17 Kimmy
I was cross-legged on the couch with my cell in my hand.
On the coffee table in front of me, sit two things—a cold mug of tea and the burner phone.
I was supposed to be relaxing— during our last session Dr. Carney said time off was vital for integration, as if anyone could integrate their before and after.
But I couldn't stop scrolling.
My thumb worked the screen with speed and urgency I typically reserved for late-night panic attacks.
Every news site, every aggregator, every bottom-feeder blog was running the same headline.
Venture Capital Star and Art Connoisseur Jerico Thorne Ruined in Picasso Forgery Scandal
I clicked the links out of compulsion.
I read variations of the story multiple times, and each time the facts seemed to get sharper, the edges cut deeper. The language was surgical and humiliating—words like mastermind, deception, catastrophic breach of trust.
There were pictures of Thorne's face—before, during, after. The after was the best. He looked haunted, sleep-deprived, the lines around his eyes like knife wounds. His jaw was clenched. The editor had chosen well.
I felt something again. Not joy. Not relief. Something tighter, like the twist of a screw that had never been flush.
The burner was distracting, beckoning me to pick it up.
I ignored the urge and scrolled further, past the quoted analysts, the speculations, the snide comments from former colleagues in their interviews.
Eventually, I put the phone down and glanced at the burner for the hundredth time.
Do not call this number again unless you are in immediate danger.
This was what revenge was supposed to look like, I reminded myself. Headlines. Humiliation. Consequences.
But all I could think about was the chain of events that had gotten me here—and how I would've chosen time travel in a heartbeat.
A part of me had been erased so violently, so carelessly, that I was exhausted from searching for the pieces.
And exhaustion made me reckless. Reckless enough to want to reach for a man I didn't even know, a man who was clearly dangerous, perhaps even more dangerous that the ones he was hunting.
I waited until midnight, hoping I'd pass out before giving into my desire to call the Customer Service number.
No such luck.
Hours later, my urge to talk to the stranger doing my bidding was still as strong as the moment I'd seen the news about Thorne's involvement in the Picasso scandal.
I'd been staring at the burner for twenty minutes straight, debating whether calling him against his advice would seem desperate.
Desperate won.
I dialed before I could talk myself out of it.
"Operative Seven. Are you in danger?" His voice came through exactly as I remembered—controlled, professional, like a machine programmed to sound just human enough. That velvety quality seemed out of place.
"No," I said, then added quickly, "But I have a question."
"Didn't I say not to call me unless it's a life and death situation? And questions outside of immediate threats are not protocol."
I expected for him to hang up, but he didn't.
Unable to sit still, I rose from the couch and continued. "Hypothetically, if someone were good at what they do—really good—would they be able to pull off something like the fake Picasso situation all over the news?"
Silence stretched between us as I began pacing the living room. I could almost hear him calculating his answer. He seemed like that type of person—someone who thought in algorithms.
"I can't discuss ongoing assignments," he finally droned.
"Well, I'm just asking a hypothetical question. Maybe I'm writing a book."
"Ask Google or contact an expert in the field for a consultation."
"Aren't you one?"
"One what?"
"Expert."
"I don't offer consultations."
"Still, that's not a no. I mean my hypothetical question."
"It's not a yes either."
I smiled despite myself. "You're good at this. The non-answer thing."
"Why are you calling?"
The question caught me off guard. Why was I calling?
To confirm that he was responsible for Thorne's downfall?
But it was clear as day. The truth was my mind had been replaying that bike ride with him ever since it'd happened.
Even when I was busy, the memory was still there, lingering in the background.
Hearing his emotionless voice and knowing he was a real person was a strange comfort.
"Are you doing this because you actually want to help people?" I asked carefully, my pulse too fast in my ears. "Or you just solve social justice problems because the gig pays well. I mean I assume it does."
"Is there a difference?" he replied, and I thought I heard something almost like dry humor in his tone.
"Of course there is."
"There's none," he stated with finality. “Money moves the world."
"That's bleak."
"That's realistic. You know it."
I stopped pacing and leaned against my kitchen counter, phone pressed to my ear. "Do you ever call your clients? Just to check in? Or is this a one-way street?"
"This isn't a street. This is dead-end. And none's given you demolition permits."
"Who made that protocol of yours? What if there's something important that needs to be said?"
"You only call if you're in danger. Other information is non-essential."
"How do you know?" I held my breath, waiting for him to shut me down again.
He didn't answer immediately, and the silence felt different this time. More deliberate.
"Is there anything else?" His voice had shifted slightly, become more clipped.
"Did you do it?" I asked quickly, not wanting to lose him. "Did you make the Picasso disappear?"
"I can't answer that."
"Right," I whispered. "Of course."
"Goodnight."
"Wait—" But he was already gone, the line dead in my ear. I stood there in my dark kitchen, phone still pressed to my cheek, wondering if I'd just imagined the hesitation before he'd answered my last question.
Or if I'd imagined that he cared about the answer at all.