Night So Silent

CHAPTER ONE

Eight Days Until Christmas

Barrett

Maybe if I’d sent Harrison those tit pics last year, I wouldn’t be standing in the airport security line thanking my lucky stars that I haven’t been turned into a skin suit yet.

For the record, it’s not Harrison that I’m worried about, it’s the asshole I met a few months ago during my coworker’s birthday celebration at the bar down the street. I never meet guys at bars, and what happened afterward is the exact reason that I have a rule…

Never meet guys at bars.

“Caleb is fucking diabolical, Brett—” I say into my phone. “Shit—damnit!”

My New Year’s resolution is to stop cursing. I decided it would help me expand my vocabulary and force me to think of other ways to emphasize emotion during conversation.

It’s not going well.

Oh well, at least I started early and still have a couple of weeks until the new year. Maybe I can channel the Christmas spirit, especially in an airport full of Christmas trees, oversized ornaments, and people embarking on their own holiday trips. I need all the help I can get.

“What happened?” Brett asks. “You said you’d tell me, but then you went AWOL the rest of the week.”

Oh yeah, the day after my relationship meltdown, my colleague at the clinic decided to get herself arrested for insurance fraud.

It was such a to-do; law enforcement descending on the office like locusts in a waiting room full of people with traumatic histories.

And, of course, her caseload got shifted to the rest of us in our understaffed office after she was hauled off to the clink.

“Four months in and everything was going well. Caleb and I took it slow, didn’t rush anything, and I even thought it was a good omen that he vacations to Colorado all the time to snowboard.

I think his family has a house somewhere out there.

So, of course he knows about my trip because I’ve been so excited.

But last week we were about to leave dinner and I casually mentioned that I forgot to stop at the pharmacy to pick up a prescription.

He sounded concerned at first, so I said not to worry, it’s just for my face cream.

But then he started asking questions in ways that suggested he didn’t want me to know he was asking questions. As if I can’t pick up on that stuff.”

“What did he want to know?”

“Out of nowhere, he started talking about how birth control pills are really terrible for women and he would hate for me to experience the slew of negative side effects associated with them.”

Brett lets out a guffaw. “What is with guys? Since when are they experts on birth control? Colson told me my pills were fucking with my head and I should stop taking them the first time I went out with him.”

“Listen, Brett, I wish I could tell you that Caleb’s asinine pseudo-medical advice resulted in me finding my batshit soulmate like you, but that was just not meant to be. I assured him that I do not take birth control pills because I have an implant instead. And that’s when I saw it.”

“Saw what?”

“Caleb shook his head and said, oh yeah, that definitely won’t work. I just stared at him, and in an instant, he knew he’d been caught.”

“What?”

“And then, immediately, all these other tiny details that didn’t really fit finally gelled.

He’s a fraud. He’s one of these misogynistic losers who has to trick progressive women into going out with him!

There’s a reason he clammed up when I started talking about Willy Nelson’s history of social activism!

I saw it in his eyes. He was hiding something! ”

“Ooh, like a snake!” she practically hisses through the speaker.

“By the time we got in the car, I was questioning the last four months of my life. Then, his phone automatically connected to his Bluetooth and do you know what popped up on his display?”

“Oh god, what?”

“One of those dipshit red pill alpha male podcasts!”

There’s an audible gasp from Brett. “Ew.”

“He blew it off and acted like he didn’t know, but he knew! That trash doesn’t just pop up out of nowhere. So, herein lies the difference, Brett—Colson turned out to be a feminist batshit psycho, but phonies like Caleb are far more dangerous.”

“OK, I see your point,” she concedes.

“Piece of trash. He probably isn’t even allergic to cats.”

“Did he say he was?”

“Yes, after I told him about how Roux died a few months ago and I didn’t know if I’d be able to get another cat because he was the most perfect cat in the whole world.”

“What a phony. Please say you got home safe and immediately blocked him.”

“Of course I did. As soon as I stepped out of the car, I told him it just wasn’t going to work out for the exact reasons I just told you.

And I did block him, but not before he sent a flurry of texts having a colossal hissy fit.

Totally short-circuited. Like, if my reproductive choices are such a problem, then why is he still trying to talk to me?

So, anyway, I’m ecstatic to get on this plane, turn off my phone, and—in true irony—spend the next few days in Baby Land. ”

“What a fucking nightmare,” Brett mutters.

“I’m done with men, at least for a good long while. Thank God I never slept with him.”

It’s going to be a bumpy New Year at this rate. And spending uninterrupted time with Brett won’t help on that front; she curses more than I do.

Brett wishes me a safe flight and we exchange I love yous just as I get to the front of the line.

Based on how long it’s taking me to get through security, the Christmas rush in the airport is in full swing.

I shove my phone in my backpack and grab a plastic bin, turning to the conveyor belt just in time for a woman with long, straw yellow hair to slam into my shoulder as she rushes past me.

I drop the bin with a clatter as she cuts ahead, making my blood pressure skyrocket.

“Excuse me,” I snip, swiping the bin off the ground with a scowl.

With her caked-on foundation, smudged-up smoky eyes, and overzealous amount of lip filler, she kind of looks like a scarecrow. She casts a condescending look over her bony shoulder and sets her bag on the belt before disappearing through the metal detector.

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name…

I’m going to need all the help I can get.

No sooner do I step through the metal detector in my baby blue wool socks than I see a gruff agent shuffle over and grab my backpack off the belt as it passes through the X-ray.

“This yours?” he barks through the plexiglass.

“Yes,” I reply wearily and follow it to a counter near the end of the line.

Meanwhile, Scarecrow is busy putting her six-inch stiletto ankle boots back on with a smirk. Who the hell wears heels in the airport anyway?

I step up to the counter and immediately let out an audible gasp as the agent swings my backpack onto the counter with a resounding thud.

“My laptop is in there! Can you please be careful?”

He proceeds to ignore me as he opens my backpack and examine everything inside. “You can’t have this,” he declares, pulling the clear water bottle out of the side pocket. “No liquids over 3.4 ounces.”

I narrow my eyes, glaring at the frozen water bottle with a solid block of ice inside.

“I’m aware, which is why it’s ice instead of water.”

He shifts his beady eyes back to me, completely unamused. I’m going to be detained indefinitely due to the shortfalls of our education system and because I can’t keep my mouth shut.

“Identification,” he deadpans.

I hand my passport over with a huff and he peers at it suspiciously.

“This isn’t you.”

“What do you mean, it’s not me? My face is on it and all the information matches my driver’s license.”

“Your hair’s a different color.”

“Of course, it’s a different color. That photo was taken five years ago.”

He types something into his computer and squints at the screen. “Says here you’re on the FBI watch list.”

“What?”

He doesn’t answer me, but instead mutters something into a walkie-talkie and calls over another agent who seems just as clueless as him. They stare at the screen for a couple of minutes until a short, round woman with fluffy blonde hair shuffles over and studies the screen.

“Says here you’re wanted for murder,” she drawls in a squeaky voice straight out of the hills.

I blink, speechless.

“Follow me.” She motions to a door on the back wall as the younger agent more-than-a-little conspicuously puts his hand on his firearm.

She mumbles something into her walkie-talkie and it’s not five seconds before another gaggle of agents descend on the checkpoint as they lead me into a tiny, windowless room like I’m the Joker being escorted into Arkham.

I take a seat in one of the chairs and before I can open my mouth to ask what the hell is going on, the door slams shut and I’m alone.

I must look at my watch every minute or so, acutely aware that I could miss my flight depending on how annoyed these people are today.

I meant to grab a snack as soon as I got through security.

I would kill for a Snickers right now. Meanwhile, I’m still in my sock feet.

Minutes go by and I’m debating opening the door and risking being shot by the mall cop outside when the doorknob clicks and a new agent waltzes in.

Instead of a greeting, he nods to the concourse. “You’re free to go.”

“That’s it? What was the problem?”

“You can go now.”

“Look,” I say as I approach, still in my sock feet, “if your system is flagging me for murder, then I should probably know before going through security on my return trip.”

“You’re not. They typed in a G instead of a B for your name.”

My irritation intensifies, and I can only stare back at him through slitted eyes.

“Son of a—” No cursing.