Chapter 1 #3
I never paint because I want my artwork to hang in fancy galleries somewhere. I paint because some emotions refuse to fit inside words. For me? Red means anger. Blue means peace. Yellow means hope. Black means nightmares, night and finality.
Every canvas tells a story only I can read. Painting is my therapy and looking around now, I realized I’ve been doing a lot of it lately. I’ll unpack whatever that means later. I return my thoughts to the conversation at hand.
"What do you need, Hunter?"
His voice shifts, and I can hear it in the tone. It’s sharper, focused, and when Ryan used the same tone, I’d refer to it as mission mode.
The easy conversation disappears as naturally as a soldier checking the safety on a rifle and flipping it off.
"How attached are you to whatever you're working on?" He asks me.
I glance back toward my monitors. Dexter has migrated from the keyboard to the mousepad, tail lazily swishing across the screen. The malware continues quietly mocking me from the monitor.
Told you I'd be back.
Cocky little bastard.
"I'm moderately attached."
"You can walk away for a bit?"
"If I have to."
"You'll want to."
I lean back and cross my arms over my chest. I’m intrigued. Hunter doesn't recruit people; he personally selects them. Every request comes with purpose and every mission matters, because he’s handpicked it.
I learned that years ago.
"Why?" I ask. What is this mission he has that he thinks will make me want to pause my current project? Better be good.
"I need someone who understands digital forensics."
Reasonable. He knows it’s my specialty.
“And physical forensics,” he continues.
Interesting, I love forensics. Gathering every piece and putting the puzzle together is fun for me.
"And someone who can disappear off the grid on short notice."
Now we're getting somewhere. “A family hired you to do some private investigation?” I ask. It wouldn’t be the first time.
"It's a government contract." He answers.
Of course it is. Probably hush-hush. Likely off the books.
"High security."
Naturally.
"High pay."
Even better.
"And I need someone I trust completely and soon."
There it is. Whatever this mission was, he’d only have his most trusted on. Color me curious. I want to hear more.
"Define soon."
"Today, ideally."
I look at my screen. At the note that says Told you I'd be back, from a program that has, in fact, come back, exactly as promised, to a payroll database that processes maybe four hundred employees and honestly does not deserve this level of drama.
"I can be off this by tonight," I say. It isn't strictly true.
It's true enough. Somebody else can finish chasing this particular ghost, or it can sit for a week, or — realistically — the client will call three more times panicking before I finish no matter what I tell them right now, and none of that changes my answer.
"You're not going to ask what it is?"
"I figured you might not be able to tell me over the phone, but I’m asking now. What is it?"
"Escort job. High-value cargo, D.C.-bound. I’m thinking it might lead to a possible permanent position after with my company doing forensic based jobs, if it goes the way I think it will."
A permanent position. The two words settle over the room with surprising weight.
Permanent.
I stare at the malware still running on my monitor, but the code blurs together. My brain has already wandered somewhere else entirely.
A permanent job.
I hadn't realized how desperately I needed to hear those words until now.
Three weeks earlier I walked out of the Department of Defense carrying one cardboard box, one coffee mug that reads Trust Me, I'm a Forensic Nerd, and a plant that had somehow survived four office moves and one unfortunate intern who'd nearly loved it to death with overwatering.
I’d been receiving emails for over a month about government downsizing, agency restructuring and budget realignment. Every email used different words to describe exactly the same thing before I got my formal letter laying me off. I read between the lines.
You're no longer necessary.
The irony hasn't escaped me. Nine years of helping catch cyber criminals, exposing fraud, recovering deleted evidence, assisting federal investigations...
Gone because someone I've never met moved a number from one column of a spreadsheet to another.
The money was gone and therefore, so was my position.
No one once questioned my work. In fact, every review I’d ever had, and the subsequent promotions showed how beneficial I was. They simply eliminated the position.
I understand budgets and politics but, that doesn't mean it hasn't hurt. The hardest part isn't losing the paycheck, but in losing my purpose. Every morning for nearly a decade I clipped my badge to the empty lanyard hanging beside the front door before I'd even brushed my teeth.
Now freelance work is what will keep the lights on.
I'd never admit it to Hunter, but I've started doing math in the middle of the night. Not the fun kind involving encryption algorithms or forensic reconstruction. The terrifying kind… budgets. The line items weren’t fun either.
Words like mortgage, utilities, insurance, and student loans. I always land on the same conclusion.
I have time but not much. Enough to find a way to pay all my bills. Probably. Maybe… hopefully.
Hunter clears his throat softly through the speaker. "Kenzi?"
"I'm here."
"You got quiet, again."
I smile to myself. "I was just thinking."
"I know that look."
"You literally can't see me, Hunter. We’re on the phone."
"I've known you long enough to know what look is currently on your face."
Fair point. Hunter watched me earn my bachelor’s and master’s degrees. He celebrated when I landed my first government position, listened and advised me through two terrible breakups and one regrettable attempt at online dating.
And the time I accidentally flooded my upstairs bathroom because I was trying to image a hard drive while running a bath. Multitasking, it turns out, has limits.
"Remember when Ryan convinced you that installing your own garbage disposal was a good idea?" Hunter asks.
I laugh. "Oh my God."
"You nearly electrocuted yourself."
"I absolutely did not."
"The breaker box disagrees."
"I was being innovative."
"You were watching YouTube."
"It was an educational video."
"It caught fire." In all fairness, it wasn’t because I was installing the garbage disposal. It was because I’d forgotten to turn the stove off when I drained the pasta and set a dishtowel on the still on electric stove. Now I have a gas stove and can see when it’s not turned off.
"The towel caught fire,” I correct.
"The cabinet caught fire."
"It was a very small fire,” I say with a laugh.
"There it is," he says.
"What?"
"You laughed."
"I do that occasionally."
"Not enough."
The words slip between us before either of us acknowledges them. Not enough. He isn't talking about today; he's talking about the last fifteen years. My life was divided into before and after. The after, being Ryan's death...
Laughter became something I stumbled into instead of something I expected.
It’s not impossible, it’s just become...
rarer. I still smile. I can even find joy.
I just appreciate it differently now. It’s like feeling the sunshine on your face after weeks of rain or the first cup of coffee brewed exactly right, or hearing from someone who knew my brother when his laugh still echoed through team rooms and barracks.
Hunter has never stopped telling Ryan stories. Not because I ask that of him but because he understands something most people don't.
The dead only disappear when people stop saying their names.
Ryan still lives in memories because Hunter and I make sure of that. I’m sure the rest of the team does too, from time to time. But, for me and Hunter, it’s intentional.
"You still there?" he asks quietly.
"Yeah, I'm here."
"I wouldn't have called if I didn't think this job was right for you."
I believe him, completely. Hunter has earned my trust. He’s never lied to me and he’s never minced words. I glance around my townhouse at the colorful paintings, at the scattered coffee mugs and Dexter, sleeping on my mousepad.
I love this place. It's the first home that's ever truly belonged to me. But somewhere along the way... It's quietly become a place to hide. Freelance work means I can spend days inside without speaking to another human being, and at first it seemed comforting. Lately... it just feels small.
Maybe I've needed someone to remind me I'm built for bigger things.
"I'll do it," I say.
Hunter doesn't answer immediately. I imagine him nodding to himself. He won’t be surprised, of course. Nothing surprises Hunter. If anything, he’ll be satisfied.
"I knew you would."
"You were counting on me." I can hear what he’s saying in the silent beats between our conversation.
"I was."
There’s something in his confirmation that settles over me, and it’s not because he needs me for the job. It’s because he believes I’m exactly the right person for it, that I’m capable of doing it to his standards.
Everyone deserves to have at least one person in their life who looks at them and sees capability instead of limitation.
Hunter has been that person for me for a long time. He's simply never said it out loud before.
"I should warn you," he says. "The operator assigned to the mission is one of my best friends and a great guy, but he has a bit of a reputation."
"Oh?"
"He's... different."
I grin. That’s a word often used to describe me, too.
"Different how?"
There’s a moment of silence before he answers. "Do you remember the refrigerator at your parents' house?"
"The avocado green monster from 1978?"
"The one that survived three PCS moves and a tornado."
I laugh. "I hated that refrigerator."
"This operator reminds me of it."
"Uh… I thought you said he’s one of your best friends? I'm not sure that's a compliment."
"The fridge was indestructible and dependable."
"So, I'm being paired with a sentient appliance?"