Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
brETT
Jane Evangeline Entry #3
I’ve made contact with another Mask.
I can hardly believe my luck—though, I’m not sure yet how useful this “Reaper” will be. According to Maverick, Reapers aren’t as knowledgeable about the inner workings of the Sanctum—not like Phantoms anyway.
I’m meeting the Reaper at a bar tonight (maybe “bar” is too kind of a word for the greasy hole-in-the-wall he’s taking me to), and he’s agreed to talk to me about the Sanctum.
Maybe I’m cynical—this job will do that to you—but I can’t help but feel like this is a trap. Like I’m getting too close to the mouth of the beast, and those terrible teeth are waiting to snap. To swallow me whole.
I pray I’ll have more entries to add after tonight .
A heavy sigh brushes my lips as I pinch the bridge of my nose, desperately trying to stave off the headache that’s been pulsing behind my lids since our visit to Martha Gore. In the end, her story checked out. Thirty years ago, some strange men knocked on her door, asking if she would be interested in giving up her son for a large sum of money and a supply to support her rampant drug habit. But that’s all she knows about the people she gave her son to. No names, no identifiers we can actually use in our investigation. We’re right back to square fucking one. My veins light with rage, and I take a deep breath to get my emotions in check.
“You okay, Brett?”
Dropping my hand, I whip my head up to face Jim, an embarrassed smile tugging on my lips. “All good. Just a bitch of a headache.”
“Tell me about it,” Jim sighs, shoving a cup of coffee into my hand before pulling up a chair and plopping down. “Seriously. What kind of person sells their own kid?”
“Her kind,” I murmur, trying not to think of the terrified little boy being carted away by those awful men in masks. He must have been so scared. So confused. I wonder what happened to him. What horrors a person has to go through to make them do the things he does.
“She didn’t even give him a name. I mean, that’s enough to fuck anyone up in the head,” Jim scoffs, shaking his head.
“I guess so,” I murmur, shaking my head. “What do you think about those guys who took him—the ones in the masks? You think she was lying?”
“Maybe.” Jim shrugs, scratching his day-old stubble. “It’s not a stretch to imagine a pair of traffickers coming to her door and taking the kid, like she said. But, as for the guys being in tuxedos and white masks? And—what did she call them—Reapers?” Jim puts dramatic air quotations around the last word. “Who the fuck knows? She was high as shit when it happened. Maybe she thinks she’s really telling us what she saw that day. It wouldn’t hold up for shit in court, but…”
I nod, mulling over what little Martha was able to tell us about the men she sold her son to all those years ago. The way she lowered her voice to barely a whisper as she talked about the mysterious crime syndicate the men hailed from. The Sanctum.
Only I’ve never heard of such an organization, nor has anyone in the bureau. Maybe Jim is right. Surely, if there were any merit to what Martha Gore told us, it would align with something in our files. Maybe she was just high that day, and her deluded brain conjured images of masked men in suits hauling her son away after loading her with cash and drugs.
I think I need some of what Martha was smoking.
I groan, dropping my head back against the chair back as my head pounds. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Jim leaning forward, taking a sip of the bitter black drink, seemingly inspecting my computer screen.
“Who’s that?”
I jump, having forgotten about the article I was looking at before he sat down. Shit, shit, shit.
“Nothing. Just some personal research,” I say, a little too quickly.
Jim places his warm hand over mine that’s holding the mouse, and I freeze at the sudden contact, not realizing this gives him time to see what I was searching. My skin crawls, as it always does when someone touches me, and I quickly pull my hand out from under it.
Jim frowns and tries to hide his disappointment. When I don’t say anything else, he clears his throat. “You’re doing personal research on a cold case from thirteen years ago? ”
I nod, my throat suddenly too tight to speak.
“Why?”
My chest feels tight as I try to come up with a response. I don’t want to tell Jim, but what other choice do I have? I’ve been caught red-handed, and he won’t let this go.
I sigh, holding my hand to my chest protectively. “That woman is— was my mother.”
Jim frowns, leaning his face closer to the screen. “What happened?”
“She was… murdered. Well, they assume she was. There was never a body to confirm it.” No need to sugar-coat it. Jim’s seen much, much worse in his time at the bureau.
Jim balks, his brows shooting to his hairline as he stares, open-mouthed. “I had no idea, Brett. I’m so—I’m so sorry.”
I shrug, unable to meet his gaze as I close out of the tabs. “I was young, so I don’t really remember her. Rather, she wasn’t around enough to remember—being a big-shot journalist for Moriton Times kept her busy.” I don’t know why I’m telling Jim my life story, but for some reason, it just pours out of me. Like the dam has finally broken—and all it took was someone asking a simple question about my mother. “At the time of her disappearance, she was chasing a lead—something about this secret society called the Sanctum—a nasty organization, if her notes are anything to go by. She went out one night and never came back.” I sigh, closing out of the last tab and leaning back in my chair. “I was just seeing if there were any new breaks in the case. I check pretty much every week. I know it’s stupid, but I just?—”
“Hey, hey,” Jim murmurs, scooching slightly closer to me. “It’s okay. I get it. I mean, I don’t get it, but… shit, I’m really bad at this,” he grumbles, rubbing the back of his neck as his cheeks brighten. “What I mean to say is it makes sense why you still check. If something like that happened to me…” His voice falls off again. “I’m just really sorry, Brett.”
“It’s fine,” I say, my voice a little too sharp. At the look on my partner's face, I sigh, rubbing a hand over my face. “Sorry, Jim. This case has just got me…”
“Worked up?” He grins, causing the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes to deepen.
“That’s putting it lightly.” My lips tip upward in a returning smile. “I wish I was more like you.”
“Trust me, sweetheart, you wouldn’t want this face. It’s awful trying to swat the women away all day. ”
A genuine giggle pours from my mouth at the cheesy attempt to make me laugh. “You wish, Peterson. And you know that’s not what I meant.”
Jim rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, yeah. But you don’t want that either. I’m serious, Brett,” he adds, noticing my expression. “You genuinely care about things. About people. You don’t wanna lose that. Because once it’s gone—” He snaps his fingers, causing me to jolt. “It’s gone, sweetheart.”
“Whatever you say.” I roll my eyes with a grin. “So what’s up? Or did you just come over to talk about emotions with me?”
“Actually…” Jim’s cheeks warm as his eyes dart off to the side. “I was wondering if you’d like to join me for a drink.”
My mouth pops, about to shoot him down when he adds, “Purely as friends. I know your aversion to dating.”
My lips press into a thin line. “I don’t know…”
“Come on. You need to get out more, Brett. You’ve been in this city for what? Four months? Have you even gone out once? ”
I frown, my gaze dropping down to my hands clenched tightly in my lap. “This case is important, Jim. I haven’t had time to?—”
“No, you have.” He scoffs, crossing his burly arms over his chest. “You just choose not to. You know what? Forget I asked. Enjoy the rest of your night, Brett.” He stomps off, seeming more than a little peeved.
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose as that damn headache comes back in full force. What he said struck a nerve in me, though I don’t want to admit it.
A groan falls from my lips, and I squeeze my eyes tight against the light as I lean back in my chair. It’s not like I don’t want to date. I want to feel the butterflies, to find a partner to go through this fuckery of life with. But every time someone touches me, I?—
My skin crawls just thinking about it. I hate being touched. Always have. Even my own mother would make comments about it when she was alive.
You’re like a cat. You know that, Brett? You only accept affection on your terms.
I was young, but I still remember her words. They always made me like something was wrong with me. Of course, it never made anything better. Never made me want to allow someone to touch me.
Things only got worse when she disappeared, and I was thrust into the foster system, forced into the arms of people who had no place in caring for children. I still remember my first—and, coincidentally, last —real foster family and how I was mistreated. The wife, Nancy, was bad, but nothing compared to her husband, Craig Porter.
Craig was a nasty drunk, and he liked to drink often, typically ending the night by stumbling into my room and attempting to crawl in bed with me. Of course, a swift kick to his groin and a scream was usually enough to wake Nancy, and he would always blubber, apologizing profusely and claiming he “thought this was his wife's bed.”
It worked on Nancy—not me. And she resented me for it. They both did. The fact that I could see through their carefully constructed lies bothered them, and I knew at the end of the day, they were worried my strong will would eventually be their undoing.
The night of my sixteenth birthday, Craig slipped something into my glass of water during dinner, and I woke up just in time to feel him trying to yank my pants off. I always assumed my guardian angel was perpetually fucked up, but it seems he put away the bottle for the night because as I lay there, unable to do more than slowly open and close my eyelids, Craig slumped to the floor, too drunk to stay awake.
He never got the chance to try again—meeting his demise in a mysterious hiking accident only a few days after that horrible night—but to this day, I still shy away from any physical touch. The idea of being so vulnerable again terrifies me. I much prefer the control of knowing my body is mine and mine alone. All the therapy in the world has yet to cure me of my problem, and now, here I am—a virgin in her midtwenties.
Maybe I should feel ashamed about it, but I’m content without experiencing the intimate touch of a man—or woman, for that matter. I’ve tried, but it seems gender doesn’t hold any weight in my unwillingness to be touched. But I’m okay with it. I have to be okay with it.
My phone alarm blares, breaking me from my thoughts and reminding me it’s the end of the workday. If I don’t set the thing, I’ve found I’ll stay for hours past when all the other agents head home, not even realizing it until my bladder inevitably screams at me. It wouldn’t be such an issue, but I have a hangry cat at home, and he makes me pay when his meals are late.
Grabbing my purse from my desk, I head out of the building and into the dimly lit parking garage, my mind a mess of thoughts and memories. The only thing that could cure me now is some cat snuggles.
As soon as I sit in the driver's seat of my light gray Honda, my stomach rumbles with enough force to shake the cabin, reminding me that, in addition to all the shit going on in my head, I’ve neglected to feed myself. With a sigh, I put the car into reverse, my tires squealing as I whip out of the parking garage and veer left, heading in the direction of China 1, my favorite greasy Chinese restaurant. I practically live off their chicken lo mein and fortune cookies at this point even though I’m sure my cholesterol is through the roof because of it. Aside from Venom, it’s the only thing that brings me any joy, so it’s worth the decade it’ll take off my life.
A few minutes later, I pull into the strip mall parking lot and leave the car running while I race inside. The man at the counter gives me a great big smile as soon as I push open the door and rush toward the brown paper bag waiting for me on the counter.
“Thanks, Andrew,” I chirp, reaching into my wallet and placing a twenty in the duck-shaped tip jar. “The card went through?”
“As always, Brett.” Andrew winks, tapping the bag with his weathered hands. “I put a few extra cookies in there for you. Don’t tell Mrs. Lee.”
I chuckle, sending him back a lopsided wink as I grab the bag from the counter. Andrew’s wife runs a tight ship and only allows one fortune cookie per entrée. But Andrew knows how much I love them, so he’s taken to slipping a few extra in my bag when she’s not looking. It’s also why I’ve been increasing the amount I tip each time I come in.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I say, giving him a quick wave before heading toward the door. “Tell Mrs. Lee I appreciate her for keeping you going so long!”
The last of Andrew’s laughter is cut off when the door closes behind me. I rush to my car, placing the bag in the passenger seat before strapping it in tight with the seat belt. It’s so hard to wait to dig in until I get home, but somehow, I find the willpower to leave it alone. As soon as I park, I yank the bag out of the seat and rush up the steps to my apartment, a wide smile on my face as I throw open the door.
“Oh, Venom! I’m home!” I call, my smile dropping when I don’t hear his telltale mew. “Venom?”
My heart picks up pace as I check the bedroom and bathroom, my pulse rising with every passing second.
“Venom!” I yell, tearing around the small apartment in full-blown mom mode. “Venom, where are you?”
Just when I’m about to lose it, munching sounds trickle in from the kitchen. Holding my hand over my heart, I step around the island and laugh at the sight before me. Venom somehow got into the bag of cat food I keep in the cabinet, and he’s having the time of his life chowing down.
“Jesus, you scared me.” Wave after wave of relief rushes through my veins as I stare down at my little black fluff ball. When I’ve calmed down enough, I grab the bag of food and tuck it carefully back into the top cabinet to the sounds of Venom’s disapproval.
“Dude, there is no way I’m letting you eat all that. You’ll literally pop.”
Venom’s yellow eyes narrow in a glare as if to say and that is my prerogative.
I roll my eyes and walk to the bedroom, throwing the bag of Chinese food down on my nightstand before changing out of my work clothes. I slide on a pair of avocado-patterned jammies and jump into bed, pulling the comforter over my lap before retrieving my book and Chinese food.
I pry open the book to the latest dog-eared page, shoveling huge mouthfuls of lo mein into my mouth as I read. And to think I would have missed this if I had gone out with Jim. I think back to what he said—how I never go out. What he wanted to say was that he thinks I’m not living , but what would he know about that anyway?
All the excitement I need comes from my job and the pages of romance books. Why would I want to add another element of it to my already stressful life?
I shake my head with a chuckle, my smile widening as Venom hops onto the bed and curls up on the pillow next to me. See, I’m not alone. Jim doesn’t know what he’s talking about
Satisfied, I finish my lo mein in peace, stopping occasionally to slip Venom a piece of chicken. When I finish the container, I place it on the nightstand and reach into the bag, my fingers curling greedily around the plastic-wrapped cookies.
I open the first one, my mouth watering at the delicate crinkling of the plastic wrapping. I snap the perfect half-moon down the center, popping the first half of the cookie into my mouth. I chew slowly, trying to guess the nature of my fortune before looking at the little slip of white paper lodged into the other half. It’s a little game I play with myself— a stupid one, I know—but it gives me a strange sense of joy when my guess is close.
Hmm. Something about love? No, career. Yeah, that’s what it is. Swallowing the first half, I tug the paper from the crease and bring it close to my eyes to read.
“Every wise person started out by asking many questions.”
Okay, not career-related. Maybe on the next one. I quickly peel open the other cookies, popping both first halves into my mouth to get to the fortunes quicker. I keep my guess the same, but the other two are no closer than the first.
“Fear and desire are two sides of the same coin.”
“Have a beautiful day.”
I’m almost one hundred percent sure those do not count as fortunes. And one of them is just pure laziness—even if it is nice to wish someone a beautiful day. I frown, throwing the papers and plastic wrappings into the bag along with the empty lo mein container.
Better luck next time, I guess. I sigh, dusting my hands off before opening my book once more, my eyes poring greedily over the passages. But even as I get lost in the story, I can’t shake the strange nagging in the back of my mind.
That someone is watching me.