Flight （n.） – Scarlett
FLIGHT (N.):
RUNNING AWAY OR HIDING BY A PERSON OFFICIALLY ACCUSED OF A CRIME WITH THE APPARENT INTENT OF AVOIDING ARREST OR PROSECUTION.
SCARLETT
Wicked: Selected. Main Role
Beauty & The Beast: Selected. Main Role
The Firm—A Musical: Selected. Main Role
I’ve become convinced that Jameson’s existence defies every law in physics, especially the space-time continuum.
He’s present for his clients in court and at his office, often bending over backwards to get them what they need, and he’s available to talk to me on the phone most of the time, but he hardly ever returns to his condo.
Over the past three weeks, I’ve spent more time in it than him, and I’ve noticed a strange pattern.
On Sundays and Wednesday nights, we’re always done talking on the phone by nine because he insists on ending the call right then and there.
He doesn’t call me again until the following day, and it’s never a second before eleven o’clock in the morning.
Confused, I stuff my costume into my bag and take an Uber to his firm.
The moment the driver pulls in front of the door, I hand him a twenty-dollar bill.
“I need you to wait fifteen minutes,” I say. “I’ll be right back out.”
“You’re too pretty to commit crimes, lady.”
“Huh?”
“That’s what you’re here for, right?” He puts the car in park. “You did something terrible and you need a firm like this to get you out of it?”
“Um, no.” I shake my head. “Not at all.”
“Eh, no judgment.” He reclines in his seat. “My cousin hired this place to get him off like twenty charges a decade ago. They’re worth every dime.”
I grab my purse and step out of the car.
Stepping inside the lobby, I head straight for the receptionist’s desk.
“Welcome to Tate & Associates,” Jameson’s second-favorite employee beams. “It’s evening, so certain offices are closed.”
“I know,” I say. “Can you call Jameson Tate and tell him I’m here?”
“Mr. Tate is not here at the moment.” She tilts her head to the side. “And he’s appointment only.”
“If he’s not here, where is he?”
“If this is a personal matter, you probably have his cell phone number, miss.”
“I do,” I say.
“Then call it.” She smiles. “Mr. Tate is not here at the moment, and he’s appointment only.”
“Do you know where he goes on Wednesdays and Sundays?”
She blinks.
Ugh, fine. “Can you leave a message for him then?”
“Absolutely.” She clicks a pen. “What is it?”
“Tell him that…” I shake my head. “That’s okay. Thank you.”
I return to the waiting Uber and try not to think about the first night we met.
I really need to talk to you about something important, Jameson.
He doesn’t answer.
Until the following morning.
Right at 11:01.
Okay. I’ll be back at my place tonight.
Later that evening
I slide my finger under another flap of new mail that bears my father’s name, making sure that the bedroom door is locked.
There is no letter this time.
Only grayscale pictures of my two oldest brothers walking in and out of businesses, copies of checks, and photos of them standing near a fire pit in the middle of nowhere.
On the last picture, which features the two of them sitting on the trunk of my father’s Rolls-Royce, in faint gray handwriting are four words.
“No body, no crime.”