by Loretta Lost
His eyes in the rearview mirror look sad, but interested. “I want to be able to understand. Can you please explain exactly what happened at the gravesite?”
“I don’t need to explain it.”
“Look, Mrs. Hunter. I am a superstitious man. I shouldn’t be, as a detective, I should be more practical and fact-oriented than that. But I’ve seen things, you know? A lot of death, a lot of murder. I’ve seen the kind of things that would make even the toughest atheist burn incense and sacrifice a goat to survive the night. I’ve seen situations so bad that all you can do is pray that you’ll get out alive, so you might as well pray, and pray hard. I’ve even seen some of those prayers get answered.” He pauses. “But what I haven’t seen is a woman put a gun to her head, and get stopped by an earthquake.”
There is something very vulnerable about his eyes as he speaks, so honestly and openly. I feel slightly compelled to give him an actual answer, instead of just avoiding the question flippantly. I grow serious as I gaze at his reflection in the rearview mirror. “The earth… it just spoke to me. It happened once before, but I didn’t listen. This time, I will.”
He stares at me for a long moment before responding. “What did it say?”
I look away. “It’s hard to describe, exactly. It was a feeling. A feeling that I should live, and that I was wrong.”
“You ever think that maybe you just wanted to feel these things, and attributed them to a random event?”
“Of course. I mean, I thought that the first time it happened, but now, it’s happened again. Both times, it had to do with Cole. How could this possibly be random?” I shake my head, leaning back in the seat and glancing out at the blue sky. “Detective, I believe that all of nature speaks to us. It’s up to each individual to listen closely and interpret these signs. Most of us are too busy, distracted, caffeinated, and consumed by the minutiae of our lives to pay attention. I just got lucky that this message was so loud and clear that even I couldn’t miss it.”
The detective continues to stare at me in the mirror for a long moment. Then he places his hand on the headrest of the passenger side chair, and turns back to look at me face-to-face. “Okay,” he says, quietly. “I just needed to talk to you a little, so I could be assured that you are clearheaded and rational. I was a little worried that you might be crazy.”
Lifting my wrists so that he can see my handcuffs, I give him a sarcastic smile. “I’m pretty sure you do think I’m crazy, Detective. I know I caused a bit of a scene back there, but I just wanted to see the body. Seeking evidence is important, you know.”
“I’m aware of that, Agent Shields. I just needed to check if you were mentally stable, or if your judgment was compromised.”
My eyebrows lift upward. “Wait, what? What did you just call me?”
He smiles. “Oh, did I forget to mention that? Your boss called and asked me to put my whole department at your disposal. I was a little skeptical at first, but Agent Lopez assured me that you have great instincts, and when there’s a computer in front of you, you can do the work of ten men in one tenth of the time. Sounds like a sweet deal. Let’s see if you live up to the hype, Shields.”
“I don’t understand. I’m a hacker, not a detective.”
“Your boss thinks you’re more than qualified, and she wants you to get some field experience. You’re now the lead consultant on this case—unofficially, due to the conflict of interest. I look forward to collaborating with you on this investigation.”
“Why would she be interested in this case?” I ask him.
“It’s a high profile case, Shields. You know this more than anyone. The victim was the personal architect of many important foreign dignitaries. He designed secure bunkers for heads of state, and impenetrable military compounds. There are a lot of people who could want him dead.”
“Or captured,” I murmur under my breath.
“I’ll set you up with an office,” the detective says, “and I’ll return your purse, your cell phone, and your gun.”
“My gun? You’re giving me back my gun?”
“Sure.”
“Dude. I just tried to kill myself in front of you.”
“Well, suicide isn’t illegal in the United States,” he says with a shrug. “Besides, you changed your mind, and you seem like you’re thinking sensibly. You might be extremely emotional and clinging to the existence of the supernatural, but I can understand that considering the circumstances. Most people who just lost a loved one are eager to talk about life after death, and heaven or hell, for comfort. How is this any different? Some detectives even consult with psychics and mediums when they’re really stumped on a case, and they swear it helps. Who am I to judge?”
“So what you’re saying is that you think I’m crazy, but you find crazy people interesting.”
“Pretty much.”
Sighing, I lift my handcuffed wrists behind my head and rest on them comfortably. “So I’m kind of your boss now? I knew there was a reason I felt so relaxed back here, like I was being chauffeured around by a personal driver.”
“Don’t push it, Shields.”
“Well, Rodriguez, let’s get started. Is there any chance at all that Cole was kidnapped? Was there a body? Did it go missing?”
The detective hesitates. “I just want to make one thing clear. We can’t turn this into a manhunt. You’re able to use all of our resources to find the killer, but you can’t have a personal agenda to prove that someone who was murdered is alive. I’m not going to be able to explain that to my captain. Okay?”
I frown at him. “Fine.”
“It’s now your job to find out who killed your husband,” Rodriguez says.
“Oh, he’s not really my husband,” I explain to him. “It was a fake marriage. Cole is actually just my foster brother.”
The detective grins. “Are you sure about that, Agent? I don’t know many sisters who are so eager to off themselves for their brothers. I think you need to reevaluate your fake marriage.”
A small smile cracks the corner of my lips. “Well, if he’s alive, maybe I will.” Shoving my wrists forward, I tilt my head to the side expectantly. “Now remove these cuffs, Detective. And get me a donut. With sprinkles.”
“What? I’m not your errand boy. I’ll take off the cuffs, and you can get your own donut.”
“I nearly just died, Rodriguez. Maybe that wouldn’t have happened if you weren’t concealing information from me, or delaying information—testing me, or whatever. And for the record, I’m still really, really sad. So if you know what’s good for you, you will do as I say.” With a sweet smile, and a soft whisper, I speak the words slowly again. “Get. Me. A. Donut.”
His tanned face scowls at me as he opens the door of his police car. “What the hell have I gotten myself into?” he grumbles. “I can tell it’s going to be a pleasure working with you, Shields. I hope you’re half as smart as they all say you are.”
When he steps out and slams the car door, I wait for a feeling of pleasure at this little victory. But I feel nothing. I find myself staring out the window blankly. “I am smart,” I mutter to myself. “Or… I used to be.” I frown and look down at my metal-encircled wrists. “I will be, once I’ve eaten my damned donut.”
I sink my teeth into the vanilla glaze with strawberry sprinkles and make a face. It is overly sweet, and does not taste anything like what my body really craves: caffeine. Why did I get this again? I don’t even like donuts. It must have been partly to exert power over the detective, and partly for a modicum of comfort in this whole ordeal. Power has always been of greater comfort to me than sugar.
The detective was thoughtful enough to get a box of twelve, and I am determined to stuff them all into my face for absolutely no reason while I stare at this computer screen in this small room. Rodriguez has given me access to everything he’s gotten so far in the investigation, and it isn’t much. As I am sitting here in my black funeral dress with mascara staining my cheeks, I can’t help wondering if I am to
o close to this case to work on it. Every bit of information I access makes me feel a pang of emotion. Nostalgia, guilt, jealousy, regret, fear, nausea. Is my reasoning compromised?
Usually when I’m sitting in front of a computer, all those feelings disappear and I can simply focus on my work. Today is different. My mind is scattered and my thoughts are racing. I ebb from hopeful to devastated within seconds as I read the eyewitness reports of Cole’s murder. The nurses describing all the blood and commotion, and how there was nothing they could do to save him.
Please. Please. Let him be alive, somehow. Let this all be some huge, ridiculous conspiracy. He saw a murder or a drug deal, and he’s in witness protection. The coroner made a mistake, somehow. I need a coffee. No.
I will stop drinking coffee if he can only be alive. I will try to be more honest with everyone in my life. I will face everything that scares me, and be a better person.
Oh god. That’s bargaining. One of the five stages of grief.
Am I grieving?
No. No, I can’t be grieving. Because that would mean he’s dead, and he’s not dead. I have absolutely no reason to grieve.
Shit. That’s denial.
But why shouldn’t I be in denial? I wonder this as I try to access the hospital security footage again, from around the time he was murdered. There are only empty halls. No masked shooter, no screaming nurses. Did someone overwrite the footage with a loop? Did someone prevent it from recording at all? Or did it not really even happen? I frown as I try a few different methods of retrieving a deleted feed. This should be a lot easier than it is. Did the police already mess with it and screw it up? I will need to discuss it with the detective.
When the door opens, I am surprised to find Miranda entering the room, along with Zack and Mr. Bishop.
“Oh, sweetie,” Miranda says as she rushes over to my side and hugs me tightly against her chest. “I’m so sorry. Why would you even think of hurting yourself? Please don’t ever do anything like that again. You’ll break my heart.”
“I won’t,” I say, squeezing her arm. “Everything is going to be okay.”
Zack storms over to my side and rips my purse away. “I drove your Bugatti here,” he says angrily. “The detective told me that he returned your gun. What the fuck?”
“It’s okay. Rodriguez knows who I am,” I inform Zack.
“That shouldn’t matter. You are not okay, and you shouldn’t be working on anything right now. You need help.”
“You’re right. I do. In fact, I texted my boss about the situation, and she’d like to offer you an official job. If you stay with me and help out as my bodyguard and assistant, you’ll get a paycheck from my employer, and they may consider hiring you for future freelance opportunities.”
Zack clamps his lips together firmly. “A job would be great, but that’s not what I’m talking about. What you did back there…”
“Forget it,” I tell him. “Sit down.”
“I will not sit. You just tried to—”
“Zack, you need to improve your resume. Do you want to be able to put working for the Central Intelligence Agency on there? Good, now sit down and help me out.”
He glares at me. “I’ll sit, but we’re going to talk about this later,” he says in a hushed voice.
The detective enters behind them all, shutting the door and clearing his throat. “Agent Shields, you have good friends. Mrs. Walters and Mr. Bishop came to the station demanding your release, but I informed them of the situation. Your bodyguard is also very devoted. I thought that we should all meet and discuss the investigation. Many of you have valuable information and insight to share with Agent Shields, and get us started moving in the right direction.”
“Why isn’t Annabelle here?” I ask them, not that I really want to see her. “Didn’t she want to help out?”
“Sweetie, we came because we were worried about you,” Miranda says brokenly. “Annabelle is just upset about the whole situation.”
“I see.”
“Scarlett,” says Mr. Bishop nervously as he places some folders down at the desk. He removes his wire-framed glasses and cleans them neurotically. “I—I don’t know how I feel about discussing this all now. Do you need some time?”
“I’m fine, Mr. Bishop. Please tell me anything that might be important.”
“Well, I have Cole’s will with me. Near the end, he had a very bad feeling about things. He was very worried. He left you this letter—are you sure you’re ready to see this now?”
“Yes.” Reaching up, I run a hand through my hair. “I’m so sick of Cole’s stupid letters.”
“Well, this is more of a note. He considered it of utmost importance that I get this to you.”
I shrug and nod. “Sure. I’ll check it out.”
“Wonderful. Let me just see here, if I can find it in these files.” He replaces his wire framed glasses and begins to hunt for the paper. Mr. Bishop is a small and meek man, but he has surprising strength through the worst of situations. The year he took care of me, when I was younger, was one of the first good years of my life. He was kind and gentle, but a strict father who was very involved with his children’s lives. It was almost painful to be part of such a loving family, after so many bad experiences. My mind drifts back to his son, Cole’s boyhood friend. I can still see his eyes grinning at me under his motorcycle helmet, and feel his leather jacket under my hands as we tore up the highway.
“How is Levi doing?” I ask Mr. Bishop.
“Oh,” says the older man, looking up in surprise. “He’s doing very well, Scarlett. You know how he is. Won’t settle down. A real playboy, breaking hearts everywhere he goes.”
“That sounds like Levi,” I respond fondly.
“He wanted to make it here for the funeral, but he is all tied up with work in Karachi.”
“Karachi?” I say, remembering Cole’s emails. “There’s a building project there with angry investors—”
“Yes. The megacity housing complex. Levi was there to keep things in line for Cole, and try to prevent a lawsuit. Or to deal with the lawsuit, if it happened.”
Nodding, I turn to make eye contact with the detective. “Look through flights and communications with Pakistan in the last few days. See if you can find anyone suspicious. That could be a good place to start.” I know that Cole had great confidence in Levi, and sent him to deal with only the very worst situations. Levi always had a thick skin, and the ability to diffuse the most heated conflict. Or to win, if it came to blows. Cole trusted him implicitly—except when it came to women.
The detective scribbles a few words down. “Sure.”
I reach for my purse to make some personal notes on my phone, but Zack holds onto it tightly.
“Stop,” he demands. “If I’m getting paid to be your bodyguard, that means protecting you from yourself.”
“I’m fine, Zack. I only did that earlier because I thought that Cole was dead.”
“He is dead.”
“Did you look inside the coffin?”
“No, but Sophie... I can call you that, right? Everyone knows?” When I nod, he leans closer. “You’re acting crazy. Your behavior is so… volatile. You need to take a step back from this and relax.”
Ignoring Zack, I turn to Mr. Bishop. “Did you find Cole’s note?”
“No. I think it’s here—no—ah! Alright, here it is, my dear.” He hands me the little piece of paper, and I am immediately puzzled.
“Mr. Bishop, this isn’t Cole’s handwriting.”
“He was very ill, my dear. He could not see to write properly, and he dictated it for me.”
My eyebrows draw closer together. It is difficult to imagine Cole being so ill. The note itself makes me frown even deeper.
Dear Serena,
If I’m gone and buried, please take the pin out. We always promised we would.
Forever,
Cole
That’s all? That’s all he had to say in his final sentences to me? My eyes burn.
/> “This doesn’t make sense,” I say finally.
“He was feverish and ranting. He was barely coherent, but he begged me to write that for you,” Mr. Bishop says.
“Exactly like this?” I ask. “You’re not missing anything?”
“Well—no. I don’t think so.”
“Who’s Serena?” Zack asks as he scoots closer to peek at the note.
I am frustrated that he is prying into something so personal. “It’s my name.”
“Jesus. Another one?”
“It was my first name, Zack. A shortened form of the name on my birth certificate.”
“Actually, that reminds me,” Miranda says, and she looks around at all of us hesitantly. “Cole had a very big argument with one of our major clients a few days before his death. Before his illness got worse. They were fighting about that name.”
“Which client?” the detective asks. “You didn’t mention this before, Mrs. Walters.”
“I did, Detective. Just not the particular details. The argument concerns Scarlett,” Miranda says softly. “It’s about the senator. Do you mind if I speak about him, sweetie?”
I recoil slightly. “I don’t think he’s involved in this, but go ahead.” Placing the note down on the table, I try to mentally prepare myself for anything that she might say.
“Cole refused to accept Benjamin Powell’s proposal for the name of the development project. At the ribbon cutting ceremony, they had it out when the senator found out that Cole had gone against his wishes and renamed the building.”
“What was the name?” the detective asks, his pen poised.
“Serenity Towers,” Miranda says softly. “That’s what Benjamin wanted to name the project, from the very start.”
Anger floods my bloodstream and makes my vision red for a moment. I swallow down a bit of bile. “Why? Why would he—why would Cole agree to design a building for that man? Why would he betray me like that, Miranda?”
