1 Kimmy
If the system designed to safeguard you doesn't, there are alternative methods.
The words kept on bouncing around my head as I entered the coffee shop Brynn picked.
I got there before her. The place was new—too expensive, too loud, too full of pretty people in thrifted leather jackets.
I scanned the interior, half-expecting to be spotted by someone I knew from high school.
Because when you have a dreadful secret, you always expect to be seen.
No one looked up.
I picked the booth by the window. There was a wall behind me and a good sightline to the entrance. In case, I needed to leave fast.
I had no obvious reasons.
But still…
I sipped at the latte I didn't want, tracing the painted design on the mug with my finger, watching the street for Brynn's Jeep. The espresso machine behind the counter sounded like an industrial accident.
My fingers drummed the tabletop, then the mug, then the tabletop again. I stopped. Tried to look—or maybe feel—normal. Checked my phone, scrolled through the social media feeds.
Then, a photo of Ronan Wick came into my feed. The same photo that had popped up on my iPad a few days ago during my doom scroll session. It was right before our drunken night out at The Crypt. Actually, the photo was the reason of the said drunken night.
Wick grinned from the screen. My breath stuttered and shook like it had before. Panic clawed at me, a familiar and feral beast. I mentally wrestled for control.
My finger hovered over the caption below. I hadn't had the courage to read it then. I hesitated now too before pressing Read More. I didn't need to know why he was smiling. I didn't want to know more, to see more.
Still, I looked, steadying myself with one hand against the table's edge, but everything was sliding. My world, so orderly, was unraveling thread by thread.
I tried to follow Dr. Carney's advice.
Breathe.
Count.
Name things.
Five things I could see.
Four things I could touch.
My mind skipped, stalled. The coffee shop was too busy with too many items to pick. Suddenly, everything was Ronan Wick. His face grinning on the screen, the same way it'd grinned at me through the haze of alcohol and drugs three years ago at that penthouse.
My lungs shrank to the size of cherries, squeezing tight. Unwanted memories consumed all space.
I gasped through it, half-gulping. It should have been easier. Three years of therapy and mental battle with myself should have meant something. I should've been stronger, but the panic found me, as brutal and intimate as ever. And in a public place of all places.
The coffee shop's door swung open. A familiar figure entered.
Immediately, my breathing function returned to me.
Brynn's black boots with buckle straps thudded on the tile as she headed straight for the cashier.
She wore a tattered hoodie under an even more tattered jacket.
Her hair was a new color, deep navy with a bleached shock running through the bangs.
I envied how she could look like chaos and not give a single shit about it.
She saw me, lifted a hand in greeting, then went to place her order before sliding into the seat across.
"I hope you didn't wait long," she said with an apologetic smile when she plopped into a chair across the table.
"Fifteen minutes."
"Sorry. Traffic." She didn't elaborate. We both knew she meant existential traffic—her bed, her phone, her own thoughts, maybe another project she was working on. Because anyone who lived in LA knew that this was a city of perpetual traffic and if you wanted to be on time you always left early.
Brynn folded her arms and leaned across the table, voice dropping. "I talked to Lena."
"You did?" My throat was suddenly dry.
Brynn nodded. "She says it's legit. She does know someone who used them."
"Can you give me her number?" I asked.
"You do remember Lena, right?" Brynn's brow pinched upward.
I looked down at the mug, at the little puddle of lukewarm foam.
Lena was one of Brynn's friends I'd met the other night at The Crypt.
Tall, confidently calm, black leather trench coat, dramatic eye makeup.
Very mysterious. The one who'd brought up the Bureau after I'd accidentally spilled some of the things I'd vowed to never say out loud. I blamed too much vodka and anxiety.
"Yes," I said. "Of course, I remember her. That's why I'm asking you for her number."
"She does give off those crazy vibes."
I scoffed. "So do you."
"No, I don't." Brynn fell back in her chair and folded both arms across her chest.
"Said the girl who's obsessed with true crime and didn't refute anyone the other night when they suggested she was the only one they knew who'd actually go on a date with a real psycho as part of her personal research."
Brynn rolled her eyes. "Whatever."
"Look, I just wanna talk to her."
"You know she's got a wild imagination. She writes serialized horror fiction online."
"How is it different from your fixation on true crime?"
"At least I don't make shit up. I just study it."
We sat in silence for a little while. Brynn's face looked tense as if she was struggling with something on the inside. Finally, she pulled out her phone, her fingers flicking over the screen.
My own phone buzzed. When I looked at it, there was a text from Brynn with the link to some messenger profile.
I shot her a questioning stare.
She shrugged and explained, "I don't have her direct number. We've ever only communicated using this app."
Weird, I thought to myself. "Thanks."
"You sure you want to get into this again?" she asked quietly.
"I didn't say I was gonna get into this again, but I just wanted to—"
The barista behind the counter called Brynn's order. She rose up to grab it, leaving me to mull over my unfinished sentence.
What was it that I wanted? Justice? My life back? Perhaps both. I barely left my apartment these days while the men who'd ruined my career—among other things—were living their fucking lives like nothing had happened. And nothing actually had. Not to them.
Because it'd happened to me.
A feeling that felt a lot like anger flickered somewhere deep in my gut. Flickered but didn't quite catch.
When Brynn returned, my own latte was finished.
Again, we sat in silence for a few heartbeats.
"I don't want you to have false hope," Brynn finally spoke. "You tried already to go against them and look where you're at right now."
She was the kind of friend who lacked filter and was brutally honest to the point of insensitive, but she was my only real friend—and the only good thing that had come out of group therapy I'd attended a couple of years ago.
"Maybe I just want to humor myself," I supplied quietly.
"Or maybe you're just grasping at straws."
We went back to silence. The espresso machine screeched. Somebody's phone rang with a burst of pop music that instantly faded.
"I got to get back to work," I finally said rising to my feet.
"Sure. Text me at the end of the week. Let's hang out."
I stumbled into the brightness of midday, my blood buzzing a little.
The city was rumbling and alive. The coffee shop doors swung shut behind me.
I rushed over to the parking lot at the rear of the building, halted in the alley, leaned against the building's brick wall, feeling its solid, cool support.
If you have money, you can cover up anything. Justice system doesn't apply to you.
I beg to differ.
What do you mean?
If the system designed to safeguard you doesn't, there are alternative methods.
What? Like hiring some thugs to send a message?
You've had too much to drink, bitch.
Not in the slightest… There's an organization. They call themselves the Bureau. They help people like...well, people who've been failed by the system. For a price.
This kind of stuff only exists in movies.
My pulse slowed at first and then sped up to match the frantic rhythm of the street as I inspected every memory of that conversation that had taken place at the table the other night, wondering what the hell was I doing.
After catching my breath, I resumed walking. As I entered the lot, my phone buzzed. The sound startled me. Margaret's name lit up the screen. My finger hovered over it for a second before I took the call.
"Kimmy, sweetheart!" Her voice was warm like one of her hand-knit cardigans. I clutched the phone tighter, trying to hold onto that feeling.
"Hi, Mom," I said.
"How are you doing, dear? I've been thinking about you."
"I'm fine. Just...leaving an appointment."
"Oh, I hope everything's alright." Concern edged her words, and I pictured her peering over her glasses, brow furrowed.
"Don't worry. It's a work thing," I lied.
"I won't keep you long. You remember Katrina's birthday is coming up, right? We're having a little birthday dinner for her."
Katrina. My older foster sister who'd blown through her teenage years and college with whirlwind ease. Margaret's place would be full of chatter and noise, especially if Katrina brings friends over…or that new boyfriend of hers Margaret wouldn't stop talking about.
My chest tightened at the thought of it, at the thought of being surrounded by all those people I called my family. I felt undeserving being there. "I'm not sure," I said, faltering. "I've got a really big project at work."
"It would mean so much to all of us if you could come," she interrupted gently. "It's been ages since we've seen you, dear."
"Okay," I heard myself say.
Her relief was almost tangible through the phone. "Thank you, Kimmy. You have no idea how happy that makes me. I'll have my girls all to myself for a few hours." She sounded giddy.
I nodded as if she could see me. "I'll be there."
Why did you say that, Kimmy?
There was a small pause. A rustle, as if she were shifting the phone to her other hand. "I know things have been difficult for you lately with all that workload," Margaret said, her tone cautious but full of care. "But I worry that you're..."
"Isolating?" I filled in, trying to make it a joke and failing.