What She Did

by Veronica Larsen

  This is going to be much harder than I thought.

  He crosses his arms and says, "I thought this would be about your case."

  "It's not."

  Although, in a way, it is.

  "Are you sure?"

  If the notion my attacker has been leaving me gifts was far-fetched to Reed, he might laugh in my face if I told him I suspected it was all connected to the mayor of San Diego.

  I get it. Reed and his partner think the case is closed. They've got a guy, someone who confessed and looks just right. And, yes, perhaps he's behind the other assaults, but mine is different. The problem is, all I have is circumstantial evidence and a nagging suspicion.

  "I've got nothing." I lift my hands, as if to show they're empty. I keep my face unsmiling, though, sensing any flirtation may lead him to conclude this evening is a bad idea.

  It's my job, to worm myself into places I'm not supposed to be, to pry information people hold close to their chests. No story comes easy. None worth chasing, anyway.

  "We'll go over some basics tonight," he says. "But first let's talk a little more about what you can expect. Our self-defense classes are modeled after Krav Maga. Have you heard of it?"

  "Vaguely."

  "It's a fighting technique developed for the Israeli Defense Forces. Their rules of engagement are different from ours. Brutal."

  "Brutal how?"

  "Let me put it to you this way, American forces aim for the least amount of casualties possible. It's why they clear a building room by room. IDF? They land on a building's roof, pour gasoline down the staircase, light it on fire, and clear the building from the rooftop as its occupants flee."

  The chaotic scene flashes too vividly before my eyes. It's more than that. What he said rattles something in me, calling forward the memory of how helpless I felt when my attacker took hold of me, how the panic left a lingering taste in my mouth.

  "Brutal," he agrees, without me having to say a word. "That's how Krav Maga is. It's brutal. The aim is to put the attacker down with as much brute force as possible. I wanted this to be at the core of our self-defense classes. Defense should never be half-assed. It needs to be driven by an animalistic instinct to protect your own life at all costs."

  He watches me with curiosity, clearly trying to drive home the point that the training will be intense. But instead of leaning away from the possibility of more violence, I'm drawn to it.

  "What's wrong?" he asks.

  "I want to get started," I say.

  A sliver of satisfaction sparks in Reed's eyes. The conviction in my voice takes even me by surprise. I didn't expect such genuine interest in learning his techniques. There's anger burning low in my belly, a call for aggression fueled by my need to feel safe inside of my own body. To know I could stop an attack from happening again.

  I'm here and my attacker is out there. The police aren't looking for him.

  I'm on my own.

  I can learn self-defense in pursuit of leads to my story. The two things aren't mutually exclusive.

  "Let's start with a simple hold," Reed says. "Ready?" When I nod, he reaches out and grasps my wrist, warm fingers closing firmly around my skin. "Go ahead," he says. "Try to get out of it."

  I pull my arm back but his hold remains in place. I pull harder, hard enough to cause him to tighten his grip and take a step closer.

  "I can't."

  "Stop pulling. There's a weak spot to every hold. Look at my grasp."

  I examine the way his fingers wrap around my wrist. "See here?" He leans into me, and I suck in a breath at how close he brings his head to mine. He points to the area of my wrist where his thumb rests just under the back of my palm. "Turn your wrist until the side of it is flush with this." He traces my skin just over where his thumb and forefinger meet in the tight grasp. My skin prickles pleasantly and I wonder if his fingertips do, as well.

  I do as he says and pull. My wrist bone effectively cuts between the grip, forcing his thumb and forefinger apart until I'm free from the hold.

  I lower my arm again to allow him to repeat the hold. He makes me practice it dozens of times, hand grasping my arms at different locations. Each time I release from his grip quicker than the last.

  "It's a simple maneuver, but effective," he says.

  His tone carries the suggestion he thinks we've done enough for tonight.

  "I want to hit something now," I say.

  He scratches his brow, looking toward the front door. The world is dark beyond the glass pane. His hesitation screams that internal voices warn him to cut this short. He must be tired. I know I am. But I'm nowhere near done.

  "All right, let's move over here." He gestures over to the column, padded with material to serve as a punching bag.

  I walk in front of him, sensing how closely he follows behind me. When I glance over my shoulder, his eyes snap up to mine in an instant, his expression unreadable. Were his eyes moving up my figure?

  "We'll start off with the basic fighting stance," he says. I mirror his pose, feet shoulder width apart, left foot forward, elbows tucked to my sides, hands unclenched. "Your left arm should be up, to protect your face. Your right arm closer to your side. Right. Just like that. Keep your knees loose and your abdominals tight."

  He lays a palm on my stomach. I tense and, for a moment, so does he. But despite the sparks in his eyes, he keeps his voice even and detached.

  "I don't want to make you uncomfortable, but this is hands-on training. There's no avoiding that."

  "It's okay," I say.

  He drops his hands, but his touch lingers, spreading over me.

  We move on to striking the padded column, using the planes and sharp angles of my limbs to inflict damage. Each blow rattles something in me, threatening to unleash what I've locked away. Fear, anger, hopelessness. Emotions I refuse to let through. Reed stands off to the side of the column, watching as I hit it. He hasn't given any instruction in a few minutes, and I think he realizes my need to let out some pent up aggression.

  Focus.

  Even in its tired state, my mind summersaults to find a segue. An icebreaker. Something to get him talking, make him comfortable. But it's hard to gauge just how to approach him in conversation. He's keeping our interaction at arm's length, careful to not seem too friendly. As though being too polite would send the wrong message. I get it. We're alone. I'm a victim in one of his investigations. This is blatantly inappropriate. All of it. Yet, this was his idea.

  "The suspect you picked up, when's his sentencing hearing?" I ask, casually, with the air of someone just making conversation.

  "I haven't heard word on that yet. But he's been arraigned and he's off the streets for now. You don't need to worry."

  I avoid his eyes, not wanting to give away the fact that this isn't what I'm truly worried about. Reed's a professional bullshit detector. And me? I'm a professional bullshitter.

  "Closing a serial assault is a big win for your department, I'm sure. Chief of Police is retiring soon, he must be pleased."

  "Chief Sterling?" he asks stiffly. "Yeah, he is."

  "Are you close to him?"

  My statement is met with the sounds of my fists hitting the column. And then...

  "Is this an interview?"

  I stop and look at him. His arms are crossed, the white of his shirt is the perfect backdrop for his handsome, unreadable face.

  His looks are disarming, but I'm well aware mine can be too.

  "Just because I'm a reporter doesn't mean I'm always fishing around for a story."

  I go to strike the column, but Reed's hand settles over my arm, nudging it downward. And my eyes are drawn up to his again.

  "What are you up to?"

  I go still and swallow. The exertion of beating the column has my heart thundering at my temples. Reed lifts a brow at my lack of response and takes a step closer. He's never stood this close before. His proximity tugs at every inch of me, and I want him closer still.

  "You're clearly fishing for somethi
ng, Amelia. So why don't you just go ahead and tell me what it is."

  He towers over me, but I'm not afraid. Being underestimated can be a weapon in itself. Doors left open, windows cracked, opportunities present themselves to those who appear meek.

  I open my mouth to answer, but before I can decide what to say, Reed makes the mistake of speaking first.

  "Are you writing a piece on Chief Sterling?"

  A strange expression flickers across his face when he asks the question, and I don't miss the desire for confirmation subtly lacing his tone.

  There it is. A window just creaked open.

  "What if I said I was?"

  He just stares. I want to backpedal, take the words back, because it's clear they've rubbed him the wrong way. A low, humorless chuckle escapes him with a rise of his chest. He walks off, back to where his jacket hangs.

  I storm over to him and close a hand over the fabric of his jacket before he can shrug into it. "Wait."

  He exhales, impatience radiating from him, and tugs the material out of my grasp. "You didn't have to pretend to want private lessons, Amelia. This was a huge waste of my time."

  "I do want the lessons," I say.

  He pulls his jacket on and the way he pauses at my words makes guilt worm into the pit of my stomach. He wanted to ride in on his white horse and save me from myself.

  "I'm serious, Reed. I..." I glance away, not prepared to have a genuine moment. "I need this."

  "But...?"

  "But it's not all I need. You said you wanted to help me. I need your help."

  "What do you need help with? You want me to give you dirt on Chief Sterling? You want me to be some anonymous inside source? Is that what you want? Because I can tell you right now, it's not going to happen."

  "No. I need to get into his retirement party."

  "For what?"

  "I can't say."

  "Anything illegal?"

  Can I pretend he wouldn't count stealing a few photographs as illegal?

  "No."

  He scans my face, gaze razor sharp, and I swear he can see right to my bones. He knows I'm not telling him the whole truth, yet he's still weighing the decision. There must be bad blood there, between him and Chief Sterling.

  "I can't help you. I can see why you would think I would--Sterling has fueled the fire that can ruin my career. I'm not a big enough asshole to return the favor, but I'm sure you'll find a way to get your job done."

  "Is that what you think my job is? Ruining people?"

  "Isn't it?"

  His words settle over me. I chew on my bottom lip, not at all pleased with the glimpse of what he really thinks of me. Turning from him, I collect my things in silence.

  He gestures forward, to the front door. "I'll walk you to your car."

  "I haven't driven my car since--" I swallow the admission, then say, "I take cabs now."

  Reed's lips turn down a fraction, eyes softening just a hair.

  "No cab tonight. I'll take you home."

  "Yeah, I don't think so."

  "Let me do this for you." He lifts his brows with sincerity and speaks again--a single word that disarms me, coated in a silent apology for his previous statement. "Please?"

  CHAPTER 20

  Reed

  HAVING HER SLIDE INTO THE passenger seat of my car is somehow more intimate than our proximity during the entire one-on-one session. I rest my hand on the gearshift, even though my car is an automatic. I do it because my hand wants to find her, wants to touch some part of her as I drive.

  I've derailed. Where all of my gates should draw up, I'm letting them down. Offering her private lessons, letting her into my car.

  It's a slippery slope.

  Nothing could've prepared me for the effect she has on me when we're all alone. She's beautiful with an energy that lashes out at me in waves. I've trained classes full of women before and never once have I wrestled with maintaining professionalism. I've never had issues with keeping my thoughts from straying too far. Until tonight. My eyes strayed, too, indulging in the sight of her curves when she wasn't looking.

  Is that what you think my job is? Ruining people?

  There was a shade of defensiveness in her voice. And I'm glad for it. It's a reminder for me of a truth I've lived firsthand. Journalists are bottom feeders. But as much as I try to remind myself of this, there seems to be a disconnect where Amelia Woods is concerned.

  She causes a misfire in my brain.

  The drive is short and our silence is pointed. There are questions saturating the air between us. But there's more than questions. There's the reminder of how the air between our bodies is pulled taut and threatening to snap.

  I turn into a neighborhood in Hilltop and crawl to a stop where she indicates.

  "That's a big house."

  "It's an old mansion repurposed as an apartment building," she says, pointing upward. "I'm on the second floor."

  She gets out of the car without looking at me. Not until her feet are planted on the sidewalk does she speak to me again, through the window.

  "I know you think tonight was a sham, but it wasn't. I want to learn more, but I understand if that won't be possible."

  Truth.

  She's telling the truth.

  The car window frames her like a photograph. Strands of hair stick to her forehead, her cheeks tinged pink from training. I expected a light session, but she surprised me. She gave it all she had until sweat dotted her forehead and her chest heaved from exertion. Fire burned in her eyes and made me wish circumstances were different. Because, this woman? It took everything in me to keep from begging her to let me take her hard and fast, right against that column.

  "Well?" she prompts, gnawing at her bottom lip. Her lips are my Achilles heel, and the smooth way her voice slips from between them might as well be a hand wrapping around...

  For fuck's sake.

  I cut off my thoughts, but they spill out of my mouth when I respond with words rooted more in the desire to see her again than anything else.

  "I'll show you more. Soon. As my schedule allows."

  The corners of her lips turn up slightly in silent thanks, but her eyes convey reservation. Question whether I can really be trusted, if anyone can. She moves up the steps and through the front door of the house. I wait until she is inside and even then, I don't move. I take in the surrounding area through my windshield. It's quiet. And dark. Orange glows of curtained windows the only indication of inhabitants in the nearby houses. It appears safe here. Ideal, even. There's no one in the cars parked nearby. No one outside.

  Strange.

  There's a very distinct prickle on the back of my neck, one that makes me get out of my car just to check around more clearly.

  Nothing.

  Raindrops begin to fall, creating a soft tapping sound against the car's windshield. I get back into my car and fight the urge to ring Amelia's doorbell, just to make sure she's all right. But just as I consider this, a light turns on in the second floor of the house and her silhouette becomes visible from behind the curtains. She moves closer to the window and parts the curtains. Seeing me still parked up front, she lifts a hand in signal.

  I lift my own hand in goodbye and she disappears behind blinds that drop over the window. There's no reason to remain on this dark, empty street. Other than the vague impression of a pair of eyes on me, somewhere.

  CHAPTER 21

  Amelia

  NO MATTER HOW MUCH I want it to, my brain won't shut off. I toss and turn, squeeze my eyes shut. But I can't sleep. My thoughts race and the world grows light around me, and Friday is just a blur before night falls again. Emily texts me Saturday night, hinting at wanting to come over, but I don't want her to walk into the scene in my bedroom.

  I sit on top of the papers scattered across the floor. My hair's a mess, a cup of coffee glued to my hand. My eyes scan pages upon pages of information. I couldn't stop thinking about what Reed said the other night. About Chief Sterling trying to ruin him. I dug up ever
ything I could on the retiring chief of police, my printer churning non-stop until it runs out of ink. Even after I replace the cartridge, the machine refuses to work for thirty more minutes.

  My curiosity led me to pull on one loose thread and so much information fell into my lap, I'm forced to spend all weekend making sense of it. That's how it happens. Every story, every new piece of information is a rabbit hole. I follow the trail all the way to a mention of Lieutenant Sebastian Reed being the subject of an ongoing investigation for misconduct.

  I stare at the word misconduct for several long seconds, then rub my tired eyes, take another swig of coffee and look for more threads to pull on. I tug a little harder and find a few local papers had picked up the story last summer, including my own, but it all flew past my peripheral. It was nothing I took interest in, but I hadn't known Reed then.

  Criminal charges were filed against him. Charges of assault. This word I stare at the longest. Worry coating the walls of my chest.

  He was dragged through the mud in the press after using excessive force when intervening in a domestic dispute. The story died out quickly enough once the charges were dropped, and no one seemed at all concerned about the victim, who witnesses claim had been in the process of assaulting a woman before Reed interceded.

  Still, the man's injuries seemed excessive enough to spark the demand for an internal probe, especially after the incident became a lawsuit against the city. More digging gives me hints of what Reed meant when he said Chief Sterling is trying to ruin him. The chief of police wasn't exactly on the side of his officer. All of the public statements I read make it sound as if he threw Reed under the bus from the moment the allegations surfaced.

  Reed was immediately suspended, without pay, and a public apology was issued on his behalf. But when the DA dropped the criminal charges, Reed was allowed to return to active duty, pay docked pending an internal investigation.

  It's been going on for over a year.

  I go to bed Sunday night, unable to think of anything but Reed. He is, by all appearances, the most deliberate and controlled man I've ever come across. What would bring him to mishandle a situation with excessive force?