9 Kimmy
It was my phone that woke me.
I groped for it, eyes crusted, sheets tangled around my waist. I answered on autopilot, still somewhat asleep.
"Kimmy!" Brynn's voice detonated into the speaker, all at once. "Holy shit, are you up? Are you seeing this?"
I squinted at the ceiling and checked the digital clock in the top corner of the screen. "It's… early. What's up?"
Brynn ignored my complaint. "You know, that guy, Wick—he got perp walked out of some event in Beverly Hills last night. I almost spit out my espresso shot when I read about it. Tell me you already saw this!"
I did. Only in real life. However, I wasn't sure if it was okay to discuss this with Brynn, especially at this hour. I needed more sleep and less conversation. I'd stayed up well past midnight, trying to process everything that had happened at Windhaven.
"Yeah," I croaked finally. "I saw."
"Seriously?"
"I was there, Brynn," I said. I was weak when it came to lying. Sometimes, I did because I had no choice but sometimes I didn't because it made no sense to cover up things. And if someone's phone had caught me on camera yesterday…
There was a moment of silence. Then a slow exhale, like she'd forgotten to breathe. "You went to the same event? And didn't even tell me? That's dirty, bitch."
"It's not what you think. Geneva asked me to go in her place because of her dad. It was a nightmare. I had a guest list and he wasn't on it. If he was, I wouldn't have gone." I pawed at my face and tried to focus.
"And you saw him get arrested? Like, did they throw him on the ground? Did he cry?"
"No," I said. "They just grabbed him and recited the charges. It was… fast."
"Oh my God. You have to tell me every detail," Brynn said. "Wait—" She stopped. "Did you actually talk to Lena?"
I closed my eyes and inhaled. I hadn't spoken to Brynn much after that coffee shop meet. We'd both been busy. Besides, I hoped she wouldn't bring up that conversation anymore. That way I could pretend it hadn't happened at all. Besides, this entire business seemed too personal…and illegal.
You can't discuss this with any of your friends.
"I don't know," I finally replied. And that was true. Although I'd given my money away, I had no idea if Ronan's arrest was the result of the service I'd paid for or a coincidence.
"Come on, Kimmy. The timing is so—so perfect."
"Maybe… But I really don't know."
"You don't sound happy," Brynn said, softer now. "I thought you'd be doing a cartwheel."
"I can't figure out what I feel," I admitted. It came out as a broken whisper.
She didn't say anything for a few seconds. "Want to hang out later? I can bring pastries. Or, like, murder donuts. Do you want murder donuts?"
"Maybe," I said again, uselessly.
"Okaaaay," she drawled. "But you have to promise to tell me everything that you saw when you were there. Otherwise, I'll camp outside your apartment and serenade you until you die of embarrassment."
"Yeah," I said, barely managing a laugh. "Deal."
"Cool. I'll text you later," Brynn said, and ended the call.
I lay back and let my hand fall to my chest, the phone balanced there.
I stared at the ceiling, my mind still fogged by sleep but racing in a dozen directions at once.
I thought about the night before, about the flash of Ronan's eyes in the corridor, the press of his fingers on my jaw, the perfectly timed interruption by the strange man with the cart.
He looked like a waiter but his boots said something different.
They were tactical style boots.
By nine I was at my kitchen counter, on my second cup of coffee, laptop open like a jaw with too many teeth.
The headlines scrolled by, one after the next. I read them aloud, as if I spoke them they'd become real. But they were already real.
Prominent Businessman Ronan Wick Arrested on Fraud Allegations
Financial Fraud Suspect Ronan Wick Remains in Custody
Ronan Wick Denies Involvement in Financial Fraud Case
I said each one again, softer, quieter, until it was just the hiss of breath in my mouth.
The words looked fake after a while, like an elaborate prank.
But every link led to another article or a meme or a stock image of Ronan in a suit, hands up in that ridiculous no comment pose.
The smugness was gone from his eyes, replaced by the blankness of a man about to go under.
A text message from Margaret arrived—Katrina's birthday dinner reminder.
I reacted to it with a thumb-ups sticker and went back to my gloating over Ronan Wick's disaster.
A strange, fluttering satisfaction ran through me as I kept on reading. The monster in the dark had been dragged into the light. His name would be poison now, his family's reputation ruined.
But the thrill died on the way down. What filled the space was something bitter and electric. Guilt, maybe. Or fear of what I'd become.
Margaret would hate me for feeling victorious over someone's downfall.
I tried to shake the thought off and stared around my apartment, looking for things to count.
The space around me was a monument to my need for control. No clutter, nothing out of place, nothing to trip over or betray me. Even the morning sun filtered in at a rigid angle, bending itself to the lines of my furniture.
My stomach felt lined with lead. Still, I sipped my coffee and munched on my second ChocoNut even though it was too early for sugar.
I should've been moving on—checking work emails, prepping for calls, figuring out how to fix my broken sleep schedule—but I couldn't stop scrolling. I needed to see if anyone else was named, if the case was expanding, if there would be any blowback for me.
I closed the laptop for a while and paced the living room, but the apartment felt too quiet and every sound was magnified. My mind spun and the memories of last night rushed back in—one in particular.
The waiter in tactical boots who nodded at me. Now that I thought about it some more… The same boots were on the man on the bike outside in the street when I was getting into the Uber. The man who openly looked at me.
I chalked it up to a coincidence but deep in my gut I knew it wasn't.
Work was a joke.
I sat at the desk and stared at the project dashboard for a few minutes, then cycled through my assignments.
The world outside was louder, more immediate. Every motorcycle that zipped past my building made my whole body tense. I craned my neck, peered through the blinds, and every time it was just another delivery guy or a college student with a death wish.
But I couldn't shake the feeling that one of them would stop. That he'd park, black helmet still on, and look up at my window, waiting for me to notice.
The burner phone was the worst. It sat on the corner of my desk like a tiny, ticking bomb. Every so often, I'd pick it up, thumb the edges, check for missed calls.
Around noon, I made another pot of coffee, then poured it down the drain when I realized my hands were shaking too much to consume more caffeine.
I paced the apartment. Watered the only plant I had. Rearranged the books on my shelf.
I returned to the desk, opened my emails. Closed them again. My eyes kept drifting to the phone.
At 2:18 PM, I heard another motorcycle.
I moved to the window. This time, it wasn't a delivery. The bike was red and black, crouched at the curb, exhaust still ticking. The rider just sat there, helmeted, unmoving, one hand on the clutch, another had a phone in it.
I waited, unsure.
This bike was different from the one I saw last night—an all-black Ducati.
The guy flipped the kickstand and stepped off. A girl ran out from the building next door and rushed over to him. They hugged.
I removed myself from my spot by the window.
A little after three, I finally grabbed the burner and pulled up the Customer Service contact. My finger hovered over the call button.
Don't. You're being stupid, Kimmy. Don't.
But the more I looked, the more the warning twisted into a dare.
I pressed Call. My thumb left a sweaty print on the button.
One ring. Two.
Then the male voice answered, "Operative Seven. Are you in danger?"
I froze, unable to say anything. I recognized the voice immediately—deep, calm, a little velvety—the voice I heard last night in the corridor of Windhaven when Ronan Wick cornered me.