapped steam and liquid inside immediately scald my tongue. “Oh, crap. Thass hot.” I fan my mouth, wincing.
Gunner is openly laughing, a deep unself-conscious laugh that a high school kid has zero business with. Cheeks flaming in embarrassment, I place my coffee to the side.
“You okay?” He continues after my nod. “I need your help.” His fingers drum on his thighs and he looks at my desk instead of me. “It’s my family that needs your help. It’s for my fourteen-year-old sister, Esme. She has dyslexia and now that she’s in high school she’s starting to struggle. My dad asked me to ask around and find her a tutor.”
“Oh.” My mind races. “I would need more details, of course, but I’m not one hundred percent certain I’d have the necessary time to devote to it. That kind of tutoring is very time intensive, and I already have a second job — ”
“Oh, yeah? Where do you work?”
I try not to squirm. “Ah… it’s for a private company. They like to keep things private. And low key. Out of the limelight.” Shut up, idiot.
“That sounds interesting.”
“No, it’s not. It’s very boring. And extremely dull, too.” Yep. Shoot me now.
“Huh. Well, what skill sets are needed? Maybe you could put in a good word for Miles’s girlfriend, Sherry Jane? She needs a job. She won’t care if it’s boring, honestly. Just needs some extra money.”
“Oh, good God, no. There are no extra jobs at my job. None. And you know, the school board is funny about second jobs, so you should be quiet about it. I didn’t ask permission. If they found out I was working without putting in a formal request, they could fire me.”
“I thought they could only do that if you were doing something that was very un-teacherly. Like selling drugs or posing nude or something.” I choke for a minute and then start coughing. “Miss Brookings, are you okay? You seem unsettled this morning.” Gunner rises and starts pounding on my back. His hand is big and strong against my back. I’m hyperaware of his touch, as prosaic as it is. He waits until I am back in control and reseats himself.
“To be perfectly honest, you may need to resign, at least from the second job,” Gunner continues. There is nothing in his voice to indicate that he understands that this is an unreasonable ask. “Dad’s looking for a major time commitment. Esme’s no dummy, but she needs significant help in getting her English grade up.” He looks down at the floor, his expression tight. “She hasn’t said a lot, but I know she’s frustrated because she’s struggling and nothing she’s tried so far is working. There’s an athletic season riding on it.”
“I’m sorry, Gunner. I’m sure that’s tough for her. I’m not sure you can answer this, but what are they trying? Do they have a 504 or an IEP? Something that grants her modifications?” Gunner’s expression shifts the tiniest bit.
“Yes. I don’t think it’s much help, though. I think the teachers met and designed it a long time ago. You’ll have to ask my dad about all of those ins and outs, though. If you are interested, I think you’ll find that the compensation for giving up your second job is well worth the sacrifice.”
Even as half my brain is filled with compassion for Esme, I almost snort. Sacrifice. It occurs to me that this could be a very conveniently timed answer to my prayers. I love my friends at the club, but no one starts stripping as a long-term career goal. I’ve been doing it since shortly after Sammy’s accident, and honestly, I’m tired. “I guess it couldn’t hurt to check things out,” I answer. “When would it be convenient for your parents to meet with me?”
“It’s just us and our dad. Maybe tomorrow? Do you remember how to get to my house?”
“Tomorrow is good, and no. I think my mom always drove Sammy over.”
“There was the party.”
“Oh! That was your place
.” He lifts his chin. “I, uh, might have been a little buzzed that night. And it was dark.”
“We’re going to have to talk about that one day. Let me give you my address. I’ll meet you there to introduce you.”
“Sure… thank you.” I smile my thanks and hand him a Post-it, ignoring his other comment. He looks at it in confusion.
“What’s this?”
“For your address,” I explain, and feel stupid when he laughs and grabs my phone off my desk, extending it to me.
“Twenty-first century, Miss Brookings! I happen to love old school—” He gives me an arch look that has me looking away. Did he just refer to me as old school? “—but I recommend the GPS on your phone in this instance. I’ll program it in for you.” I reach for my phone, Gunner’s fingers sliding against mine as he hands it to me. I look at him warily, but he isn’t even looking at me and I feel foolish. Shrugging, I unlock it for him and start preparing for class while he programs his address into my GPS. I hear a quiet trill and he tugs his own phone from his pocket, swipes to answer without looking, and just as swiftly hangs up. “I called my cell from your phone,” he explains, handing it back to me. “If you get turned around or anything, you’ll be able to text and let me know.”
“Oh. Right. That’s… smart.” This guy has my head all twisty without even trying, I think, annoyed. I thank him quietly as he waves and leaves. Then I sag into my chair, exhausted and energized all at once. This guy. What the hell am I doing?
15
Gunner
A
fter my conversation with Shiloh, school is the last place I want to be. I don’t have a lot of choice, though—not if I want to play in Friday’s game.
I whistle as I make my way to physics, excited that I’m putting a plan into action. I have to contact my dad, though, to let him know what I’m trying to wrangle with Shiloh and tutoring.
