by Holly Hart
"Well," Tilly began reasonably. "You don't really know anything, do you?"
I shot her a betrayed look. I wasn't hurt, not really, both because we'd worked together for long enough (and then a couple of years more) to become the best of friends, and because the rational side of me, the side that would reappear the second my irritation stopped flaring up, agreed with her. "Okay," I conceded. "You're right. I don't. But I think someone's leaning on him. There, I said it. Maybe even Victor Antonov himself. I know we've tried to keep our investigation quiet, but it's bound to have ruffled a few feathers…"
Tilly's face twisted into a shocked, yet not entirely surprised frown. The expression was at once contradictory, and yet completely understandable, at least in Alexandria, a town where it was best not to trust anyone or anything unless you were absolutely certain. It certainly wouldn't have been the first time that someone had attempted to kill one of our stories – which explained the not entirely surprised bit, but still, it seemed hard to believe. "But Mark, surely not?" She gasped. "He's always supported our team…"
I slumped down and sat on top of my desk, crossing both my legs and arms. "I hate to say it," I grinned sadly. "And don't you dare repeat it outside of this room, but Mark's got bigger things on his plate than just the IJ team. I can see his point of view. What's worse, get rid of us, or move us to the human interest team, or instead keep this place's doors open for another few months."
I spread my arms expressively. "I'm just glad it's not my call."
Tilly sighed, sounding depressed. "Hey, enough of this business talk. What's going on with you, girlfriend?"
I know she meant it kindly, but even now, months later, people still got that same concerned look when they spoke to me, as if I was still lying in a hospital bed, not perfectly healthy! I tensed with frustration, but made a conscious effort to relax. After all, she only meant best.
"I'm fine," I said. And I was. I'd thrown myself into my job over the past few weeks, working crazy hours to distract myself from the fact that the man I'd once thought I was destined to marry was now resting away, where he belonged, in a prison cell. But it had worked. Other than moments like this, when someone else brought him up, I barely thought of Rick these days.
"Hey," she said, her face lighting up as a thought struck her. "I know, how about we go out for a few drinks. Like old times."
I groaned. "I wish I could," I said. "But I've got to pick Frankie up from the vet. He's got a bladder infection, or something. Rain check?"
Tilly grimaced. "Okaaaay," she said slowly. "But let's do something soon, promise? We need to get you laid. How long's it been, anyway?" She joked, with a sad smirk tickling her face.
"I'm fine," I protested, "thank you very much. I can look after myself perfectly well in that department."
"How long?" she taunted, smiling. I didn't begrudge her for it. We'd been friends for far too long for me to even consider the thought. "Shit, Ellie, you're probably growing cobwebs down there. Do you even know how everything works still?"
I rose to her bait. "I'll have you know," I said. "That I'm entirely happy with how things are going down there."
Tilly's eyes lit up. She loved a good bit of gossip. "No!" She gasped. You got laid, didn't you? And you didn't tell me, you minx! Who was it?"
My cheeks went bright red, and I had a sudden, unbearable urge to hide myself behind something solid, and away from Tilly's probing questions. I didn't even know why. I’d shared information about a dozen conquests with Tilly over the years, and she'd done the same. But my night with Roman seemed somehow sacred, special – a memory that was almost too good to share. "Nobody you know," I said evasively. "Besides, it was weeks ago."
"Weeks!" Tilly shrieked. "Weeks, and you didn't tell me? I thought we were friends!" She pouted, but couldn't hold it and cracked a smile. "So…"
"So…" I repeated. I knew exactly what she was asking, but I didn't want to answer her.
"So what happened?" She probed. I knew I'd have to tell her the truth, because, like any good reporter, she could be like a dog with a bone. The last thing I wanted was her going around and digging for clues. I was pretty sure no one would remember what had happened in that bar, that night, but Tilly was a damn fine journalist, and I wouldn't put it past her.
"Okay, okay," I laughed. "I'll tell you. But I've got to hurry, otherwise I'll miss Frankie. There's not much to tell, not really. Believe me, it was a good night." I paused, flushing with heat as I relived some of the more X-rated things that Roman had done to me under the cover of darkness. "No, a great night," I corrected myself. "But it was a one-time thing."
"He didn't call?" Tilly said, disappointed.
"I didn't give him my number," I said sternly. It was the truth, but only part of it. The whole truth was that I'd shocked myself by my hunger for him, the way my body had responded to him, the way he completed me, and I'd worried that it was too much, too soon. I knew all the signs of an abusive relationship, now at least, and my night with Roman was exactly how they liked to start. I'd seen the way Roman operated, the way he inflicted violence so casually, even if it was to defend me, and I'd thought the better of it. "Listen," I said, catching a glimpse of the clock ticking away on the wall. "I've got to run."
I'll walk you to the bus stop," Tilly said, a slight band of concerned wrinkles breaking the lines of what was otherwise a perfectly soft, smooth and beautiful face. It's a shame, I thought, that someone that hot hasn't found someone to love. "It's getting dark."
I pointed upwards and laughed. Our office was in the basement, but luckily we had a skylight that opened up to ground level, so it didn't feel like we were completely boxed in, even with thousands of tons of concrete overhead. "Dark! Maybe you really do need to get those glasses you're always talking about, Tilly – it looks pretty sunny to me…" I said firmly, catching her concerned look and holding it. I'm okay, my eyes said. But I got the sense that that wouldn't be enough. "Rick's locked up, and as far as the police are concerned, they'll probably throw away the key."
"But –." She protested. I cut her off with a look. A look that I'd come to regret.
The sun really was setting by the time I pulled my head out of my research folder and stepped out of the doors to the Herald's office. I checked my watch and cursed. I did this way too often, especially these days. There was something strangely upsetting about returning to an empty home, it felt as though I was missing a half of me. I realized that I was going to have to cut it pretty fine to get back in time to pick Frankie up.
For the slightest of moments, as I stepped out of the out of hours side door, apparently one of the last people left beavering away at my desk this late on a Friday evening, and out of the warm, safe embrace of the guarded office building, I felt a twinge of worry. Back when I started, the Herald had the choicest offices in town, right in the center. But cutbacks are the same everywhere, and it wasn't long before the beautiful old offices were sold off to developers, and the few journalists that were left were dumped right on the outskirts of the industrial district. Sometimes I joked that it was my fault.
Come on now, I chided myself. You can't spend the whole of your life worrying.
My heart sank as I reached the bus stop. There was a yellow sign fastened to it indicating that it was closed, and directing people to the next, and nearest stop… Which was three blocks down. I'd held off on getting a car for as long as I could, I thought, but Alexandria's public transport system was getting ridiculous. Whether it was the Italian Mafia, the Russian bratva, The problem was, on a journalist's meager salary, I was still practically as far away from being able to afford to purchase a car as I had been the day I left college. Which was equally as terrifying as it was distressing. Still, I'd known the day I went into this business that I was never going to make my fortune in it. That's not the reason I was doing it. It was, no matter how young and idealistic it sounded, to make the world a better place.
"Get off your high horse, Ellie," I muttered to myself as I hefte
d my handbag onto my shoulder. I was already regretting stuffing all my research notebooks into it before I punched out instead of just letting them gather dust over the weekend, but my aching shoulder quickly faded into nothingness as I disappeared off into my own private dream world. My legs ate up the blocks like they belonged to a marathon runner, not me, and in my daze I failed to realize that I'd strayed further than I needed, and worse – uncomfortably far into the industrial district.
"Ellie."
My brain recognized the voice before I fully comprehended what it meant. The second the gears clicked into place, I froze, as still as a hunted animal. A white-hot crescent of pain lanced across my forehead, as though my body was remembering what the owner of that voice had done to it over the years. Under the pain, but no less powerful for it, a knot of fear began to writhe in my stomach.
"You know better than to ignore me, don't you baby?" The voice said again. Rick's voice. No! I screamed silently, it can't be. You're supposed to be locked up. They said you weren't getting bail, that you were a flight risk, that you had a record.
My stomach clenched, and my eyes screwed shut even harder than they had been before. I felt as though turning to look at him would be recognizing that he existed, that he was here, and that he still had power over me.
I yelped his name. I’d never forgive myself for not turning and running, but my feet were locked in place with fear.
"Rick, please..."
7
Ellie
Time slowed as I turned. I blinked, and then he was upon me, his face mere inches from mine. I took an involuntary step back, shocked by his sudden closeness. His presence violated everything I had thought to be true.
"No, you can't be here, you just can't…" I breathed, my brain struggling to process the evidence my eyes were providing. If I so much as reached out, I could have touched him. But it couldn't be.
He chuckled, an evil, biting, discordant racket that tore at the fiber of my soul. It reminded me of every harsh word, every raised fist, every cut and every bruise that he'd ever meted out on me. I saw him then as if for the first time. It was as though he was bathed in a revealing, cleansing light. I didn't see what I had wanted to see for so long – a kind, loving man. The kind of man I'd tried so hard to convince myself he could be.
I saw him with fresh eyes, and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that all the self-doubt and loathing that I had put myself through, the coals I had raked myself over in trying to understand how I could stop constantly disappointing him, and how I could be a better partner – all of that was a mistake. He was the problem, not me.
Too late, my legs started working. It felt like a clamp had been released around my toes, and I could move again. The problem was Rick had backed me into a corner. Literally. He kept walking forward, and I kept backing away, the adrenaline in my system paralyzing me instead of doing what it was supposed to – fight or flight. In the end, I did neither.
My entire world condensed into a bubble about six feet wide. The sound of hammering and mechanical tools from the half a dozen auto repair shops that were the last, struggling remnants of a once-thriving industrial district faded away. The smell of pollen on the breeze, that I hated so much, disappeared, replaced by the damp, dank, fetid smell of trash cans. Even the light above me began to fade as Rick herded me to the end of the alleyway, the weak twilight sun blocked out by the towering, crumbling walls of red brick factories.
"Please…" I begged. I couldn't retreat another step. A chill cold radiating from the nearest factory wall began to lick away at the backs of my legs. A shiver traveled down my spine, meeting with the chill, and I felt weak, paralyzed with fear. "You can't, you don't understand. I didn't mean –."
No. Don't beg. Don't cry. Even if you have to die, he doesn't have power over you anymore. The only power he has is what you give him. He's weak, sad, and pathetic.
What kind of man attacks a woman, a defenceless one at that?
A bully. That's what. And my mom, God rest her soul, she told me never to give in to bullies. Without consciously thinking about it, I straightened up, just like she would have wanted. I stood tall, chin thrust proudly forward, and waited for Rick to do his worst. He raked me up and down with a mocking stare and sneered, opening his vulpine, narrow-lipped mouth for the first time.
"What, you think you're going to get out of this?" He looked over his shoulder, then gestured at the empty street behind him, a mocking, crooked smile dancing at the corners of his mouth. "You think someone's going to come save you, baby?" He rolled the nickname that I'd once loved so much, before he showed his true colors, around his tongue, savoring it.
"Don't," I said, my voice cracking under the strain. I gritted my teeth, determined not to show fear that was coursing through me. A throwaway line I'd once written in a long ago newspaper column fluttered into my mind. Courage isn't the absence of fear; it's what you do when you're afraid.
"Don't call me that! I'm not your baby. I'm not your anything, not anymore."
The smile disappeared from Rick's face in an instant, and he lurched forward, acting out of pure, spiteful rage. He raised his palm and slapped me full across the face, sending me spinning with the force and crashing against a filthy trashcan. My shoulder took the brunt of the impact, and radiated pain. I lost my overstuffed handbag somewhere in the scuffle.
"Oh, ho," he scoffed, picking it up. "What's this, then? Still using all the things I bought you, are you? Fucking women," he spat. "You're all the fucking same. Just take, take, take. You let us go to work every day, bring home the bacon, and spend it on clothes and makeup and handbags and all this shit." His voice dripped with anger, and his speech had the flat, monotonous sound of a well-practiced diatribe. I could tell that he'd been working on it for a while, probably planning it out in his head while lying in a bare, gray, concrete cell.
Each one of his lies hit me with a dozen times the force of the slap that had just sent me stumbling to the floor. A pang of anger coursed through me. It was all lies! In all the time I'd known him, Rick hadn't spent more than three months at any job. Laid off, fired, pushed out… The excuses never stopped. All the while, I went to work every day, earned enough for both of us, and he lay at home drinking it away until my credit cards were maxed out. But never his.
And the fact that he had the sheer, brass-balled cheek to stand there and say that to my face while holding a bag containing months of my life worth of hard-fought research smarted something fierce. I wanted more than anything for him to drop that bag, which was more than just a handbag, it was my life.
Enough to do something stupid. To provoke him.
"You never bought me a thing," I said, moaning over the pain sparking from my injured shoulder. "Not with your own money, anyway."
It was like showing a red rag to a bull. I had signed my own death warrant, or near enough. I heard the gentle 'whumph' as the heavy handbag hit the ground. It gave me just enough warning to protect myself, for all the good that did. I curled into the fetal position, hands gripping my rib cage as the first of many kicks rained down on my body. My kidneys were exposed, and my neck, and my head, but something primal inside me compelled me to do it – to protect my core, my stomach, my womb. There was neither rhyme, nor reason for it, just an intense, irresistible urge, and I succumbed without so much as a second thought.
The first blow hit with enough force that a thousand stars exploded behind my eyes, the second landed in my side and knocked all of the wind out of me. After that I stopped counting. After that I stopped caring, but I never stopped trying to protect my belly.
In the background, I heard shouts, a scuffle, and the sound of running footsteps.
And then nothing.
8
Roman
Ten months later
I walked into the hospital by a side entrance. Turns out you can buy hospital scrubs at a costume store, and they look close enough to the real thing that no one bats an eyelid.
Rule number one when you're br
eaking into somewhere you shouldn't be? Carry a clipboard and look busy. Check and check.
I knew I wouldn't be the only operator who'd been enticed by the promise of a thirty thousand dollar job, so I knew I'd have to hurry. Especially as this time I couldn't just take another hitman out after he'd done my dirty work for me and claim his bounty.
No, this time I need her alive.
A bead of sweat dripped down my face, and I tasted salt in my mouth before I had a chance to mop my brow. The stakes were as high as they could be, and for the first time in years, I actually felt nervous on the job.
I grabbed a med cart that had neatly been stowed away in a corner, put my handgun in the top drawer, so it was out of sight and re-checked my phone one last time. The bright white display was sparsely populated, and formatted in exactly the same way as every job I'd ever received from the Agency.
It simply read: Ellie Francis, Alexandria General, room thirty-two. $30,000. It was a cold way to sum up a life.
But not bad for a day's work.
Except this time, I wouldn't be claiming the bounty.
The cart bumped over a slight indentation on the linoleum-covered concrete floor as I neared a bank of elevators, and I heard my weapon rattle against an assortment of glass medicine bottles. I looked down at the drawer and cursed. The damn thing was flimsier than a balsa wood table. I reached in and held it tight. The last thing I needed was the drawer's bottom dropping out and my gun spilling out into the acerbic medicine-scented hallway.
A gray-haired woman in a spotless, knee length white jacket gave me a curious look as I passed her, like she was searching her memory for my name. "Doctor," I nodded smartly, holding my breath. She nodded back politely and carried on. Alexandria General Hospital was a small enough place that she might have known every face who worked there. She got lucky. I got lucky. I didn't want to hurt her – hell, that was the whole reason I was in the middle of this mad escapade in the first place.
