CHAPTER 13
Astrid
Sparks and I meet up once a day. Always a different place, always a different time.
We don’t always speak. Letting a simple nod confirm we are both alive and okay.
Sometimes, we sit in a ripped vinyl booth and eat together.
I tell her stories of the customers at the cafe and try to ignore the sadness in her eyes when I mention Dolores.
She tells me vague stories about her organization, using euphemisms to avoid obviously telling me the crimes they commit.
I suppose that’s for the best. We aren’t exactly warm to each other, most chats ending with one or both of us storming out, but we are civil. Sometimes.
We both silently agreed to never bring up what happened at the train station.
My meltdown. Her stepping off the train.
I don’t know what went through her head when our eyes locked.
Heck, I don’t even know what was going through mine.
But she let the doors to the train car close without her, and I’m not brave enough to ask why.
Today, we are meeting in the park. We met here before, many months ago. It was the first time Sparks and the Water Weaver were really able to talk to each other. I didn’t realize who she was under the hood, but she knew it was me. I can only imagine how stupid I sounded from her perspective.
Sparks is already by her old tree when I get there, sitting cross-legged against the trunk.
She has a stick in her hand, drawing loose squiggles in the dirt.
I place a bag with a maple pinwheel in it next to her before sitting at my tree across from her.
I open my own bag and pick at a cinnamon roll.
“You can take it back,” she says, indifferently. “I’m not hungry.”
“You don’t need to be hungry for dessert,” I tease. “It goes in the second stomach.”
She doesn’t touch her pinwheel. They used to be her favorite, unless she was lying about that too. I can’t keep up with my own mental gymnastics today. Exhausted, I tilt my head back to rest on the bark.
“Rough night?” She asks. Does she care, or is she just nosy?
“I haven’t been sleeping well recently,” I explain.
“How long?” Sparks sits up, apparently more concerned now. “Since the gala?”
“Longer.”
“Oh.” She relaxes again. “That’s a bummer, I guess. You always slept so soundly when…”
Her voice trails off. It’s okay, I can fill in the blank myself. When we shared a bed, when we slept together, when she would hold me tight until I woke the next morning.
The silence is deafening. The longer we sit in it, the more tense it gets. A stick snaps in the distance and Sparks in on her feet in an instant, gun in her hands. A squirrel scampers out from under a bush, racing up a tree in the distance.
“Relax, Annie Oakley,” I chide. “The squirrel isn’t going to hurt you.”
Sparks stands there for a moment, and I realize her calm demeanor is a facade. She scans the horizon and treetops once more before retucking her gun in her waistband. Her eyes continue darting to the sides and her shoulders don’t fully relax, despite her casual stance.
“Glad you’re alive.” Sparks looks, at best, indifferent. “See you tomorrow.”
“Hold on, you forgot your pinwheel.” I grab the bag, but when I look up, she’s gone. Guess she’s the one storming off today.
The sun isn’t due to rise for another hour, yet I toss and turn in my pajamas. I’ve tried everything. More blankets, new pillows, adjusting the thermostat. Cutting out caffeine nearly killed me, so I resumed my coffee habit.
I give up on drifting off again this morning, stumbling to the kitchen.
I heat up water in my mug on the counter.
In my carelessness, it sloshes over the rim and splashes against my arm.
I slam my hand on the tile, biting back spews of profanity.
My vision blurs as tears well up in my eyes.
I stagger to the sink, turning on the tap.
The cool water stings as it runs over my burn, but I grit my teeth and suck it up.
Thankfully, the wound doesn’t blister, though there is an angry red splotch on my arm.
I wrap my wrist in gauze, annoyed at my clumsiness.
Things just… haven’t been going right for me lately. Mimi always says to get good karma, you have to give good karma. It has been a hot minute since the Water Weaver was out and about. I figure nothing could be worse than sitting with my own thoughts right now, so I slip on the blue suit.
There’s a lot of skill and research that goes into being a vigilante. I have a carefully crafted network of informants to provide intel on crime predictions. However, sometimes there’s also a fair bit of luck and random hunches. This morning is one of those times.
I’m perched on a roof by the harbor, observing the passersby below.
There’s not much going on, but crime rarely occurs in interesting places.
Normally, I can make peace with the boredom, almost meditatively.
But today, I can’t sit still. Maybe today just isn’t the right day.
I vault to another roof, meandering back home.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a trail of sirens chasing a speeding car.
That’s something. I slide down a ladder, landing at street level.
The car is swerving, the driver likely panicking.
He veers down a corner without looking. His car flies through a guardrail and into the brisk harbor water.
Without thinking, I dive from the rocky shores into the bay, pulling myself through the murky water.
I am able to locate the vehicle quickly. Thankfully, the driver is the only occupant, so I don’t need to take several trips. My powers help me drag his unconscious body to the surface, though I have to lug him over the rocks on my own.
Vigilantism is a contentious topic with police forces.
Most of them tend to shrug me off. After all, they get the credit for the arrest. I prefer anonymity.
Ninety times out of a hundred, I am gone before they arrive, leaving the culprit restrained in some way.
Nine times out of a hundred, they get a pleasant wave from me as I bounce, clearing out from the area.
Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, we find some way of ignoring each other. This was not one of those times.
I start compressions on the driver as the police clamber over the railing. They yell and point as they run, probably directing the EMTs.
“There!” “She’s right there!” “Hurry!”
They’re getting the EMTs, right? Right?
“Freeze!” “Stand with your hands up!”
Right?
The first firearm is drawn, and I decide that it’s time for me to exit. Shots cut through the water as I dive back into the ocean. Holy shit. This is… um… new. I propel myself through the water before coming up for a breath.
Shouts carry across the water, and I hear splashes as people jump in after me.
Are they being for real right now? I yelp and duck underneath as another wave of gunshots ring out.
I swim along the coastline, trying to come up with a plan.
Unfortunately, no great ideas are coming to mind.
Even more unfortunate, plenty of bad ones are. Most unfortunate, I go with one.
Underneath my feet, my powers solidify the water until I am standing on a sheet of ice.
In a fluid motion, I force the ice sheet up and springboard off of it.
I fly through the air, landing roughly on the roof of coastal property.
I jump from roof to roof, running toward… not sure yet. I’ll get there.
My plan goes awry quickly as I run out of close enough buildings to jump between. Improvising, I clamor down the fire escape and take off down an alley. I can hear the policemen close by. I can’t outrun them. New plan, quite possibly, worse plan.
I strip off my disguise, grateful to be wearing a sports bra and athletic shorts underneath. Desperately, I throw my suit and mask inside a trash can. If I live through this, I can come back for it. I jog for a few blocks, hoping I look less flustered than I feel.
A pair of arms wrap around my torso as I am roughly tackled to the ground without warning. I cry out as my arm is twisted forcibly behind my back, and more hands grab my ankles.
“I’m not resisting!” I plead, as I am aggressively dragged to my feet. “I’m not resisting!”
My pleas are ignored as cuffs encircle my wrists, much too tightly. I scream as the metal digs into my burn. I am thrown in the back of a squad car, trembling as the police car starts driving.
My thoughts spin wildly. Am I really being arrested?
I’ve never even gotten a speeding ticket or a warning.
I didn’t drink a single drop of alcohol until I turned twenty-one.
Pirating movies? Never me. Look up law-abiding citizen in the dictionary.
It’s just a picture of me, smiling with my swimming scholarship.
Are they going to call my mom? Liam is never going to let me live this down.
Wait, am I going to go to jail? Or prison?
I don’t even know the difference. There’s no way you get coffee in prison.
What if my last cup of coffee ever was this morning?
I didn’t even drink it! Oh god, what if I go to jail forever?
The car rolls to a stop and rough hands drag me into the station.
Camera flashes disorient me as I am processed.
Mug shots, fingerprints, questions. What’s your name?
Astrid Larson. How old are you? Twenty-six last month.
What were you doing at the Boston Harbor this morning?
Jogging. Are you the vigilante known as the Water Weaver?
Who? No, that’s ridiculous. Where’s your cell phone?
I left it at home. Didn’t bring it with you?
I want my phone call. Where’s your disguise?
Phone call. How many arrests are you responsible for?
Phone call. Are you trying to embarrass the Boston police department? Phone call. Phone call. Phone call.