Chapter 32
Damien
Play - Boston By Augustana
Bitter without sugar
The bell above the door rings as I follow her inside. She doesn’t slow down and heads towards the counter like she’s done this a hundred times before.
“Look at that,” the man behind the bar says, grinning at her. “Still alive, Rey?”
She smiles then and replies, “You still burn the milk, Heath.”
“Only when you’re not around to yell at me,” he says. His eyes flick to me as he arches a brow. “Boyfriend?”
She doesn’t even glance back at me. “Professor.”
The man pauses, recalculates, then nods at me, “Welcome, sir.” He leans toward her next and lowers his voice, “They hire them young where you study.”
“He’s old,” she replies, looking at me with a smile.
“I heard that,” I say.
“Good.”
They laugh, then he turns to me and adds, “You don’t look old at all.”
I chuckle a bit before replying, “She’s probably uncomfortable to be here with me.”
She turns toward me shocked, “He thought I brought a date here.”
“Good thing I’m just your professor then. Let’s sit.”
We take a table by the window and I sit across from her this time as she just shrugs out of her jacket.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“Americano,” she says. Then, without looking up, “Two extra shots.”
I nod and go back to the counter.
“Careful,” the man, Heath apparently, says quietly as he hands me the cups. “She only drinks that when she hasn’t slept.”
“You know her well.”
He smirks as he looks at her. “I used to sign her paychecks.”
That explains everything.
When I sit back down, she’s staring out the window. The streets outside are familiar to her in a way they aren’t to me. For a moment she looks caught between here and somewhere else entirely.
I let her get lost in it for a few minutes, then I say, “You do that often.”
Her eyes turn to me. “Do what?”
“Leave the room without moving.”
Her fingers tighten around the cup then closes her eyes for a second, making it clear she has no intention of explaining this.
“So,” she says finally. “Why are we here?”
I set the cups down carefully. “Why don’t you sleep?”
That gets a reaction, her eyes snap to mine. “You don’t get to ask me that.”
“I already did.”
She studies me, irritated and defensive. “This is about the case,” she says. “Not my insomnia.”
“I was under the impression the two were connected."
She leans back, tilting her head. “Are you always this annoying, Mister Caldwell?”
“Only happens when people avoid answering simple questions.”
She exhales through her nose and smiles. “Let’s talk about the case. Why me?”
The corner of my mouth lifts at her sarcastic tone when I reply, “You’re observant, stubborn and could be really helpful with this thing.”
“I need more details,” she says, serious now.
“Someone died working this case.” She looks confused for a second when I say it. “He thought he was close,” I continued. “But he died before finding out who that bastard is.”
“That’s why you won’t let it go,” she says.
“Yes.”
“And now you want me involved.”
“If you agree to work on this with me,” I start, “you lose the option to pretend that you know nothing of this case. You don’t get to tell anyone. You don’t write anything down. And you accept that this could end your career before it starts.”
“Okay, what else should I know?”
“Give me your phone, I’ll add my number, put yours in mine.” I take my phone out and slide it across the table. She hands me hers as I type my number there and give it back.
“Rules,” I add, before she can touch it. “No confidential files, or system access. You’re not officially affiliated with anything yet.”
She arches her brow as she tilts her head. “Yet.”
A quiet laugh escapes me and I shake my head. “You’re confident.”
“No,” she says, wrapping both her hands around the phone. “It’s realistic.”
For a second, I find myself looking at her longer than necessary, then her eyes meet mine and I look away before continuing, “If this happens, it happens clean. Until then, you observe, you analyze.”
“And I don’t act.”
“No.”
Her phone is still in my hand as I type my number. Before I can save the contact, she reaches across the table and takes it back. Without a word, she enters her own number into my phone instead, then slides it toward me.
“Done.”
The smile on her face is intriguing when she finishes typing on her phone. Before I can stop myself, I reach across the table and take her phone from her hand.
She blinks. “What are you doing?”
“I’m curious to know what you’ve decided to call me,” I say looking at the nickname she gave me. That's not my name. I look up and ask, “Library?”
And she just nods before saying, “keeping it clean like you asked me.”
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes. A message from her. Only numbers.
I frown and stare at the sequence, letting my eyes move over each number. Then, the pattern becomes obvious. Each number replaces a letter following the order of the alphabet. I translate them quickly and read it out loud. Her name.“Mireya?”
She watches me closely, waiting and when I say it, she smiles. “You understood.”
“Yes,” I replied. “Why do you communicate like this?”
“If you send anything during the weekends,” she says. “When I’m home this is safer.”
I nod slowly because that tells me more than she probably realizes.
I type back without thinking too long. Numbers, same structure and same logic.
My name.
Her phone buzzes then she looks at the screen, and finally at me.
A quiet laugh slips out of her before she can stop it. “Damien.”
The laughter turns into a soft smile, and I mirror it.
Little miss sad eyes is not so sad anymore, and somehow that feels like a victory.