1 Kimmy #2
"Well, yes." She sighed. "It's not good to be alone all the time, dear."
"I'm working," I said, which was only half a lie. "I'm keeping busy."
"You need more than work, Kimmy. You need people. You sit home all day, every day."
"It's called work from home, Mom."
"You can always talk to me." Her voice wavered a little like she felt I wasn't okay, like she felt that something had happened.
"I know," I said softly, guilt and gratitude curling in my chest. "I promise, I'm fine." I shifted from one foot to the other, feeling the weight of the conversation pressing down.
"Dinner's at six," she supplied, finally. "Bring an appetite."
"I will. Bye, Mom."
I pulled the phone away from my ear, my finger drifting to the red button. Her voice stopped me.
"And Kimmy?"
"Yes?"
"It's good to hear your voice."
My grip tightened. "Yours too," I whispered, then ended the call before she could say more.
I stood there, looking at my reflection in the window of a nearby building. A pale young woman with strawberry blonde hair and big, uncertain eyes stared back.
I didn't recognize her, not anymore.
The street moved around me, endless, impatient. I drew in a deep breath, as if I could inhale some courage along with the city air.
My apartment was a soundless void, its silence dense enough to hold me together.
I perched at my chair in front of my desk, rigid and raw, like a piece of furniture someone forgot to finish.
I worked on forgetting the world outside.
Social media.
Random Google articles.
Plenty of scrolling through search engines.
Checking third-party platforms.
Contrary to what I'd told Margaret, there was no major project that took up all my time.
There was just a boring task of securing the right venue for a client who planned to host an annual company dinner for its employees.
They wanted something with a dance floor.
Their budget was measly. To find space that matched their criteria located in a safe area was challenging. And mind-numbing.
After endless hours of collecting information, I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and went back to my desk. Break was always the same—reading news and watching reels of puppies. Nothing lifts you better than a cute video of a puppy.
I was still looking for that courage I'd thought of earlier when my fingers moved across the screen and pulled up the app with Lena's contact info. They trembled as I stared at the call button.
Taking a deep breath, I pressed it.
"Hello?" a tired voice came through after a few rings and a click, her voice cautious.
"Hi, Lena." I tried to keep my tone casual, but my nerves were palpable. "This is Kimmy. Brynn's friend from the other night."
A long pause. Then, "Ah. Sure. What's up?"
"I hope you don't mind she shared your info with me."
"That's fine."
"I, um, wanted to ask you about something you mentioned. About this...Bureau?"
Another long pause. "Shoot."
"You said it's possible to hire a professional."
"It's expensive."
"It's not a problem for me."
"Well, I don't have all the details myself. I just heard about it from someone. But I might be able to pass your name along, if you're really serious about this."
My heart raced. "I am. Serious about this."
Lena let out a sigh. It was barely audible but I heard it anyway. "Listen, babe, you need to understand—these people, they don't mess around. They operate outside the boundaries and are pretty serious about keeping their business off everyone's radar. This isn't some service you can order online."
"I understand."
"Alright, I'll try to make a connection."
"How long do you think it'll take you to get their contact information?"
"They'll reach out to you," Lena explained. Her voice was just above a whisper. "That's how it works. You don't go to them. They find you."
A rush of cold went through my limbs. "How?"
"No idea. Maybe they're listening to us right now."
My pulse ran wild at the thought. I shook it off. Nonsense.
"Anyway," Lena added quickly. "I'll do my best. I gotta go."
She ended the call before I had a chance to thank her.
Several days passed with nothing happening.
I was on my second lap around the park where I usually jogged. This was a safe, family friendly neighborhood, and chances that something would happen were close to zero. The dusk settling in the darkening sky was like a fresh bruise and most people had already left, which I liked a lot.
My breaths came out in tight bursts as I followed the familiar path that curved past the old playground and then the small pond. I wore running shoes and an ancient sweatshirt, hood pulled tight against the approaching cold. My trusty pepper spray was in the front pocket.
I ran because it made me feel less like a ghost.
As I crossed the footbridge, I saw a silhouette up ahead. Just standing there, facing the path, arms folded. He wore a coat the color of wet cement, a wide-brimmed hat pulled low. He was older, I thought, but it was hard to tell. Something about the way he held himself still made my skin crawl.
I sped up and glanced around. There was no one else in sight.
My hand slipped into the pocket of my sweatshirt, closed around the stubby cylinder of pepper spray as I neared the man.
Twenty feet away, and still he didn't move. My nerves screamed. I forced myself forward, trying to look bored, like a jogger who'd done this loop a thousand times.
When I was about to pass him, he spoke. "Miss Holt?"
I flinched. My sneakers squealed on the pavement. I turned.
He was right there. Closer than I thought.
"Don't panic," he said in a low, even voice. "I'm not here to hurt you."
It didn't help. My grip on the spray tightened.
"You contacted the Bureau. We're here to follow up."
My mouth went dry. "Here?"
He shrugged. "Where else? It's neutral ground. Public, but not too public."
He sounded like someone in his forties or fifties. It was hard to tell. I couldn't see his face because of shadows from the hat and the dusk.
"Are you ready to speak?" he asked.
I hesitated, then nodded. This was scarier now that it was real.
"Walk with me," he said, and spun.
We walked side by side for a minute. My heart was in my throat, but I kept pace. His stride was measured, deliberate.
We reached a bench by the water. He gestured for me to sit. I did. He sat at the opposite end, as if we were strangers.
He pulled out a paperback, held it in one hand, and pretended to read. His eyes never left the lake. "You understand this conversation is confidential?" he said.
"Yes."
"You can't discuss this with any of your friends."
"I don't really have any—"
"Brynn Satcher."
My pulse stalled. "I got it," I choked out. "Not discussing this with anyone, including my reflection in the mirror."
"You understand there is a price?"
"Yes."
His tone softened, but only just. "A steep price."
"I have money," I said. My voice sounded far away.
"Who are you looking to…discipline?"
I stared at the water. My lungs caved in. "The men who ruined my life."
He closed the book, thumb marking the page. "Their names?"
I told him.
He repeated them, careful, precise, as if reading off a list.
"Are you not writing it down?" I asked.
"Do you believe it's wise to leave a paper trail, Miss Holt? You're not exactly buying ice cream here."
"Right," I muttered.
"And you're certain?"
"Yes. I'm certain."
He was quiet for a while, watching a pair of ducks play in the water. "What do you want from us?"
I blinked, unsure. "I want them to know what it's like to have their lives ruined too." Voicing it aloud was unexpectedly freeing, even given the strangeness of the situation.
He turned, faced me square on. "You don't want them dead, do you? Because we don't do murder, Miss Holt."
His words hit me hard and I shook my head. "No. Not dead. Just…not happy. Not safe. Not respected."
The man reached into his coat, pulled out a folded in half piece of paper. Slid it across the bench to me. "This is the price," he said. "Up front. Non-refundable."
My fingers trembled as I opened it. The number written inside made my brain stutter. It was a huge sum of money and it matched the settlement amount I received from the Valmonts three years ago.
I looked up.
The man was waiting. I couldn't see his features but I felt the sense of expectation from him.
"Okay," I breathed out.
"You have forty-eight hours to think this over one last time before we collect the money. We'll contact you for confirmation."
I tried to steady my heartbeat. "How do I know it's real?"
"You don't. Not until it happens. If that's not enough, walk away now."
When I looked up at the sky, it was navy blue, and the air grew colder by the second.
"There are rules," the man said at last. "As I've mentioned earlier, we don't do murder. We don't get minors involved. Are those limitations acceptable?"
"Yes."
The man rose up from the bench, and smoothed his coat.
"What if I change my mind?" I asked.
"You have forty-eight hours to consider. After that, if you pay us, the process begins." Without waiting for my answer, he tipped his hat, turned, and walked away.
I sat on the bench for a long time. The note in my hand was damp, the ink smudged from my sweaty grip. I watched the last light fade from the pond and wondered what kind of person I'd just become.
And then I wondered if I'd always been her.