Forgiven (Ruined)

by Rachel Hanna

  Everything is in order. I'm not sure what I'm doing here. Maybe trying to force the idea for the next series to come to mind. I'd love for someone else to come up with something to take the place of the forgiveness series, which is probably going to end around Valentine's Day. Or sooner. It's lost the freshness, but not the viewers. Not yet. I'm hoping to end it about the time it starts to lose ground, not when it's good and truly dead, and not while it's still bringing us a viewing audience. It's one of the early pieces that's submitted for the Award.

  Nothing comes to me though. Or rather, a lot of ideas come, but none with staying power. I don't want to do the conflicts between males and females. In light of the Santa Barbara shootings and other recent shootings the topic is evergreen, and there are currently all the hash tag feminists and men hash tagging back Not All of Us.

  Maybe. If nothing else comes to mind. In the meantime, the station was well tucked in and needs nothing from me. I check the log, see students will be in to start up with cartoons at 7 a.m. and I start getting ready to leave.

  And that's when I hear it.

  * * *

  There's someone else in the building.

  Which is probably OK. Right? I didn't call out when I came in, because I assumed there was no one else here. And whoever is here didn't call out when I came in, I tell myself a little frantically, because they didn't know there was anyone else here.

  Right? Only why didn't they know someone else was here? I wasn't being quiet. I shut the door, tried it to make certain it was locked. I turned on lights. I – sat quietly at a desk.

  OK. So maybe they just heard something and discounted it. Maybe they were in an editing booth and didn't hear me.

  Relief. That's it. They were in an editing booth. It's probably Dexter or Tyler or another student who has access.

  So why haven't I called out yet? I should, too, because otherwise I'm going to give whoever it is a hell of a shock. Even with the lights on, because most people don't remember whether or not they've turned lights on. They just do it. It's natural.

  Except I do remember turning the lights on. They were off when I got here. All of them.

  OK. Don't panic. Maybe whoever it is turned all the lights behind them off as they made their way to the editing suites. That makes sense. It's environmentally sound. It's the right thing to do.

  So why have I still not called out?

  I haven't heard anything for the last few seconds. Maybe I misheard. Maybe there's nobody here. Maybe something fell and what I heard was collateral damage from knocking over other things. Only what made the first thing fall?

  Before I can think that one through, more sounds. Far end of the hall, I think. I might be able to see if I were in the hall instead of just round the hall wall at the so-called executive desk. Before I can over think this anymore I call out.

  "Hello?"

  The sounds stop instantly. Did I scare whoever it was? "Hello? Who's there? It's Willow," I call again.

  And this time there are running footsteps. Coming my way. I have no idea what to do, there's nowhere to go, they're headed right at me. I've got the desk between me and the hall and can't possibly get to the door before they do. I'd crash right in to whoever it is. No point in hiding because I just announced I was here, me, Willow, a girl by herself, all alone in the supposed-to-be-empty communications building.

  My phone's in my hand before the footsteps reach the edge of the wall. They don't stop. Whoever it is hits the door and is out into the parking lot before I get there. I didn't even get a chance to see if it was male or female.

  "Hey!" Now that they're running from me rather than at me, I seem inclined to give chase. I get as far as the door before common sense kicks in.

  I pull the door shut, make sure it's shut, turn the lever that sinks the deadbolt. Which won't do anything to help me if I need help because first of all it was shut the first time and whoever it was, they were in here with me and second off, there could be others.

  Third, he or she probably had a key.

  But that's not proven. Because I haven't been through the building yet. Could be a broken window, a jimmied back door. I start to dial 911, because I do not want to be alone here anymore, and then pause. I have no idea what they'll do if they come here, but the first time in my life I called 911 is a time I don't want to revisit, and don't want revisited by anyone. If I call, will they check out any other times I called 911? In other states? In other lives? Back when I was Kate. Back in Seattle.

  Probably not but I'm not taking the chance. I've started a new life and I intend to keep it. I've cut off Kate and Washington State.

  I'll call campus security. I look down my speed dial and make the call.

  Chapter 6

  Campus security's dispatch seems to be interns too. They're uncertain whether I'm better off waiting in the parking lot (alone in the dark where the intruder went) or in the building (alone in a closed up building where the intruder was). I can't decide either, so I stay on the line with them while I wait for a security detail to arrive. The girl sounds squeaky and unhappy with all the choices and I hope her major isn't criminal justice and her intended career isn't 911 operator.

  "Willow Blake?"

  Why are they shining the flashlight in my eyes? I can't see past it, can't see the ID I'm being handed. Plus, the lights are all on in here. I put my hand up against the light and the guy apologizes and lowers the flash.

  His ID is Ryan Ferguson. He's with a female security guard with long dark braids. Ryan is a redhead and a little overweight or maybe he's wearing a vest. In light of all the campus shootings, I'd wear full combat gear every time I had a shift, I think, and then start to shake with misplaced apprehension. It's over now, whatever it was. Maybe that's why I feel like I have time to react.

  "Are you hurt?" the female asks. Her ID, belatedly presented, shows her to be a Erin Balliol. "Do you need medical attention?"

  "No." It comes out shaky, like hip-hop. No should only have one syllable. "Sorry. I just got scared."

  "So there wasn't anybody here?" Ferguson says.

  "What?" I frown at him. He frowns back. "No," I say, trying again. "I mean, yes, there was someone here. I mean, I got scared after he ran out." Yes, that clears things right up, Willow.

  "Because?" Ferguson hazards.

  "Because the shock set in, Fergie," Balliol says. "Don't be a jerk." To me she says, "Take us through it, step by step."

  So I do. From Emmy dropping me off to coming inside, checking the door, going through the records, making sure everything with the station was in order.

  Fergie finds this weird. "Why'd you do all that?" he asks.

  Balliol and I both stare at him. "Because it's her job," she says at the same time I say, "Because it's my job."

  He gives us both a look like we're ganging up on him and says he's going to walk the building. Fine by me. The shaking is stopping anyway. I'm ready to call it a night. I'll take my own walk through if Balliol will go with me, and wait for morning if she won't. I actually have the weekend off, had been thinking of asking Kellan if he wanted to go somewhere before realizing he was trapped by parole in the city. That had made me restless and trapped despite having not really gone much of anywhere anyway.

  Once Fergie's gone to check out the rest of the building, Balliol walks me through events one more time.

  "I feel stupid for not checking out the building when I got here," I tell her. I'm sitting on the desk now, swinging my feet.

  Balliol shrugs, her dark braids bouncing. "Then you might have panicked whoever it was if you'd done that. Forced whoever it was to act. We didn't see anything from the outside, no broken windows or anything. Whoever it was didn't do anything to you. Maybe it was some kid on a dare. Or maybe it was – "

  Ferguson interrupts her. He's come back up the hall, carrying some damaged tapes. "Or maybe it was someone doing this," he says. He looks from the tape to me. "You still use tapes here?"

  I sigh. "The university likes us to
learn all the formats for broadcasting." Reaching out for the tape. "Do you need that for evidence?" I want to at least see what it is.

  "No. I've taken pictures. This is a misdemeanor, petty theft if anything. Your equipment seems to be in place, but can you come walk through?"

  I jump off the desk, starting to follow him. He stops abruptly and I run into him, annoyed. He turns back. "It's a mess in there."

  I sigh again. Of course it is. This will look great on my resume someday. Probably the communications building has never been broken into until my watch.

  The editing bays are still locked and untouched, but the studio is a mass of tapes strewn about, broken CDs and MP3s and a few thumb drives somebody tried to stomp on.

  "What the hell?" At Security's urging, I walk through first, cataloging every piece of equipment. Not that I know them all yet but I know what surfaces are covered and how crammed the rooms are and they still are. Everything's still there. But the tapes and the discs are distressing. It's like someone was trying to trash all our work.

  Correction: someone was trying to trash my work. Because even if the forgiveness series is now in the hands of DCTV and is in production through the station, it's my baby, and those are, for the most part, the tapes and discs that got hit.

  That makes me feel a little sick. That coupled with whoever it was having been in here when I got here, and having caused no other damage.

  * * *

  I catalog what was damaged. There are off-site backups for everything, which I remember part way through cleaning up. Mostly I pile the trashed stuff into a box and leave it with a note that I'll handle it when I come in on Monday. I had the weekend off and I'm still taking it off. I could use some downtime and some Kellan time, and I think my mother and Bruce are going to Atlanta for the weekend.

  "There are no cars in the parking lot," Balliol says as we finish up. I'm locking the doors even though that now seems pointless. Monday I'll put in a request for changing the locks – no, no, tomorrow I'll email the team to have somebody else do that and get it done before tomorrow night. There, I'm learning to delegate.

  "My friend Emmy dropped me off," I tell her. I think I did before. Only now the implications hit me. "Can you stay with me while I wait for a cab?" I no longer feel up to the five minute beach walk by myself and besides, it's now after 2:30 a.m. That's a little late even

  for me.

  "Better," Balliol says. "We'll drop you off."

  "We can't go off campus," Ferguson says.

  Balliol sighs at him. "Where do you live?"

  "Five minutes down beach," I tell her and she just glares at Ferguson and leads the way. Now it's his turn to sigh.

  I'm fine with that, as long as it means I have a ride.

  * * *

  They wait while I go up to the front door, where my mother has left the light on for me. I have my keys in my hand, and I make a show of opening the front door, turning and waving. But once security pulls away, I shut the front door again. Nobody's up, I don't think. There's a lamp on in the living room but the house is utterly silent, just the funny ticks and clicks that a big house makes at night, like it's talking to itself.

  I'm restless now. Riding back with security my mind was hamster-wheeling, spinning round and round without getting anywhere. But now I'm here, I'm awake and aware again and ready to start turning the events of the evening over in my head. I pull my phone out, start to text Emmy, then realize even if she's awake this will just worry her. She'll feel all guilty that she ever let me go in alone even though I should have been completely safe in a locked building. I have no idea where Reed got to.

  I'm not texting Reed. It's not his problem anymore. Besides, he'll get all worried. I can't imagine he'd come back to school – he had the opportunity to work in the field of his choice, learning on the job and completing his education in Boston. Worrying him would be pointless and unnecessary.

  So I'm left with no one to talk to? Except Kellan. Who I really want to see.

  So go find him, I tell myself. He must be upstairs. In his room. Asleep. Warm and rough looking, his hair tangled from the pillow. His green eyes smoldering as he wakes and sees me –

  And the last thing on my mind will be the break in at the college station building. Which is just fine with me.

  Except even as I think that I'm walking out on the sand, my shoes discarded at the bottom of the steps, my keys inside them. The sand is cold and feels damp even though this far from the tide it isn't. That's just the effect of night air. A tiny breeze blows my hair back from my face. I use both hands to twist it up into a bun, tucking the edges under so the curls and tangles from the wind will make it stay. Hands in my pockets, still wearing the light white pants I went dancing in, I head down to the surf, still thinking, looking at the moonlight on the water exactly as I'd imagined.

  And there's Kellan. He's out on the waves, which is probably insanely dangerous. The first time I met him I warned him about the unpredictable tides here and he nearly bit my head off. He didn't know who I was yet, and I had no idea who he was. We didn't meet until later that night when he accidentally came into the room where I was sleeping and climbed into my bed. He said he thought it was his room.

  Now that I've seen him I feel suddenly shy. Will he be happy to see me? Or is he still annoyed that I went out without him? So I'm not sure if I should call or go down to the wet sand or wave or wait. Or walk the other way, up the beach in the night, a solo walk like I'd had in mind. Since I can't decide, I retrace my steps to the stairs and sit down on the bottom steps, toes in the sand, keys in my hand, watching Kellan as his silhouette takes on the waves. He's good, far as I can judge. At least he doesn't wipe out very often. The moonlight shines on his muscles, the broad shoulders and long lean legs.

  Leaning my cheek on one fist, elbows on knees, I watch him surf. When I first met him, he snapped at me, demanding to know if I was a lifeguard or what business of mine it was whether he went swimming under dangerous conditions or not. Following our awkward arrival in the same bed we ended up encountering each other at awkward moments and eventually really encountering each other when Kellan showed up in my bed again and this time I invited him to stay. Though either of our parents, his dad or my mom, could have been sticky about it, they both understood. Our parents might be married, but we're not related at all. I think Bruce thinks I might be good for Kellan. I know my mom thinks Kellan might be good for me.

  But Kellan keeps worrying he's going to drag me down, ruin me like he considers himself to be ruined. Kellan did time for the lives he took.

  I only did time in my own mind. I locked myself away from the world. Sometimes it doesn't seem like that was enough. For Kellan sometimes the five years doesn't seem like enough. It's hard to go on living after something like that and for both of us, the events that ended in the death of others were accidents.

  Mine was self-defense, technically, but I never meant to kill my father. Kellan doesn't even have the self-defense angle to fall back on during those nights when his personal demons won't let him sleep.

  I could tell him that the ruling – self-defense, justifiable homicide, innocent and not ever once proven guilty – doesn't help at four a.m..

  I could tell him that. If he'd listen. What he hears, I think, is the self-defense part. Even if I'm not saying it. I can't tell him it doesn't help because he's convinced it does. He's also convinced that I have a right to a life and he doesn't. Parole is cruel, really. It lets him out in to the world but only so far. Like being a kid again, living under rules you can't do anything about and consequences that are dire if you dare to disobey. Which makes sense. There's the need to be certain society is safe, I guess. But it makes getting back into life hard.

  Would I want him drinking again? Not really. I don't drink at all anymore. My father's alcoholism would have been more than enough of a deterrent even if events hadn't spiraled out of control the way they did. The fact that it was drugs, not alcohol, that led to my father's death doesn't
make a difference for me. I don't drink. The one time I caved ended up making me look like an idiot anyway.

  Kellan made a mistake. He was 17 and it was a mistake. A part of me thinks if some day he wanted to have a beer with a pizza while watching television in his own home, it wouldn't be a crime. Or shouldn't be. Another part thinks the inability to legally drink alcohol doesn't change one's enjoyment of life. Or it shouldn't.

  But the reasons behind it undoubtedly do.

  Kellan on the waves is beautiful. But I have no doubt he's brooding. About what he did. Or about my going out tonight. Abruptly I don't want to wait for him to finish tiring himself out and come to the house. I can't take an argument right now. My nerves are still raw. Going out like that, to a club, surrounded by people and light and noise and life? That's hard. That's me doing my own brand of therapy. Reaffirming life. That I have to leave my boyfriend behind to do it is hard enough without having to deal with his reaction to my leaving him behind.

  I take a last look at him, riding in the moonlight, and stand. I'll go inside. Take a shower. Read a little. Get ready for bed. If he chooses to come to me, then maybe we'll be all right tonight.

  That's when he sees me. My movement must have attracted his attention. He calls out, and when I turn back, he's waving. I could wave back, pretend I didn't understand the hang on a second nature of the wave. No point in lying. And maybe we'll be all right tonight.

  I walk down to the water's edge and wait for him.

  Chapter 7

  When Kellan comes out of the water his skin is crusty with salt, cold and damp even where the wetsuit has covered him. He rolls it down to his waist when he's free of the surf, leans to kiss me, then, teasing, wraps an arm around me, pulling me against his cold, clammy, damp body.

  "Hey!" I protest, giggling. "You're cold. And wet."

  "Sea monster," he says into my hair.