21 Kimmy
The apartment was still, except for the distant shushing of pipes in the wall. Someone in the building was either cooking or taking a shower.
I worked in the dim glow of my laptop's screen, the rest of the room thick with dark. I knew I needed to turn on the light, but I was on a deadline to submit my findings to the client and getting up from my chair seemed like a Herculean task that would derail the outcome.
Tonight, the living room, which doubled as my office, smelled like Merlot. The wine glass on the table was half-empty. I'd been on edge these past few days because I hadn't heard about any development in Caius Valmont's public image. The media only had positive things to say.
I also had this absolutely irrational need to hear from Operative Seven and the silence drove me nuts. He had no reason to reach out. In fact he'd be breaking protocol. Still, the quiet, unadventurous evenings made everything dull.
I had a cluster of sticky notes on the desk, each one a tiny, hand-drawn square of work hell.
Get RSVP counts from the caterer.
Call the floral vendor to find out the prices.
Confirm venue hours.
Pay Brynn for logo work she did last month.
Sometimes, when I couldn't find the right designer on short notice, I asked her, but now that she'd been low-key bugging me about the results of my conversation with Lena, I didn't want to contact her.
You can't discuss this with any of your friends.
I felt all sorts of emotions; guilt, dread, anxiety, to desire for this entire debacle to go away soon. It would have been so much easier to talk to Brynn if she wasn't the one who'd introduced me to Lena or had witnessed my drunken meltdown at The Crypt that night.
Besides, she knew the names of all three. She could probably guess something was happening and I was ignoring her because of that something. I felt bad. I was a bad friend.
That's why, instead of calling her, I chose the email. I attached the receipt and the payment date and kept it dry and professional.
In the space beside the sticky notes, a nest of charging cables curled around the base of the lamp that I needed to turn on.
The burner was always there, even when I pretended it wasn't. It looked out of place—a cheap prepaid model, off-brand, the kind you'd buy with cash at a drugstore if you wanted to disappear or contact someone just once.
I checked it a few times a day, mostly out of habit.
I was in the middle of cropping a post for a new campaign—zoomed in on the ribbon-cutting photo—when the phone vibrated.
It wasn't loud, just a brief, mean shudder. The screen lit up with a Customer Service contact.
The ripple of adrenaline was instant and overwhelming, like being poked in the stomach by a stranger. I stared at the phone until the first buzz stopped, and then it started again, more urgent, as if it already knew I was at the edge of a panic attack.
I answered. "Yeah?"
There was a beat of silence. "Operative Seven," he said. The voice was all hard edges and devoid of any emotion, but in that moment, it felt like the best sound in the world.
"I know," I breathed out.
"You need to change your locks."
I laughed before I could help it, but my pulse sped up. "Is this a social call, or—?"
"Change your locks. The sooner the better. Do not use outside contractors. Pick someone you trust and know. A family friend."
My body tightened from the neck down. "Are you saying I'm in danger?" I kept the question sharp, almost clinical. It was the only way I could make it through the conversation without splintering.
"I don't know." He sounded like he was reading off a cue card. "But the last target might take time. Change your locks as a precaution."
"Why?"
"Because that is my instruction. Just do it."
"You're not very good at customer service," I said.
"My job is not to be pleasant. My job is to get shit done."
"Should I be worried?"
The answer was slow and absolute. "Be careful is all. Don't go to the pharmacy at night and on foot. Use your car or delivery service."
"Okay," I said.
He hung up.
I stared at the phone. The conversation left a mark on the air, as if the words were still rattling around inside the room. I set it down, then immediately picked it up again, just to make sure the call was really over.
For a while, I just sat in my chair, hunched and breathless, the laptop's screen saver eventually flickering on, filling the space with bouncing squares of color. I picked up my wine glass and finished the contents in one swallow.
I woke up to the noise of the street sweeper truck. The window leaked sunlight in a streak across my face. The couch felt like it had grown teeth overnight, the cushions biting into my ribs and neck. The wine hangover was mild compared to the cocktail of anxiety curdling in my chest.
I didn't remember how I'd fallen asleep in the living room.
So, I just sat there, looking at the carpet and realizing that even though my life had been upended I'd been sleeping better. Or maybe not better, but deeper.
It was strange.
I should have been rolling around in bed all night every night from insomnia but the fact that there was a man out there, looking out for me made me feel…
not as hopeless. And no, the good kind of sleep didn't happen often, but compared to the time before I had contacted the Bureau, its frequency grew.
I took a quick shower, pulled my hair into a ponytail so tight it threatened to crack my skull, and got dressed for an errand I apparently needed to run.
The hardware store was a twelve-minute drive, or seven if I was willing to risk points on my license.
I aimed for the early hour, hoping to dodge the weekend crowds of DIY dads and sugar-high children.
I parked close to the sliding doors and forced myself out of the Accord, keys in hand, burner in the pocket of my jacket.
I kept my head down and moved straight for the aisle with locks.
I did a full scan of the row, my eyes darting over every package like a scanner at checkout.
There were at least twenty options, but I could tell at a glance which ones were trash, which were passable, and which ones a professional would actually think twice about.
I compared brands, then models, then fine print. I almost went for the gold standard brand, but I doubted my landlord would allow me to drill new holes in the door. I settled for a hybrid option— deadbolt and a knob with reinforced strike plate.
I flipped over the boxes, reading the specs as if I understood the metallurgy. Maybe I did. I'd had enough time in my life to develop a minor in security protocols, if not the actual degrees.
I picked a set. It was heavy. The weight of it felt like holding a barbell. I took it in both hands, rolling the package in my palms, running my thumb over the tamper-proof hologram.
On the way to the register, I found myself wondering if Operative Seven would approve. I thought of taking a picture to send it to him and asked if this would do. But then I changed my mind.
When I left the store, the sun had gone up a few notches in the sky.
I walked to the car with the lock set clutched to my chest, every step a silent drumbeat of get in, get out, get safe. I didn't look back until I had closed the door and locked it, then checked the mirrors twice before starting the engine.
Then I just sat there with the new deadbolt on the passenger seat. I was half-tempted to call Dr. Carney, but I doubted she'd be awake on a Saturday at this hour. Instead, I pulled up my contacts and scrolled for Katrina.
She answered right away. "Aren't you supposed to be asleep until noon?" she asked.
"Had to run an errand," I said.
"I'll go see Mom tomorrow. You should stop by too."
"I just saw you guys."
"Suit yourself."
"Hey…" I paused and took a deep breath. Pick someone you trust and know. "Do you think you and your boyfriend can help me?"
She didn't reply right away. There was a short pause. "Of course," my foster sister finally said. "What's going on?"
I hated lying, but I couldn't tell her the truth. "We've had a couple of break-ins in the building next door and I want to change my locks just in case."
"Just in case?"
"Yes. I heard rumors that it could be one of the contractors who's been in the building before, so I don't want to risk it and hire someone who can potentially come back and rob me.
" The lie came out all warbled, but Katrina probably thought I was spooked by the idea of robbery rather than by the idea of deceiving her.
"I'll bring Jazz. I don't trust myself with a drill. Tomorrow evening works?"
"Tomorrow's perfect. Thanks."
"We'll be there. Have snacks or I'll have my own," Katrina threatened, then softened. "You sure you're okay?"
"Yeah. Just, you know…busy at work."
"You call if you need us sooner."
"I will."
I hung up and rested my forehead against the steering wheel, exhaling until my vision blurred.
I needed coffee.