117 P.M. — Wednesday, September 12
PETRA
Petra’s heart pounded as she turned the handle on the door to the Department of Policing.
She glanced around, wondering if she looked different.
She certainly felt different. Her face was flush and her back was straighter than normal, as if her spine somehow understood that she suddenly had the opportunity to become someone’s wife.
And not just any someone. A famous podcaster.
Well, famous in the Croatian true crime world, anyway.
The entire walk back to the building was a blur. She couldn’t have said if it was still sunny out or if the clouds had moved in. Instead, her mind raced through his instructions—find out the name of the yacht and where exactly it was docked, who was on it, and if anyone had been taken into custody.
The Director would make it difficult. He had actually closed the door as soon as the call came in, which was odd because he rarely closed the door.
Only when he was going through his divorce and his wife would call.
He’d shut the blinds too sometimes, and when he’d finally emerge, she could tell he’d been crying.
It was all so awkward for her—should she pretend everything was fine or offer him a tissue and some sort of platitude about time healing all wounds?
She chose to pretend everything was fine, except the look on her face must have told him she knew, which meant he knew she knew and was unwilling to do the human thing and ask if he was all right.
But should she really have to add therapist to her job description?
Not for what she was being paid. Petra wished his ex would stop calling him at work so he could cry at home instead.
And then one day, a few months ago, that’s exactly what happened.
No more angry calls about who was keeping the cocktail shaker.
No more hushed, desperate words floating out of his office.
No more crying. The Director sunk into a deep funk, barely able to focus on anything, which was so much worse for Petra than the crying had been.
And now that he was about to start dating again, she knew she’d be in for a ride she didn’t want to take.
He’d go from nervous to bursting with excitement to being devastated over and over again.
After two decades on the dating scene, Petra knew the cycle by heart, and the last thing she wanted was to have to witness The Director going through it.
God, she needed this all to work out between her and Luka.
But first, she had to get answers for him as fast as she could.
By dinner time tonight, if possible, he had asked.
They were going to meet at a little restaurant in his neighborhood that he said serves the best cevapi and deep-fried potato rounds in Zagreb.
It was all the way on the northeast side of the city, which would mean a lot of driving for Petra, but according to Luka, the restaurant was almost always empty on Wednesdays so the chances of getting seen by someone she works with were slim.
It would be their first time in public together.
A real date. She was going to rush home and shower first, then change into something more daring than her usual conservative work attire.
Her little black dress and some stilettos she’d only tested out in her bedroom.
She’d be a Bond girl with red lips and lots of juicy intel.
But first she had to get the intel.
Petra glanced around the office, realizing that her coworkers would linger until five, and if she waited, she’d run out of time to get all dolled up. So, she’d have to be smart about it. Stealth. Getting caught was not an option.
Oh God. Maybe she shouldn’t be doing this.
After all, even if she did manage to give Luka a leg up, it wouldn’t mean that the podcast would be a hit.
And even if it was a hit, he could always change his mind about her.
Then there was the possibility that he was just using her.
It sat tucked in the back of her mind like a scratchy tag on the inside of a cheap shirt.
And if that were the case, Petra knew she’d be done with men forever.
It would be worse than the time that Josip Lon?ar, her boyfriend in high school, dumped her for her best friend, Nina.
Nina had gone through what Petra’s teenage niece would call a ‘glow-up’ during the summer between grade eleven and twelve.
She got her braces off, got contact lenses, and her boobs finally came in.
Petra had been so happy for her friend as they walked side-by-side to their first day back at school.
Only when they got there did she realize that her best friend’s good fortune would be the cause of her own great pain.
The moment Josip saw them coming down the hallway, his eyes lit up. Only not for her this time.
Josip had never promised her forever, and now that she thought about it, Luka hadn’t either.
He suggested that it was a possibility based on his success.
But a possibility was better than any offer she’d had up to now, so she was going to take it.
She would make it happen. She would ingratiate herself to Luka, and he’d get so caught up in the excitement that he’d be happy to marry her.
And she would be a good wife to him. So good, he’d never want to let her go.
She might actually even use those blow job tips. Well, probably not.
She slid into her squeaky office chair and put her handbag in the bottom drawer of her desk, then turned on her computer and waited for it to boot up.
The Director was on a phone call with the door shut, jotting something down in a small black notepad that flipped open from the top.
It was the type beat cops used, and he told her once he never found something better than that, even though it had been over thirty years since he walked the streets in uniform on the lookout for trouble.
His package of Marlboros was already on his desk, waiting for two p.m., when he would allow himself to go out for a smoke, a sign that The Director was extremely stressed.
A slow smile crossed her face. The notepad would stay. And it would have what Luka needed.
Petra busied herself filling in her timesheet for the week while she waited for him to burst through the door, gripping his cigarette package.
Finally, at quarter after two, he was gone.
She sat perfectly still for an entire minute, barely even daring to breathe.
This was it. She was about to cross a line and if she got caught, it would mean the end of her job.
Her father would be furious. Her brother-in-law would forever make snide comments about her ruining the family’s good name.
Her sister would roll her eyes at her and tell their mother she knew Petra would do something stupid like this.
Her mother would cry and ask her what she had done wrong to make her end up this way.
She would never live it down. The whole thing would be awful.
But then the image of Luka, sitting on the edge of the bed with a huge smile, touching her arm, kissing her so passionately, rolled through her brain like the tide coming in, smoothing out the sand and sweeping up the seaweed as it retreated.
She stood and hurried into The Director’s office.
The notepad was on his desk, clasp closed, as if to say none of your business.
Petra sat at the desk and opened the clasp with shaky hands, then flipped to the last page that had been written on.
Only there was nothing there about a yacht or a murder or some famous people.
It was a recipe for a protein shake: frozen mango, frozen kale, almond butter, plain yogurt, and frozen blueberries.
She swore under her breath and glanced out into the outer office to see if anyone was watching her.
The constables in the far corner were having a laugh about something on one of their phones, and the other secretary had gone for her coffee break.
Looking back at the book, her heart pounding in her ears, she suddenly noticed the page after the recipe had been ripped out.
Which meant whatever was on that page was so sensitive, he must have pocketed it.
Her mind leaped to an episode of an old mystery show her dad used to watch—to one particular scene in which the amateur sleuth (a librarian, if she was remembering correctly) had used a pencil to shade in the words on a legal pad that the bad guy had been writing on.
She glanced back up, knowing she couldn’t exactly sit here shading in the page.
She had to rip it out. But what if he noticed another piece of paper missing?
She looked at the entrance again to make sure he wasn’t coming, then she carefully ripped the paper in one clean line and pocketed it.
Standing up, Petra hurried toward the door, only to get to it just as The Director was walking back in, looking much more relaxed.
Maybe she should take up smoking. It certainly seemed to do him a world of good.
His eyes landed on her as she stood frozen in the doorway of his office like a stupid statue. His expression hardened as he walked toward her, but Petra gave him an easy smile. “Your phone was ringing.”
“Who was it?”
“Not sure. They hung up before I got to your desk.”
He grunted something that sounded like okay, then walked back into his office and closed the door.