 
# **Angry** **Jonny**

# By Joaquin Emiliano

# Copyright 2013 Joaquin Emiliano

# Smashwords Edition

# **Smashwords** **Edition** , **License** **Notes**

# This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

# ***

# This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidences are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

# ***

# This novel is dedicated to my enemies.

# ***

# **PART** **ONE**

# June 6 – June 7

# **Chapter 1:** **Commencement.**

"It's not too late to turn back."

Jessica didn't argue.

From their elevated vantage point, she was forced to squint through the slant of a midmorning sun, already turning from orange to a carsick shade of white. Down below, five-hundred-some foldout chairs were spread out in a phalanx, fresh paint jobs joining the glare of stadium bleachers, determined to double the damage, turn up the heat. Make June think it was filling in for mid-August.

The stands were steadily filling to capacity. South end of the field, the seniors were already lined up. Draped in crimson robes, graduation caps like flattened toadstools. Tassels to the right, yellow tendrils hanging limp.

Brookside High's graduating class of 2009.

Jessica glanced to her right, saw her aunt concentrating on the mass gathering below. Left hand stuck to her brow in a sun visor salute. Her eyes glowed electric blue beneath blond, willowy curls. At thirty-five, Dinah's smooth skin and distinctly full lips did little to give away her age. They might have brought her down to a tough twenty-nine, but for the dark cradles beneath her eyes. Experience had a way of keeping people alive, alert, and awake well past any reasonable hour of the night.

Dinah was right.

It was not too late to turn back.

But in her seventeen-some years on the face of the earth, Jessica knew full well that most people wouldn't even consider turning back until well after it was too late. And she knew that, lamentably, she was no exception.

"Yeah," Jessica sighed. She tugged at her white tank top, doing all she could to circulate some air, cool the moist contours of her torso. Ran her hand through the mop-top of brown curls that came to rest just above her shoulders. "It's never too late."

Dinah immediately understood. "So I guess we should find ourselves a seat."

"I guess we should."

Jessica felt Dinah's hand on her shoulder. "I got your back."

"Ain't as dramatic as all that," Jessica assured her. She reached out and took hold of Dinah's hand. Brown skin interlocking with her aunt's ghostly fingers. "Can't be as dramatic as all that."

Dinah drew Jessica close. Put an arm around her and smiled. "Let's start some trouble, then."

The pair took cautious side-steps down the grassy hill. Though hardly a Class VII mountain, it felt inevitable that one of them would take a false step. Fifty-fifty chance, anyway, and the honor was Jessica's to have; black suede kicks losing traction as she fell backwards, into her aunt's unprepared arms. A trust fall that sent them rolling in a swirl of denim jeans, chocolate and vanilla curls, depositing them at the back end of the bleachers.

Jessica landed flat on her back.

Dina on top, face mashed between her niece's tits.

They were instantly met with a chorus of brash, pubescent cackles.

Jessica blinked, vision clearing. Spied a clique of teenagers, breakaways enjoying a quick smoke before the ceremony. Already pointing, voices sarcastic and gleeful, pleased grins leaking RJ Reynolds and nasty innuendo.

"Jessica!"

"Jessica Kincaid!"

"Check these two!"

"That is _hot!_ "

Jessica had long grown numb to the school yard. She stood up, brushed the dirt from her arms.

Dinah followed suit, though hardly as willing to let the matter slide. "Got a problem, assholes?"

It was fuel for the fire, suburban slackers tickled pink.

"No problem here," one of the sophomores assured them with a leer.

"Not a problem at all," echoed another boy. He grabbed at his baggy jeans, right about where all his thoughts originated. "We always figured Jessica was into girls."

"Yeah, don't stop now, ladies!"

"Give us a show!"

Dinah was fully upright now, five-eight frame a full half-foot over Jessica's indifferent stance. Dried grass clippings stuck to her face. Flash fires burning bright behind her eyes, cheeks gone sunset red. "Like any of you little bitches would even know what to do with a woman if you had one."

Jessica winced. Dinner is served, boys.

"And I'm sure you _would_."

" _Please_ tell us!"

"Tell us just what to do!"

"Where to _lick_ , honey!"

Fever pitch. Boys all gyrating with hormonal rapture. Open palms rhythmically slapping at phantom asses.

Jessica grabbed Dinah by the arm and led her away. "Brick walls, Blondie."

"Fuck you!" Dinah cried out over her shoulder. "Buy some belts, you crusty, white, gangsta-wannabe _punks_!" She flashed them a stiff middle finger, then turned to keep pace with Jessica. "What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to get used to it."

"What, like you?"

"Anybody but me," Jessica said, rounding the bleachers, searching for a spot. She motioned with her chin, up towards the top row. "Let's get us some nosebleeds."

By the time they found their seats, a hush had come over the crowd. Down on the field, the graduates were already filing in. First row, second row. All in alphabetized, predetermined order.

Dinah leaned close, whispered over crowd's proud rumble: "Can you see him?"

Jessica shook her head, as the graduates settled. Sweat had turned the tank top to Velcro against her skin. She glanced to the left and caught a sunburned, middle-aged man staring at her. Parts of her, anyway. She folded her arms over her breasts and took a deep breath. Humid air filled her lungs, atmospheric makings of a weekend on the surface of the sun. The hot sting of aluminum against her thighs suggested second thoughts, that maybe she should have just slept in. Let Saturday be Saturday.

Principal Hewitt took the stage, ready to get on with the show, and Jessica had another look around. Well aware she could leave at any time. Unwilling to accept that anything was that simple. In for a penny, in for a pound.

Never too late to turn back, but sometimes there was just nowhere to go.

# ***

In some practical corner of her mind, Jessica thought she should be taking notes. Storing the details, moments, the rituals of this particular milestone. One more year, all things being what they were, and she would be down there with the class of 2010. Smothered in her own rented robes. Shoulder to shoulder with inconsequential classmates. Buried in an avalanche of valedictorian platitudes.

We learn, and continue to learn, every day. Every way that we can.

Why?

Because life is a journey. And this moment is not an end, but merely a beginning.

Wouldn't be too long, Jessica thought, before life was done with this particular chapter. Time being, she was too hot. Time being, she let the overwrought proceedings creep along, searching for distraction. Mentally naming as many states as possible in under one minute. Then once more in alphabetical order, including capitals. Counting the basketball jerseys in her section, sorting them by conference, and halfway through that laborious task, she awoke from her waking coma.

Vice-principal Clarence Davenport had taken the stage, already halfway through his speech.

At six-foot two, he had to hunch over the podium, grasping at either side with thick, paperweight hands. His fuchsia tie bled against a white, pressed shirt, filled to capacity by broad, sinewy shoulders. Pale, full lips that hovered close to the microphone, popping over-pronounced words, digging into the red meat of his remarks.

"We find ourselves, sadly, at the end of this school year, an incomplete community. Our strength and our promise severely wounded by the tragic loss of one of our own. One of our very best..."

An undertow of appreciative murmurs swept softly through the crowd.

Jessica felt Dinah's knee push against hers.

Davenport swept an impassioned hand through his dark, perfectly trimmed hair. "All of us at Brookside High School mourn the loss of Glen Roberts. He was more to us than just a biology teacher, and will be remembered as a brilliant, compassionate, and involved presence. A man who dedicated his life to the betterment of this school. There are those who might choose to lessen our memory of this great man with the regrettable and devastating circumstances surrounding his departure both from the halls of Brookside High, and from this world..."

He swept his sights across the crowd, eyes of a subterranean rat hovering over damp scraps of food. An effective, subliminal suggestion that sent everyone searching for what was and always would be humanity's primary reaction to any tragedy: someone to blame.

"But I refuse to exchange Glen's tenure of devoted service for the dark cloud that hung over him during his final months with us. He was a leader, a tireless worker, a teacher... but above all else he was my friend. And I ask that we all, please, observe a moment of silence in memory of Glen Roberts."

With the exception of Jessica and Dinah, everyone in that coliseum lowered their heads, chins to chest.

And it didn't escape Jessica to hear their silent reverence compromised by devious whispers some several seats below hers. Secret aspersions that sent a couple of necks craning. Eyes glaring, glowing behind the shade of worn baseball caps. Their prayers for Glen Roberts handcuffed to an unmitigated hatred of Jessica Kincaid.

Dinah's hand tightened around her niece's leg. Nails digging in.

Jessica glanced up, saw her aunt trembling with rage.

Had no choice but to let it go.

Retreat to the games in her head, now categorizing animals by alphabet. Then genus. Then by likelihood of being devoured by anyone trapped on a desert isle. And just as she was concluding that not one of them would be safe from the hungry thoughts of a desperate human being, the air was filled with a swarm of graduations caps. Joyous cries accompanying the end of another school year as those spinning, square tiles fell back to earth, leaving everyone in a state of confusion over which ones belonged to whom.

# ***

Well overseas, in faraway lands nobody bothered to think about, there were fields overflowing with dormant landmines. Jessica had read about them; war zones no longer host to occupying forces, rebel attacks, insurgent uprisings. The remnants of sewn-up conflicts still lurking under tall grass, dirty landscapes, and murky pools of water. Tricky explosives just waiting to fulfill their destiny. Waiting for the right person to come along, ready to destroy any and all for making the simple mistake of wrong place, wrong time.

The post-graduation crowd was far less dangerous, but no easier to navigate.

Jessica and Dinah waded through the determined joy of excited grins and indulgent backslapping. Every step of the way, familiar faces stared Jessica down with disapproving frowns, lemon juice lips. Judge, jury and executioner all wrapped into one, as word got around about Jessica Kincaid.

And somewhere in this crowd of ugly faces, Jessica caught sight of Malik.

Alone for the moment. No parents in sight.

She cut a quick path, Dinah trailing behind with truncated strides. Jaw set.

His reaction was very much on par with popular opinion.

But for very different reasons.

"Jessica..." There it was. Brown eyes, large and smoldering, matching his skin tone except for isolated patches of acne that had stubbornly rejected all modern miracle creams and home remedies. The only honesty left in his face. He adjusted his cap, awkwardly situated atop a decent afro. "What brings you out of hiding?"

"Just wanted to see you graduate."

"Uh-huh..." He pushed his dark-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. Stared down with his own particular brand of venom. "I think what you mean was you wanted to show how bad-ass you were coming here. Swimming with the sharks."

"I really just wanted to see you –"

"Yeah, coming from anybody other than my ex-girlfriend..." Malik shrugged. He gave a quick nod to Dinah, got no reciprocation. Malik shrugged again. "Well, you saw me walk the line, so..."

"I don't see why you gotta be like this..." Jessica sighed. "Most ex-girlfriends, given the circumstances, wouldn't bother coming to see your ass for anything other than an execution."

"Great. Let's bring all this up, please."

"How about let's not act like some child who just got his fire truck confiscated."

"Yeah, yeah –"

"You're angry at _me_?"

" _I stuck by you, Jessica_ ," Malik whispered, practically spitting through clenched teeth. "When everyone else was calling you a liar, talking shit that you were just some bitch looking for attention, I stuck by _you_. Like a goddamn fool, I stood up for you, –"

"See, you call it loyalty." Jessica struggled to hold the volume down, knowing the rumor mill to keep diligent summer hours. "Considering how you spent all that capital, I'm just going to go ahead and call it leverage."

"It was one time –"

"The boy can count, how about that?"

"I was going to _tell_ you," Malik insisted. "I was going to tell you, and you had to go and dig around –"

"Now you're angry I found _out_?"

Malik's eyes grew distant. Faded, like the last days of a family portrait. Soft, unreadable features quietly weighing his thoughts.

" _What?_ " Jessica snapped, crossing her arms.

"I know you think the whole world is out to keep the truth from you, pull the wool over your eyes," Malik ventured, still floating somewhere beyond their present conversation. Made as though to touch her, then thought better of it. "And I understand why you think so. I really do –"

"Your blessing is _so_ welcomed."

"Welcomed or not... People need their secrets, Jessica."

"Only because people need to have it all."

Malik sighed. "I've apologized. I've apologized over and over. What more do you want from me?"

Jessica wished she hadn't already crossed her arms. She searched for a gesture, a look, anything to cover the undeniable fact that she simply had no answer to his question.

Still trying to pull a rabbit from the hat, when they were joined by Malik's parents.

His mother limped to his left, cane clutched in her left hand.

His mother gave Jessica a pert nod as she limped to Malik's side. Cane clutched tightly in her left hand. A necessary tool that somehow always came across as a mere accessory to the thin, aristocratic angles of her body.

Originally from Queens, Patricia Council had received her law degree from Columbia. Soon after, she was working point on several police brutality cases for the ACLU. History had a habit of siding with the city, and after too many years of watching the other side walk, she packed up shop and moved down to Verona. She became a registered nurse, opening a chain of free clinics for Verona's uninsured. In 2007, even as the economy was only just starting to fall into recession, the state pulled all its funding. Every last clinic was shut down by 2008.

Malik's father gave his own halfhearted wave. Meticulously trimmed beard doing little to hide his indignation. Eyes always serious behind oval, wire-rimmed glasses. Phillip Council, born and raised in Verona. Graduated from Verona Central with honors and an MA in political science, then went on to earn his Master's in Education at Pantheon University. Rejected Capitol Hill to serve on the Verona Board of Education, before penning a national bestseller on _No Child Left Behind_ , then settling in as a Pantheon professor. With tenure.

Jessica was a working class waitress and Kentucky runaway. With a white aunt.

"Didn't expect to see you here," Patricia managed.

"It's Malik's big day."

"Proud day for any father." Phillip put a proud arm around his only son and heir. "Guess it'll be your turn soon enough, Jessica."

Jessica nodded.

They let the conversation drop dead on the spot. Patricia toying with a string of pearls. Phillip loosening his purple, Sachs Fifth tie. Their son trapped in the middle, eyeing Jessica with a hurried, apologetic expression.

"Well, now that's taken care of," Jessica said. "Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Council."

More passive smiles from the grownups.

"Thanks, Jessica," Malik ventured.

"Yeah..." She took a few steps back, feeling the cold coming off Patricia's stare. "Good luck, Malik."

Jessica did a one-eighty, back into ninety-degree heat. She closed her eyes, trying not to imagine the revulsion that would surface now that her back was turned. Quicksand steps that lead Jessica back to her aunt.

"You all right?" Dinah asked.

"Right as rain," Jessica told her. "Let's get out of here."

They wormed their way out of the frenzy, between a set of bleachers, and began to traverse back towards the hill. Flanked on the right by the hollow insides of empty risers. Crisscross infrastructure of aluminum pound signs. Approaching their original crash site, when Davenport's voice came out calling from behind them.

"Jessica, wait up!"

Dinah kept walking. There was no doubt she had the right idea, but Jessica recognized a showdown when she heard it. Turned, planted her feet. Ordered them to grow some goddamn roots, as Vice-Principal Davenport loped towards her; a thick skeleton, fervently glancing in all directions. Bringing his trot to a close with a gracious smile.

"Hey, Jessica..."

Jessica found herself unconsciously searching the ground for a weapon. "Hey."

"Just wanted to talk to you before you headed off for the summer."

From a few yards away, Dinah called out, "Come on, Jessica, let's _go_."

Jessica held her ground. "What can I do for you?"

"Well..." Davenport sent a hand across his forehead, beads of sweat streaking. "Summer's here. A full three months coming up. Just thought you might like to... spend that time thinking. About things."

"Guess I'll head right home and get started on that summer reading list."

Davenport forced a chuckle. "I think you know what I'm talking about."

"What _are_ you talking about?"

"I'm talking about Glen Roberts."

"The guy you were talking about earlier, right?"

"It's over, all right? You won. He lost. In fact, your little sexual harassment suit cost him his job, reputation, family, and his life, so... yes, lost it all."

"Complaint. Not a suit."

"It's more the outcome that bothers me."

"See you in September." Jessica turned to walk away.

"It's your first day tomorrow, isn't it?"

Jessica stopped in her tracks.

From far over the hill, car speakers began to blast out heavy, distorted bass.

Jessica motioned for Dina to stay put. Turned and retraced her steps, toe to toe with Davenport.

"I know how hard you worked for this," he began. All fingerprints of his previous smile wiped clean, a treacherous glare muddying his eyes. "And as long as we're being honest, there is no student in all of Verona more worthy of spending their summer interning for the Verona Observer. You know that. I know that."

"But?"

"But I could know a lot less... I am the one who signed for every entry from this school. Catch my drift?"

Jessica smacked her lips, mouth turning dry. "I don't think anyone says _catch my drift_ anymore."

"Nevertheless, I think you do." It was a day destined for whispered words, and Davenport was no exception. "You've done your worst. And now that the damage is done, I want Glen Roberts exonerated. I want you to come forward and tell the world that you made it all up. A tearful little confession that sets the record straight."

"Otherwise you get my internship at the Observer yanked?"

His smile resurfaced, complete with a smug, confident nod. "Turns out you do catch my drift after all."

Jessica had learned the hard way that extended moments between words had a way of implying weakness. Within one second, and without thinking, she simply shrugged. "Yank away, Mr. Davenport. Print is dead anyway."

"Glen Roberts is dead, Jessica!" he yelled, as she turned to walk away. No longer interested in keeping a low profile. "Glen Roberts is dead, and _you killed him!_ "

Jessica kept walking.

Joined her aunt and without a word.

"Fuck that guy," Dinah muttered, making her way up the grassy slope.

"Ain't a problem." Jessica reached out to grab hold of the vertical incline before her. Dried grass snapping roughly between her fingers. "I just need summer to end. Right now."

They reached the top of the hill, now more sweat than skin. Right back where they started. Taking a last look over the same football field, now a very different place than two hours ago.

"It's called summer _vacation_ ," Dina reminded her.

"What are you doing tonight?"

"Working."

"What a plumb-fucking coincidence." Jessica sighed. "So am I."

Check and mate. Facts were facts.

Somewhere in this sordid world, floods and droughts were reshaping the land. People were losing their jobs. Soldiers were dying in cumulative handfuls. Individuals were getting rich, while entire groups of nobodies were left behind, stuck right where they were. Dreams remained in their planning stage, even as graduates across the country made their way home, with hopes of a brighter future, another chapter of life over and done with.

In Jessica's world, it all came down to the few steps from the hill to the parking lot. Nothing but the searing laughter of the sun to help them along as they drew shut the red, rusted doors of a '66 Mustang long overdue for the scrap yard.

Heading home for a few hours' rest before suiting up for another night of all work, no play.

And somewhere overseas, Jessica knew, dormant landmines laid waiting for a misplaced footstep to come along. Ready to punish anybody whose only crime was showing up first.

# **Chapter** **2:** **Mr. Table Thirteen.**

There was no humanity to be found backstage of a five-star restaurant.

Beneath the smiles, the grace. Beneath the rehearsed fawning of waiters, waitresses – referred to as _servers_ to better ease the customer's conscious – beneath the eager expedition of every whim gracing the mind of any customer – referred to as _guests_ to better insure a welcoming environment – beneath the polished repetition of nightly specials, beneath the stoic efficiency of busboys, food runners, beneath the lupine grins of obsessive managers... Lurking just beneath it all lay a factory that ran on the sad reality that a job well done was little more than the sum total of one's tips.

And one's tips were little more than making every customer the center of the universe. Each one ready to snap, lose their mind over any slight that might downgrade their experience from _perfect_ to _almost perfect_.

On the night of June sixth, 2009, nobody was more aware of this discrepancy than Jessica Kincaid.

Second shift kicked off as always, the entire wait staff seated at the far end of _Spiro's_. Thirty-foot ceilings stretched out over the thousand-square-foot floor, shaped like a massive kidney. Unoccupied tables set with silverware, water glasses, bread plates and folded napkins all awaited fulfillment beneath soft tract lighting and the blue specter of a fully stocked bar, where Dinah methodically wiped down the stainless steel.

Save for the ethnic drone of ambient world music, the restaurant was silent.

Five-thirty pm. In a few hours, the sun would dip behind Main Street's parallel railroad tracks, putting an end to another day in Verona. For the moment, there were overtures to be dealt with.

Guy – pronounced _Gee_ , with a short, guttural _g_ – was wrapping up his nightly lecture. Jet-black hair slicked back. Voice smooth as his gunmetal silk shirt and matching tie. "That does it for the casual up-sell. Before we break, somebody give me the specials..." He glanced over the company of uniformly dressed soldiers. Black, button down shirts. Black pants. A pastiche of ties, polkas dot and printed mermaids. "Jessica?"

Without one glance at her notepad, Jessica launched into monotone: "For the starter, we have a grilled calamari salad, served over baby field greens and jicama. Our catch is a pan-seared, pepper-crusted ahi tuna, white wine and lemon-basil, served with sesame saffron rice and stir-fried local greens. Goes real nice with the Wild Rock sauvignon blanc, but if the opportunity arises, I'd up-sell to the Cloudy Bay. It's from New Zealand."

"OK..." Guy gave a slow nod, prelude to all constructive criticism. "We going to repeat that same magic tonight, only maybe with some actual enthusiasm?"

"We most certainly _are_ ," Jessica bubbled.

Guy smiled, trying to suggest her subversion was an inside joke. "All right, everyone, get to work."

It wasn't a particularly busy night. Spiro's catered to the carriage trade; Pantheon's more prominent professors, administrators, and undergrads from the upper tax brackets. Always a bit of a dip as summer approached. Most of the student body who could see their way clear to a twenty-eight dollar entrée had already flown the coop; primarily to New Jersey, New York, and Connecticut. Tenured professors, itching to get moving on that next book or speaking tour, were already jumpstarting their vacations.

Leaving the servers with a patchwork floor. Couples and four-tops spread thin and throughout. Hostess doing her best to ration enough action for all to make the rent, put a dent in those student loans and car payments.

All quiet on the western front.

Even the unexpected arrival of Malik and his parents did little to throw Jessica off course. She had already spotted a few elites from Brookside's class of 2009. And while their passive glares didn't make her job any easier, fortune had spared her the humiliation of taking their tables. A silver lining extending to her ex, seated a good two sections away. Close enough to see, too far to touch. Stress levels breaking even. Orders taken, punched into touch screens by the bar and kitchen. Starters, position numbers, course lines. Special requests, modifications; medium rare, no peppers, substitutions, extra sides of marinara.

Steady as she goes.

But Jessica had been around long enough to know that their shifts were not shaped by the quantity of tables. Quality of the customer, however, could send dominos diving. Bring the whole evening to its knees.

In this case, that table turned out to be number thirteen.

"Good evening, gentlemen," Jessica began, hands placed reverently behind her back. "Welcome to Spiro's. My name is Jessica –"

She was cut off by an under-bite stationed between a pair of jutting, angular cheekbones: "Jim Beam on the rocks, Jessica."

When spoken by this comb-over in a three-piece, Jessica found the sound of her name somehow more condescending than any _babe_ or _sweetheart_ he could have thrown her way. His eyes gleamed with a predatory lack of empathy. Aged skin pale and pulled taught over the wiry slouch of a patient vulture.

"Absolutely, sir." Jessica turned to his younger counterpart. Same make and model, an unimpressively handsome and well-maintained thirty-something. "And for you, sir, anything to –"

"No, Jessica," the vulture interrupted. "I don't want an Absolute. No vodka. Jim Beam, OK?"

And so went the first domino.

"I'm sorry sir, you must have misheard me." From the moment those words came stumbling from her mouth, Jessica knew she'd fucked herself, but good. "I said _absolutely_ , not –"

"I know what I heard. You going to tell me what to eat next?"

_Uh-oh_. "We do have several excellent specials tonight."

"In a minute, Jessica. Right now, Jim Beam on the rocks. OK?"

She overcorrected with a quick nod, turning tail towards the bar.

"Hey, Jessica!" His domineering bark sent shockwaves through the entre restaurant.

She returned to the table, proximity doing little to affect his volume.

"You want to maybe take my friend's order, too, Jessica?"

Each time he used her name in place of punctuation, Jessica could feel another set of nerves short-circuit.

"I'll have an Absolute martini," the younger man said with snide amusement.

The vulture rolled his eyes, "Don't encourage her, Chris."

They shared a good laugh. Glanced up, looking to spread the mirth.

Jessica cracked a smile along with her knuckles, hands still hidden safely behind her back. "Jim Beam, rocks. Absolute martini."

Halfway across the floor, when she was flagged down by another table.

"Miss, we're ready to order now."

_I'm not your server_ was not acceptable vocabulary by any manager's standards. There was also no way to punch in someone else's order without that server's PIN. Jessica made do, jotted their starters and entrees, then slipped the note into her apron.

Jessica slid into the hutch by the bar. Brought up the drink menu on the touch screen. A maze of multicolored squares led to further luminous grids as she slowly narrowed her search. Two more servers waited in the wings for their turn. She punched in her order for table thirteen.

Dinah was just done serving a whiskey to a dour millennial with tousled, blond hair. She trotted over to the printer, tore the ticket.

"Hey, Jess."

"Sup, Blondie."

"One Beam, rocks, one Absolute martini for table thirteen."

"Yeah."

Dinah did a Zen two-step, eyes distant as she chilled a martini glass, shook up the vodka and vermouth. Drained it. Added a few olives, and paired it a sizable Beam in a rocks glass.

"Here you go, Jess."

"Word."

Jessica placed the drinks on a tray, made her way back to table thirteen and served them up.

Like it was ever that simple.

"Uhhh..." The vulture's mock hesitation spilled out like a drum roll for his next complaint. "My friend wanted his martini with a _twist_."

"My apologies, sir. Olives are the default around here." And again, before she could remind herself that egos were at stake: "You didn't specify."

"You didn't ask, Jessica. Weren't doing your job, there."

Jessica opened her mouth. For one hot minute, the words floated dangerously close to her tongue:

Sir, do I got down to your place of business and tell you the proper way to suck dick?

For the rest of her limited time on earth, Jessica would often wonder whether that one remark might have saved all of Verona from the violent chaos of those hot summer months.

Instead, she swallowed hard, regurgitating an olive branch: "I can fix this right as rain, sir."

"We're also ready to order, Jessica."

"I'll have the tuna tartar," said the younger man, Chris. Adding with a smirk: "No olives."

Jessica flashed an impressed grin, batted her eyes.

"And I'll have the calamari plate," the vulture announced, pleased by his decisiveness.

She then took their entrees down next, asked if they would be having any wine.

"Yeah," the vulture picked up the list, sent a talon down the reds. "What can you tell me about the Stags' Leap Merlot?"

"It's full. Pretty full. Lot of body, long finish. Intense plum, cherry flavors –"

"Doesn't sound like a Merlot to me, Jessica."

"Sometimes it's a problem of vintage," Jessica explained, catching sight of a table staring her down, anxious to get their own meal going. "It's a 2007. There have been definite effects on grapes, starting with that year, global warming and climate change being what –"

"Hey, Jessica. I'm not looking for a lecture on Mother Earth."

"Of course..." The two most overused words in the waitress lexicon. "I can recommend another Merlot –"

"It's all right, we'll take the Stag. I trust you, Jessica."

"Thank you."

Jessica hustled to the bar. Found the hutch crowded with a sudden rush of wait staff. She crossed the room, set herself up at the hutch near the kitchen. Punched in the wine order, table number. Followed through with the starters, adding position numbers, then hit the course button, fingers dancing. Punched in the entrees and hit SEND.

She stopped to check on a four-top. Fielded a request for more bread, as the restaurant's babble began to swell around her. She delegated the bread order to a runner. Picked up the Stags' and darted back to table thirteen. Presented the vulture with his choice. Waited for him to nod, then reached into her apron, fingers wrapping around her wine key. She unsheathed the one and a half inch blade, ran the serrated edge along the top of the seal. Released the corkscrew and dug in. Two quick pulls, and she liberated the cork with a solid pop, laid it down on the table.

Jessica made as though to pour.

"Uh-uh, Jessica..." The vulture shook his head, motioning to his guest. "My friend will do the tasting."

Jessica dropped an ounce of claret into his glass. Stood by as Chris sniffed the cork; an unnecessary step, the surest sign of a novice. He gave the glass a wimpy swirl, then took it all down. Didn't swish, savor, or exhale while swallowing. Just smacked his lips, and proclaimed what nine out of ten posers would: "Yeah. That's good."

Jessica nodded, served the vulture, then topped off Chris. She set the bottle down with assurances that their starters would be out momentarily.

Halfway towards a fresh table, Jessica was intercepted by Carrie. Wisps of chestnut hair stuck to her lips, demanding to know why Jessica had taken an order without telling her. Jessica pulled the slip from her apron with a rushed apology, then darted into the kitchen to tell the chefs that Carrie needed those starters _on the fly_.

No love lost between the kitchen and wait staff; all Jessica received was a disgusted roll of their eyes as food runners and floundering servers scrambled for space in hundred degree heat.

Somewhere in that exchange, the starters for table thirteen snuck out.

She flew to a freshly set table, fielded drink orders. Caught a two-top calling for the check. She was on track to place the order and print the bill for fifteen, when Jessica heard the familiar sound of nails on a chalkboard.

"Hey, you!"

There was the vulture, summoning her. Worse yet, there was Guy. On standby.

The vulture didn't waste any time. "Hey, Jessica. What's this plate of fried calamari doing here?"

So now there was the damning stare of two customers, combined with the desperately amiable, conciliatory gaze of her manager. A Bermuda Triangle of chastising glares.

Because that evening, the starter special had been a grilled calamari salad – what the vulture had taken the liberty of describing as the _calamari plate_ , the very name of their menu's fried calamari starter.

"My apologies, sir," Jessica began. "I heard you order the calamari plate."

"What is your _obsession_ with what people do or do not _hear_? Doesn't matter what you _heard_. Interpreted. _Assumed_. What matters is what I _asked_ for!"

As with most altercations, Guy's first order of business was to move on. "Of course, sir. We can bring you the calamari salad right away."

"Not much of a point in that now, is there?" The vulture swooped in and dangled a breaded tendril for all to see. "If I asked for the calamari plate, Jessica –"

"There's a calamari special, and a calamari plate," Jessica insisted, pores jumping at the chance to send a little sweat down her back. " I didn't –"

"What you didn't do is _ask_!"

"You didn't give me the _chance_ to tell you the specials."

Guy put a hand on her arm. "Jessica –"

"You've got the specials in _writing_ right there at the hostess stand!" If nobody in the restaurant was staring at them, it was only because they were doing all they could not to. Faces suddenly engrossed in their grilled salmon and shrimp ravioli. "You think I need you to recite the specials, like I'm some mentally retarded child? I _know_ the specials, and don't you think if I wanted the fried calamari, I sure as hell would have _asked for it?_ "

A man could convince himself of anything, especially when his voice echoed so loud, it bounded from the rafters like God's proper will.

Jessica felt herself grow small, helpless. Little servant girl in a man's world.

It didn't matter what was right.

All that mattered was who was footing the bill.

"I'll be more than happy to remove the starters from your check, sir..." Guy assured them, chin bobbing. "And please consider dessert our compliments for the evening."

"Thank you," the vulture replied, as though his whole life had been leading up to such reparations.

"Is there _anything_ else we can do for you?"

And Jessica let her anger simmer low, screams of solid frustration circulating through her bloodstream. Heart pumping pure hatred for a man who wasn't about to give up his leverage just yet.

"Well..." The vulture picked up his wine glass. Held it close to his face even as the half empty bottle rested comfortably by his elbow. "This wine is _not_ exactly what I expected."

"Jessica, the wine list, please."

Jessica took a deep, unintentionally sobering breath and made her way to the hostess stand. Picked up the wine list, bound in brown vinyl, and walked it over to table thirteen like a friendly, undersized dog.

In the end, they chose a Cabernet no different from their initial selection.

And took the liberty of reminding her that Chris never got the twist for his Absolute martini.

Jessica shuffled back to the bar. From every direction, tables continued demanding their drinks, starters, main courses, desserts, and checks. The smirks of her schoolmates wormed their way into her, delighted with the floorshow.

Only Malik seemed to be doing all he could to communicate solidarity. Seething in his seat, he sent hateful lightning bolts spinning towards table thirteen.

Nothing doing, though.

Too little, too late. So very, very Malik.

Jessica typed in her order, and Dinah presented the bottle. Earned herself a few sympathetic smiles from a few barflies, but at that point, the dominos were down.

Jessica was in the weeds.

Stuck in the tall grass.

She pressed her fingers against either temple, dug in. Still another three hours left in her shift. And after that another shift. And after that, who knew?

Summer had barely hit the ground, and already, Jessica felt like running.

# ***

Jessica was done for the evening. Receipts totaled along with her gratuities. Line for line, tip-out log tallied; pen digging into paper as her right hand stabbed at oversized calculator buttons. Fifteen percent for the food runners, ten for the busboys. Two percent for the hostess and three for the bar.

She snagged Carlos outside the kitchen. Slipped him his twenty-three dollars. The bus crew was already two-thirds done, stacking chairs and wiping down the Tennessee marble tops. Jessica flagged Ramon, who strode over with a sad smile that rarely ventured past his thick mustache. She dished him his fifteen, adding a tired _gracias_.

The hostess had already gone home for the evening.

Jessica ducked behind the podium. Counted out three bills and slid them into the white envelope.

One hundred and fifty three dollars in tips now down to one hundred twelve.

She stood up a little too fast, resulting in a hollow thump as her head slammed against the edge.

With a soft groan, Jessica reached into her apron. Counted out eight dollars. She wove her way between empty tables, feet throbbing against tightly laced, black dress shoes. Took a seat at the bar. Hardly able to summon the strength, she dragged the weighted barstool close to the shiny, blue-grey Carrara counter top. To her left, a twenty-some blonde in a cheap suit drew his whiskey closer to his spindly body, as though sensing Jessica could use the room. She hardly noticed; stared longingly at the bottles lined up like toy soldiers atop a blue-lit inset, their contents luminous and inviting.

A few seats down, Dinah was serving up a Heineken to one of the stragglers.

Jessica gave a wave.

Dinah strode over with a weary smile. "Hey, girl."

Jessica brandished eight dollars between her middle and index. "Got your money, Blondie."

Dinah took the cash, fanned it out like a peacock tail. "You got a two dollar bill in here, honey."

"I know."

"That's good luck."

"Says who?"

" _Supposed_ to be good luck, anyway." Dinah scooped some ice into a pint glass and filled it with tonic. "Like a four-leaf clover."

"Because they're both green?"

"Because they're both rare."

"So's getting struck by lightning." Jessica reached for a straw, plunged it into her drink. She took a sip, savoring the bubbly snap of quinine. "That's what passes for good luck these days, you get me a kite and a key."

"Eight bucks is eight bucks."

"That's eight more than I got from table thirteen. We calling that good luck, too?"

"Didn't leave you anything?"

"On a hundred and fifty dollar tab."

"Dick."

Guy motioned from the register, ready to tally some bar tickets.

Dinah left Jessica with an encouraging smile, encoded with a sad understanding of problem customers.

"I mean, _guests_ ," Jessica muttered resentfully.

"Miss?"

Jessica glanced down the bar. Caught sight of a classy suit, burgundy shirt, black silk tie. Black man, somewhere in the wilderness of middle age. Facial scars from an acne-riddled youth dotted his cheeks and lengthy jaw line. Large hands encircling his Heineken like a prayer book, close-cut hair crop-dusted with notions of someday going completely gray.

Jessica gave him the eye. _Old man even_ dreams _of buying me a drink, he'd better wake up and apologize_.

"May I just say..." Heineken man ventured, accent hinting at a northern point of origin. "That man you were stuck with earlier, gentleman in the Armani suit?"

"What of it?"

"That was no gentleman..." Heineken man picked up his beer and brought his lips in for a landing. Swallowed. "That man was anything but, and I would like to extend my ill wishes. There's no excuse for anyone treating anybody the way he treated you tonight."

To her left, the blond whiskey drinker followed up with a barely perceptible _true that_.

Jessica shrugged. "Thanks."

"For what it's worth."

"Not a hell of a lot, sir."

Jessica heard Guy bark out her name. She lazily rolled her head towards her boss. Saw him standing by the register with a paternal scowl; arms crossed, fists stuffed with greenbacks and credit slips. Directly to his right, Dinah bit down on her lower lip, teeth white against scarlet lipstick.

"My apologies, sir," Guy said, putting aside all paperwork and gliding over to Heineken man in one smooth sentence.

"No need for that," Heineken man insisted. "You can't control everything."

"I hope Jessica hasn't offended you in any way."

Jessica's stomach folded into fourths, fingers strangling her glass.

"Who's talking about her?" Heineken man asked. "I was talking about table thirteen, that sorry excuse for a man who put the hurt on our girl, here."

Jessica was positive she'd heard wrong.

Guy appeared equally unprepared. "Well, we do our very best to please everyone who –"

"There's some people in this world beyond pleasing," Heineken man declared. "Too often, I have to ask if those people are even _worth_ pleasing. Don't know why I have to ask myself so often, the answer's always the same." He turned towards Jessica with a warm smile, eyes mischievously implying that this was her chance. "Do you honestly think there was anything you could have done to please a husk like Mr. Table Thirteen over there?"

Jessica felt an unfamiliar rush of pure, instinctual warmth. Sent her lips curling in a grateful smile.

Before she could answer, Guy stepped in: "We don't make it policy to discuss clientele at work."

"Seems to me her shift is over."

"She's not wearing her streets. I wouldn't want anyone to get the wrong idea."

"Well, it appears the curtain has fallen." Heineken man cast a sly, theatrical glance around the cavernous restaurant. "Don't know how I'm supposed to get the wrong idea from what's right before my face."

"Now, sir..." Guy switched gears, shifting to playful indignation. "Do I go down to your place of business and tell you how to do _your_ job?"

"It'd be interesting... I'm a restaurant manager."

Dinah split the bar with an unintended yelp of laughter.

Everyone turned to find her covering her mouth, eyes mortified.

"Chaucer Braswell," the stranger said, tipping an imaginary hat. "General Manager of _The Blue Paradise_. Wilmington, North Carolina." He turned, extended a hand in Jessica's direction: "Chaucer Braswell to you, too."

Jessica met his hand with a firm shake. "Jessica Kincaid."

"All right..." He turned back to Guy with a conciliatory nod. "Sorry to put you on the spot. _Customer's Always Right_ is the third rail of the food service. So I know. Yes. It's unfair for me to ask you to side with any opinion I may have towards Mr. Table Thirteen –"

"Tell you what _I_ would've done to Mr. Table Thirteen," the blond whiskey drinker offered, staring into his glass, green eyes narrowing. "I would've taken that Filet Mignon and dumped it right on his bald-ass head. Then taken that bottle of wine and poured _that_ all over his thousand-dollar suit. After that, maybe squeeze a lemon wedge right in his beady little eyes. Just to add that extra touch of..." He trailed off, glanced around from face to face; Dinah, Guy, Chaucer, then finally landing on Jessica.

She locked eyes with him, instantly struck by the worn rage behind his childish scenario. An already skinny body looking several sizes smaller beneath an ill-fitting, dime-store suit.

"There's no excuse," he told her. "No excuse for a man to treat a woman – to treat _anyone_ – the way he treated you. If the wrong appetizer and a bottle of subpar wine is the worst thing in that cocksucker's life, he should be down on his knees and kissing your feet for proving to him just how good he's got it."

Guy cleared his throat, trying to pull the train back into the station.

The blond stranger wasn't going to let that happen: "Am I wrong? Because I don't believe I am. Matter of fact, I'd lay down twenty to one that each of us has got a little something they'd like to do to Mr. Table Thirteen. Teach him a lesson I know we all know he richly deserves." He leaned forward, soft overhead lights casting a shadow over his eyes. "Sir? Mr. Braswell?"

"Chaucer's just fine, young man..." He absently scratched his cheek, weighed his words between broad shoulders. "And can I assume we've just entered a morally indifferent, consequence-free world?"

"A perfect world."

"What's your name, son?"

"Eli." Raising his glass, he added: "Eli Messner."

"Well, Eli... I suppose, once Mr. Table Thirteen was done with his meal. And after I'd collected my invisible tip on a hundred and fifty dollar tab... I'd follow him out to his car. I'd pull out my notepad, and write down his tags. Naturally, and yes, trust me, he would come up to me. Ask what I was doing, and I'd tell him, straight up: _Just jottin' your plates_. He'd ask me why. Don't know if I'd really answer him. Maybe send a shrug his way. And, yes, I do know this man would instantly lose his cool, demand I hand over the note. Which I'd do. I would hand it over. I would watch him tear it to shreds, eyes all haughty and defiant, like he'd just single handedly stormed Normandy."

Chaucer took a sip of his beer. "Then, I'd simply recite his plates by memory. Walk away. And, yes, I do know he would spend the following months wondering just what I was planning to do with that one simple piece of information. What I would be capable of with a few simple numbers. Let the man sweat it out with the knowledge that he will, eventually, be punished..."

Guy continued to feign an obsessive interest in that night's totals.

The rest of them nodded, replaying the scene in their heads.

"Classy way to go," Eli said.

"There's a million and one ways to go about vengeance," Chaucer replied.

"Or justice."

"Two different creatures."

"Meaning?"

Dinah stepped in. "We're talking about a perfect world, right?"

Guy threw her a sharp glance, but the night had long slipped from his grasp.

"We're talking about a perfect world, yes," Eli affirmed.

"I'd have to go for the master plan, then..." Under Guy's watchful eye, Dinah served Chaucer a free beer, another refill for Eli. She leaned over the bar, arms crossed. "I'd shuffle through the credit card receipts, find this man's name. Find out where he lives. Watch and wait. A man like that's got to have something dark stored somewhere in his cellar..." Dinah's eyes played over her manicured fingernails, thoughts lost in a scheme that would never see the light of day. "I know it's pie in the sky, but in a perfect world, yeah. I would find some way to completely destroy his life. Systematically. Bit by bit. Taking it all, 'till all he had left was his shadow, and then shine just one more light on him..."

Someone in back turned off the XM radio.

No more ambient electronica; the entire place gone silent.

Chaucer took a long tug at his beer. "Anything you want to add, Guy? Ain't no shame in admitting it. Managers are only human. Even though they may not always –"

"It's just about that time, gentlemen," Guy interrupted, checking his Rolex. "Got to settle up –"

"Know what I would do...?" Jessica came back over the top, sucking the last bit of life from her drink. She glanced around, marveled at the sound of her own voice in the void of afterhours. "If I had my way with Mr. Table Thirteen? I would just go ahead and kill the dirty old fucker."

One by one, the overhead lights were extinguished. Remaining players surrounded by a dark curtain.

"I mean, we are talking about a perfect world, right?" Jessica held up her hands. Palms spread flat, the universal symbol of a clean slate. Free of all responsibility, unrepentant. "And everything you all have been talking about has been... based, somehow, in some idea that we can, someway, teach certain people certain lessons. Make them see the error of their ways, make them think twice before they treat anybody with any sort of disrespect again... But your perfect world ain't perfect because you get to do what you want. It's perfect because what you do makes some damn difference after you've done it... There's no teaching some people. Most people. Most people, like Mr. Table Thirteen, there's nothing that's ever going to change him. Just as the rich get richer, the mean and ugly stay mean and ugly. So finally, why even bother taking him to school...? I say we all just kill him."

Jessica wiped a drop of moisture from her lips. "Kill him, and don't get caught."

The clatter of pots and pans falling to the kitchen floor wasn't enough to break the hypnosis. Everyone stared into their drinks, down to their hands, or at a pen stuck between two decimal places.

As for Jessica, she was hardly aware of what she had said.

"Dinah..." Guy kept his voice low, as though afraid to compete with the silence. "I'll finish up here."

"You sure?" Dinah asked.

"Yeah... Take your niece with you."

Eli raised his eyebrows. "Dinah, you have a niece?"

"I believe you've already met."

"Yo," Jessica raised a hand and pushed herself away from the bar. Wrought iron scraped against the floor with the jarring screech of a large, angry eraser. "It's been a thrill, gentlemen."

"Good luck tomorrow," Guy said dismissively.

"What have you got going on tomorrow?" Eli asked.

"Nothing concerning any of you," Jessica replied.

"Have a good night, boys," Dinah chirped, ever the professional. "Come back and see us."

Chaucer tipped his imaginary hat. "Good night, ladies."

"Same," Eli concurred.

To Jessica, there was nothing more disheartening than leaving a bar sober. Sad to say, that was the way it would have to be. Out through the double doors, and into the parking lot, listening to the stars above.

She tore her tie from around her neck. Slung it over her shoulder.

Dinah did the same, and the two of them slid into the Mustang for a silent ride home.

# **Chapter 3:** **A Long Way From Louisville.**

The stereo clicked, whirred; moving onto disc two in the rotation.

_Bahduizm_ , a mellow gem from the mid nineteen-nineties.

Jessica kicked her legs up, feet resting on the chair across from her. She popped open her outdated Toshiba laptop and plugged in her password, secondhand table wobbling slightly as she struck the keys. From the corner, a tall halogen lamp sent soft light spilling over the living room's white walls, hard wood floors, worn couch, coffee table, armchair, bookshelves and television. A string of purple Christmas lights surrounded the enormous casement windows, iron rungs dusty with yellow pollen. Summer heat poured through in humid waves, complete with the chirp of insomniac crickets and the sandpaper sounds of cars cruising University Road.

Jessica stared out from her third-story seat, past the front lawn of Camelot Apartments. Across the street, tucked between shadows and tangerine streetlights, low-rent apartments lined the entire block. Next to them lay the entrance to Pinecrest Cemetery; over a hundred acres of tombstones disappearing into a skyline of witching hour trees.

Jessica leaned back, wiped the sweat from beneath the straps of her white tank top. Let her head loll back on sore hinges. She squinted up at the ceiling fan, blades barely able to slice through the oppressive soup.

She took a sip of tonic, ice cubes fading fast.

Her computer finally came to life, desktop filled with a Jessica at two years old, sitting on her mother's lap. A set of genetically identical grins, mother's long blond hair tickling baby Jessica's tiny nose. Pudgy fingers reaching up to squeeze her mother's flushed, chipmunk cheeks.

Jessica didn't dwell on that old Kentucky home, the first of many, so long ago the only memories left were right there on the screen before her. Easily remedied by a few flicks of her thumb. She browsed the latest news. Opened a couple of tabs. Scrolled up and down. Her heart wasn't in it, and went back to staring out the window.

Jessica sighed. "What a day."

"Ain't that the truth," Dinah concurred from the threshold, clad in her own tank top and gray boxer shorts. Bottle of red wine hanging from one hand, full glass in the other.

Jessica dropped her legs from the chair, pushed it back with her feet.

Dinah sat down across from her. Had a sip of wine. Picked up a pack of Camels from up off the windowsill. Lit one, let the smoke escape in a slow measured sigh.

"What's happening in the real world, Jess?"

Jessica shrugged. "I'll let you know soon as I find one."

"Come on. Help a girl out."

"Labor department report for May shows a loss of 345,000 jobs. Feds are opening an investigation into the murder of Dr. George Tiller. Warehouse fire in Mexico spread to a daycare center killing 27 children. And two more confirmed servicemen deaths in Afghanistan; ages twenty and twenty-one –"

"Any good news out there?"

"As far as the saying goes, that would involve no news."

Dina tilted back in her chair, scooped a glass ashtray off one of the bookshelves, and placed it on the table. Put her cigarette to rest, let the smoke unwind.

"I hate to see people treat you like that, Jess."

"Every school's got a Jessica Kincaid. I just have the bad luck of being the one in mine."

"Not just them. That dried up old bastard tonight. Mr. Table Thirteen."

"There's one every night, Blondie –"

"I just get _tired_ of it," Dinah snapped. "I get tired of being tired of it. I'm sick. I'm sick of the whispers. Sick of the bullies. The cheaters. The sneaks. Managers. Owners. Sick of the privileged. The predators. People with too much power over our lives. Over _your_ life. There's times it feels they can take everything away from us, just by opening their eyes on any given morning." She shook her head, dialing it back. "Maybe you're right. Maybe there is no way to make them see. No way to change their nature. Maybe all that's left is reckoning. All that's left to do is whatever we can do that will make them bleed... Pure punishment for the shit they put people through, day to day."

"Day to day," Jessica said. "Key words. It's day to day, every day."

"I'm eighteen years older than you. I've had to put up with a hell of a lot more day to days than you."

"I know."

"Comes a point, comes a day..." Dinah took two swallows of wine, made that full glass good and half-empty. "Along comes the straw that breaks the camel's back."

"What a weird fucking camel."

"I'm serious."

"And I'm doing all I can not to be."

"That's just _it!_ " Dinah slammed her hand on the table. "This isn't a joke. None of it is. And you shouldn't have to treat it that way just to make it through another day!"

"I don't have the luxury of alcohol any more. Jokes are pretty much all I've got at my disposal."

"You got me, Jess."

"And we're both in the same boat," Jessica replied coolly. "You're my aunt. Not a weapon, not a bodyguard. And you're not my mother."

Dinah froze, cigarette inches from her mouth.

Jessica closed her eyes. Heart melting, collecting in a dark pool somewhere around her abdomen. Words already mixing with the smoke, reeking of cheap tobacco, too late to take back.

"Well..." Dinah picked up her glass, stared through the contours. "Guess after all these years, I just feel like I am, sometimes."

A few blocks away, a police siren came to life.

Jessica didn't find any comfort in the distraction. "I'm sorry, Blondie."

"I miss her, too."

"Look..." Jessica swept her laptop aside. "It's been three years. And in that time, I've cleaned myself up, gotten straight A's. I've put myself to work. This place, this apartment, is _our_ place... and it's about as close to a real home as I've ever known. I never had it this good back in Louisville. I'm sorry to talk about her that way. She was your sister, my mother, but... you hear that?"

"What?"

"That's past tense." Jessica reached over, and poured her aunt another glass. "She _was_ your sister. She _was_ my mother. She _was_ the one who disappeared, vanished. She ain't coming back. And at this point, I've got to say it: I'm as past it as I'm ever going to get. Moving on."

Dinah glanced over at the laptop.

Jessica followed her eyes, caught sight of the desktop pic.

Baby Jessica and her mother, smiling forward through time.

Jessica drew the laptop close, opened her browser and did a quick search. Clicked around, left and right; set a new background and turned the screen towards her aunt.

Dinah coughed, laughter materializing in gray clouds of smoke. "That is a sexy octopus."

"Smart fucking Cephalopod to boot. Kick a dog's ass in a game of fetch any day."

"Say what you will. You're not much different from your mother."

"Except I'm here. And so are you."

Dinah slid from her seat and rounded the table. Reached down and wrapped her arms around Jessica. "I'm sorry."

" _I'm_ sorry."

"I get tired of seeing what they do to you."

"There's a lot of _they_ out there." Jessica pulled back. "Too many for the two of us to do anything about."

"Can we please end this on a good note?"

"There's an octopus now."

"Guess it's up to me to change the world then," Dinah concluded with a smile. "Goodnight, Jess."

"Night, Blondie."

Jessica watched her aunt saunter from the room on uneven feet, into the hallway. Footsteps making a kitchen pit stop, cleaning out her wine glass. Then to the bathroom. Flush of the toilet, after which the shuffle of her steps were punctuated with the closing of her bedroom door.

From out in the night, two gunshots rang out.

Jessica turned to the window, a little unnerved that the disturbance roused nothing more in her than casual curiosity. Like a hand-me-down sweater, it looked as though she was nearly done growing into the world left to her.

She brought the laptop closer. Guided the cursor to the control panel, and absently restored the picture of her mother back to the desktop.

Jessica rubbed her eyes.

"Big day tomorrow," she whispered to the crickets and smoldering ashtray. "Big day."

But Jessica wasn't ready to call it a night. Ready for one last round with the browser.

The overhead fan continued to spin along the same tired groove, covering the same ground as always. And the overwhelming heat of another Verona summer continued to make fun, as Jessica typed in her search, held close in the embrace of cold quotation marks.

"KENDRA KINCAID".

Disc two on the stereo finishing well before Jessica was done with her search.

# **Chapter** **4:** **Something** **Big** **Out** **of** **Forrest** **Hills.**

Jessica never bothered to set an alarm. For anything. Stuck with an internal clock that could lift her from the deepest sleep, sweetest dream. A curse for anyone wishing to enjoy a proper eight hours of shut-eye. A blessing, in as much as no human being in this modern world would ever be punished for under-sleeping.

On that Sunday morning, Jessica's ears awoke a full minute ahead of her eyes, needled by the ceaseless whine of Dinah's alarm clock.

Her eyes opened, face crammed against the back of a futon she rarely took pains to unfold; eyelashes batting against navy blue duck cloth. Jessica sat up. Hot shafts of yellow sunlight stretched along the floor in slender rectangles. A miniature desk nestled in the corner, alongside a honeycomb tapestry of stacked milk crates, stuffed with selected nonfiction and reference books. Atop a set of wooden filing cabinets sat piles of spiral ring notebooks.

The walls were free of decoration, save for two wooden frames. One containing the November 4th 2008 issue of _The Economist_ ; then Senator Barack Obama on the cover, midstride against a white background. Giant bolt letters beneath spelling out two simple words: _IT'S TIME_. Next to that, a photograph clipped from the local paper: fifteen or so pigs dotting the roof of a lengthy barn. Trapped by floodwaters that were minutes away from engulfing the building, leaving the whole lot of them to sink or swim.

And, of course, no alarm clock.

The nagging, triple-set beeps continued to bleed through the walls.

Jessica lifted herself from the futon. The wooden frame creaked with its accustomed _good morning_. She shuffled into the hallway on bare feet, placed her ear against Dinah's door before rapping three times.

" _Snooze_ is a button!" she called out. "Not a goddamn suggestion!"

Jessica thought she heard Dinah's voice through the door.

She let herself into an empty room. Twin bed a mess of mismatched sheets and pillow cases. Small, aging television mounted on a black mini-fridge. A couple of posters pinned to the walls; De La Soul, The Pixies, Portished, Mary J. Blige, and the brooding eyes of Kurt Cobain.

Jessica silenced the alarm with a smack.

She was left with the unsettling presence of Dinah's empty bedroom.

Outside, the taunting melody of an ice cream truck meandered past the open windows.

"Who the _hell_ is buying Creamcicles at nine in the morning?"

She didn't get an answer.

"Interesting."

Jessica was venturing back into the hallway when the bathroom door burst open.

Dinah stepped out along with a cloud of steam, clad in a light blue towel.

Jessica immediately began to jump up and down, waving her hand below the smoke detector. "I was wondering where you were."

"Didn't hear the shower?"

"I could hear your alarm clock."

Dinah swept damp curls of pine straw blond from her forehead. "Sorry..."

Jessica followed her into the bedroom.

"Couldn't sleep," Dinah said, darting into the closet. "Thought I'd take out the garbage. Goddamn trash bag busted open..." From behind the door, Dinah threw out her towel. "Busted open all over the place. All over me. Tried to shower the shit off, but I swear I can still smell it."

"You're fine."

"What are you wearing?"

"White shirt. Black tie. Same as I always wear to work."

"Unacceptable." Dinah reappeared in jeans and a sports bra. From her fingers hung an Ann Taylor power suit. Black boot cut with matching jacket, hanging gracefully over a turquoise blouse. "I'm not having my niece show up on her first day dressed like Annie Lennox."

Jessica's mouth fell open with a ridiculous pop.

"OK, then... Jessica Kincaid: speechless."

"I'm just wondering who the hell Annie Lennox is," Jessica managed.

"I give you Ann Taylor and you give me shit about my age?"

Jessica threw her arms around her aunt and did a number on her ribcage.

"Hey! Hey, easy now!" Dinah pushed back, holding the dress at arm's length. "You'll wrinkle it."

"You can't afford this, Blondie."

"It's my duty as an American to stimulate the economy."

"How conveniently patriotic."

"It's the only kind of patriotism left. Now go put this on, and let's get you to the Observer."

Jessica took the hanger and gave the dress another look. "Thank you."

"Go. Train leaves in fifteen minutes."

Jessica returned to her room with an uncharacteristic skip to her step.

The sun's angle had steepened, dust dancing in the sunbeams as she threw on her new outfit.

Ready to get to work.

# ***

The Verona Observer's main branch was located right off the highway, a ten-minute drive from home.

As Dinah's mustang creaked up the driveway, Jessica was surprised to find the lot almost full. Like most local newspapers across the country, the Observer had undergone massive rollbacks. The once family-owned paper had been bought out by the Century Media Group in 1999, followed by a precipitous drop in sales and subscriptions. Considering that a good deal of rags had already folded under the twin guns of the Internet and a crippling recession, it was a miracle they were still standing.

"Go show 'em how it's done," Dinah ordered, planting a kiss on her cheek.

"It's just an internship."

" _You're_ just an internship."

"You clever, clever bitch..." Jessica opened the door with a rusty squeal. "I'll call you later."

She slammed the door shut and adjusted her jacket, still unaccustomed to its luxurious contours.

The lobby was small, unpretentious and comforting. A few cushioned chairs rested against walls displaying banner headlines from the more historic moments in the paper's eighty-year run. It might have passed for a minimalist art gallery, but for the security guards eyeing her from their desk.

"Jessica Kincaid," she informed them, squaring her shoulders. "I'm supposed to be meeting Al Holder?"

"All right, Miss..." The older of the pair, a thickset man with a brass nametag reading SCOTT, stood graciously and presented her with a clipboard. He reached for the phone, smiling through a carefully maintained beard going gray against dark-brown skin. "Just need you to sign in. Got the time right on that clock behind us."

Two minutes later, the elevator doors slid open.

Al Holder didn't talk fast and hard. Wasn't one for suspenders, cigars, or any of the countless Hollywood stereotypes. He struck Jessica as a specific breed of middle-aged, recovering alcoholic. Focused and determined, yet colored with a certain degree of underlying panic. Bright blue eyes juggling a thousand different responsibilities. Hectic schedule exemplified in a suit long overdue for a date with the cleaners, the end of his belt missing that last loop, sticking out like a leather cowlick.

Immaculate mustache, though, Jessica couldn't deny him that.

"Al Holder." He extended his hand, two clammy shakes that Jessica did well not to wipe off on her new suit. "You've joined us on quite a day, Miss Kincaid."

"Jessica's fine."

"That was my last chance to be polite, really, is all that was," Al said, southern hospitality tempered with a terse motion for Jessica to follow him. "We've got something big coming out of Forrest Hills. While I would ordinarily take a bit more time to show you around, get you settled in, I'm afraid we've just got the ride to take care of all the traditional stuff."

"OK."

They stepped into the elevator. "I'm not going to put this delicately, Jessica. While this internship is a great opportunity for you to get a firsthand look at how a newspaper operates, don't expect anything too spectacular."

The doors closed, and they began their slow climb to the third floor. Jessica imagined that no amount of custodial work would ever remove the smell of stale coffee from those steel confines.

"Don't feel put down by what's asked of you. Hell, even our grads get the honor of doing all our research for us. You, on the other hand, are a rising high school senior. It's going to be a lot of fetching. I'm talking coffee, supplies, changing toner. You will feel used, you will probably experience no small amount of resentment... But, if you keep your eyes open, you will also learn a thing or two."

The elevator began to slow, showing its age on approach.

"One last thing..." Al turned to her with guarded sincerity. "I know our paper ran several stories involving your sexual harassment complaint against Brookside High and Glen Roberts. If that's going to be a problem, then you need to talk to me about that as soon as possible..." The doors slid open, and he held up a cautioning finger. "Just not right now."

Jessica was happy to oblige.

Stepped lively into the hub of the Verona Observer.

Once again, her preconceptions were given the business. Phones ringing, but not off the hook. The chatter hummed along, soft enough to catch distinct conversations throughout. Cubicles in place of exposed desks, posters in place of Pulitzers. Large bay windows looked out onto the freeway rather than a jagged skyline of imperious buildings. It could have been any office, any business, in any town.

Regardless of scale, there was a vibrant energy that spread to every corner of the room; enough to throw Jessica's compass off by a few degrees as she tried to keep pace with her tour guide. "There we got copyediting. Research. Got some TV's mounted on the walls, tuned to media that pays a whole lot more than we do. What else...? Graphics, audio. Archives, one floor down... That right there is a supply closet."

Jessica thought about pulling out the small notepad she'd brought along.

Mortified to discover she didn't have a pen.

A woman wearing an outfit similar to Jessica's merged flawlessly into traffic, keeping perfect pace with Al. "Got something off Reuters about Cash For Clunkers. Insufficient funds to cover their reimbursement requests."

"Who filed Detroit on Friday?"

"Bobby."

"Give it to him, but tell him to make some calls. I don't want another AP write up like last week, I want some local flavor."

"A little Cackalacky?"

"Put some _Cackalacky_ on it!" Al testified, before remembering his charge. "Jessica, this is Bobbie. Bobbie, this is Jessica, our summer intern."

Introductions aside, Jessica was whisked over to a set of glass walls, looking into a pert and organized office. Al knocked on the door. "This is where I live, Jessica."

Jessica moved to open it for him.

Al didn't notice, moved onto the office next to his, and did the honors. "This is heart of the both the Metro and Crime section. Come on in."

Jessica hustled her way into the office, followed by Al.

A thin, pale man stood hunched over his desk. Phone to his ear. Head shaved clean, one of those jobs meant to hide a receding hairline. Below the gleam of his skull, a pair of outlandishly round eyes nestled in their sockets. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, as though some hostage negotiation had gone seriously south.

"If someone down there spoke to Celia, then I certainly haven't heard about it," he insisted, a surprisingly commanding voice for such a skinny cat. "Has the family been informed...? So the wife's out of town, I imagine you all have his cellphone at this point..." His thin, sloping eyebrows perked up. He reached for a pen, and scribbled something down. "All right, that's more like it... If you say so... All right, thanks a million Tell that brother of yours I said _fuck you_." He laughed, hung up, and turned to face Al. "Seems our victim is a state employee of some prominence. Didn't get a name yet, but it explains their hesitation to release one."

"Where's Celia?" Al asked.

"Better be on her way here."

"What do we have so far?"

No reply.

"This is Jessica Kincaid." Al placed a gentle hand on Jessica's elbow. "Jessica, this is Ethan Prince, head of Metro. And Crime."

"And managing editor," Ethan reminded him.

" _Unofficial_ managing editor. Until the day the sky falls and we can actually afford one. Time being, he's as close to second in command around here as I'll ever admit."

Jessica found herself flashing back some six months earlier. "I'm familiar with his work."

Ethan nodded, unapologetic. "I got a job to do here, same as everyone else."

"I'm not going to get personal..." Jessica shot Al a reassuring look. "It was news, you reported it." Unable to help herself, Jessica added: "And wouldn't stop calling me about it, I might add."

Ethan shrugged. "It's what we do when _no comment_ is all we get."

"And now we move on," Al concluded. "Ethan, what do we have so far?"

Again, Ethan refused to speak.

Al sighed. "Once more, Jessica, I'm going to have to get real with you, real soon. Anything you hear around here, especially of this caliber, stays right where you heard it. I know we're not a law firm. There's no statute saying you can't clock out and then post this on Facebook, but there's also nothing that says we can't fire you for just such an infringement."

"Noted."

"Ethan. What do we have?"

Ethan gave Jessica one last, lingering look. "The victim was found by the maid. Cleaning lady, to be more precise. Comes once a week."

"On a Sunday?"

"Maybe she's agnostic. Couldn't get a name. Still no timeline. All we know is that the lady found him in his bedroom, tied to a chair. Bound real tight; legs, arms and all..." Ethan took a moment. "Still no word on why none of the neighbors heard any screams."

"Any word on how they did it?"

"All I got is what everyone else does... Tied to a chair, eyes gouged out. Tongue severed. Head left hanging, guess how he didn't choke on his own blood."

Jessica felt that early morning coffee churning unpleasantly.

Loud enough for the two men to hear.

Al cleared his throat. "Any word on whether or not an injury like that could result in death?"

"Got someone checking it out... on an interesting side note, did you know that eye-gouging has its own entry on Wikipedia?"

"I did not, Ethan. Thank you."

The door swung open.

A compact, curvy woman burst in. Chest heaving, freckled face alight. Her hands poked out from the sleeves of a purple, wool knit sweater, defying seasonal fashion. She held up a piece of paper, took a few more breaths and proclaimed. "Jason Castle."

Al frowned. "I know that name, don't I?"

"Yeah, rings a bell," Ethan agreed.

"Ethan's guy down at the station's telling us this guy's a state official," Al told her.

Somewhere in Jessica's databanks, a connection was made. As always, she was never sure from where; traces of an article involving research and development of pharmaceuticals, one of Verona's top industries. She scanned the details, highlighted a single sentence and opened her eyes. Unaware that they had ever been closed.

"Jason Castle is the deputy secretary of Health and Human Services for North Carolina."

Everyone turned to rest their eyes on Jessica.

"Who's this?" Celia asked.

"Jessica Kincaid, our intern," Al said, barreling past exposition. "Ethan. Jason Castle. Is this for real?"

Ethan pounced on his computer. "Odds of more than one Jason Castle currently serving the state?"

Four clicks later, he swiveled his screen towards the rest.

Ordinarily, Jessica would have taken the time to revel in her quick thinking. A little more at ease in a room full of professionals, each one beaten to the punch by a rising senior from the wrong side of the tracks.

Instead, she felt her stomach do another jig as she finally got a look at the victim, Ann Taylor turning tight as a strait jacket.

"I know that guy," Jessica managed, throat clenching.

"Undersecretary of Health and Human Services," Al agreed, giving her a pat on the back. "Good catch."

"No..." Jessica insisted, unable to deny the ugly combination of shock and dark satisfaction crawling over her skin. "I mean I waited on that guy. At Spiro's. Not more than twelve hours ago."

As the rest of them turned to each other, Jessica remained with her eyes trained on the face of Jason Castle.

Pixilated eyes staring right back at her.

Mr. Table Thirteen.

# **PART** **TWO**

# **June** **9**

# **Chapter 5:** **Two** **Days** **Later.**

Jessica awoke to a sundial floor hinting half past ten in the morning.

Shot up, pillow cradled in her arms, panicked that she was late for first shift at Spiro's. Seconds later, the past two days came into focus along with a shaky sigh. She fast-forwarded past her initiation into local journalism; questions concerning Mr. Table Thirteen, the crash course in getting statements on the record, the scramble to beat officials to the next phase of investigation. She gladly sidestepped recollections of local news, the muddied, uninformed reporting on Jason Castle's condition, coupled with the same B-roll of his home in Forrest Hills.

Jessica's heartbeat slowed, as the roller coaster came to a halt.

She was officially unemployed.

When Dinah had arrived for her Monday shift, Guy had taken her aside and issued a warning that Jessica was being let go. Too much attitude, no real commitment to the team.

Jessica's proposition to kill Mr. Table Thirteen had apparently not helped her case.

So Dinah walked out.

_Fire Jessica, fire me_ , was the short and sweet on Dinah's subsequent walk-out.

The unrated directors cut, to have Dinah tell it, was a tirade ten miles long, twice as loud, and a thesaurus of unrelenting expletives.

So the frightening reality of being out of work during one of the worst recessions in recent history was tempered with the relief that she wasn't late after all. The edges of her room softened. All objects breathing a little easier. The faint melodies of hungry robins snuck in through the windows along with a light gust of wind.

Jessica felt her head droop, contemplating another hour of shut-eye.

Then came the jarring, hollow thud of a speeding truck hitting a pothole, accompanied by a searing flash against the back of Jessica's brain: Jason Castle, bound to a chair, eyes gouged out. Purple tears leaving a dirty trail down his cheeks, mingling with blood from his severed tongue.

Jessica struggled to submerge the grizzly image beneath more immediate thoughts.

"And what do I have to do today?" she asked aloud.

Casually.

Overcompensating.

Jessica threw on a pair of shorts, sports bra, and a black, oversized shirt from her days at Ben and Jerry's.

Slipped into her worn cross-trainers and hit the streets.

It was a good fifteen-minute run to the three-mile, wooded trail that encircled Verona's most prestigious hotel and golf course, the Prescott-Pantheon.

Jessica took to the sweeping curves and steep hills, double time. Breath steady, eyes focused straight ahead as though trying to outrun the projection of Jason Castle's ruined face. All the while wondering where that vision had originated. No crime-scene photographs had been released. Castle's hospital room was under round-the-clock protection. Authorities playing all specifics close to their chest. The written statement issued by the Verona PD had done little more than reiterate what few details were already known. There hadn't even been an official press conference. Tight lid, nothing to see here, and even still, the image of Jason Castle –

Her path opened onto the parking lot of the Prescott-Pantheon.

Jessica took five, tried a few stretches.

Her darker thoughts were clearly in training, catching up faster than she expected. Another glimpse into the tunneled eyes of Jason Castle got her running again, cutting through Pantheon's West Campus.

The final sprint along University Road seemed to do the trick.

She slowed to a trot, mentally highlighting another item on her to-do list.

The Camelot Apartment complex was a rare gem in the rapidly expanding city of Verona. Built in the early thirties, the hundred-yard complex of sturdy, redbrick apartments had yet to be touched by gentrification. Straddling a thin divide between the outskirts of East Campus and the shores of lower-income neighborhoods, there was little to offer aging boomers or wealthy hipsters. Rental rates were effectively held hostage, making it one of the last remaining places of its kind to accommodate such a wide range of tenants. Nurses, waiters, bartenders, retailers. Low-level Pantheon employees, freelance IT geeks, librarians, graduate students all mingled with eccentric mainstays who had made Camelot their home for decades.

Jessica skirted the buildings along a cobbled pathway. The sharp scent of dried soil rested on her tongue as she trotted from building to building. The manager's office was located on the first floor of Building I, converted from a two-bedroom unit.

Front door, always open.

Angela Lansing had already exceeded her caffeine quota for the day; coffeepot refilling as she swiveled in her black, foam-padded chair. Her long raven hair sported bangs cut just short of elliptical eyes colored an unidentified shade of green. Sturdy fingers systematically perusing her cluttered workplace. Palms hovering an inch above folders, invoices, and work orders in a bureaucratic séance.

"I'm going to guess your job ain't gotten any easier since the last time I saw you," Jessica said.

"Ugh..." Angela rolled her eyes, voice pinched. "I swear, the company won't give me anything I ask for. Right after the damn housing crash, everyone was saying that rentals were going to come back. Back to the days of six-month waitlists, that's what they said. They said, _then, you'll get all you need_... And I'll tell you what, Jessica, every month since then, even with construction at an all-time low, guess what _ain't_ been happening?"

"More rentals?"

"Even still!" Angela squawked, rolling her eyes once more. "A quarter of these rooms are empty, and as a result, guess what I can't get?"

"Anything you need?"

" _They won't give me anything I need_..."

Angela's mystique vanished as she continued to vent, exasperation gluing her words together.

Jessica took a seat. Angela could talk a therapist six feet under, but if that was the worst a landlord had to offer, then in Jessica's experience, all was right with the world. The clock on the wall made fast work of the next five minutes, as Jessica searched for a way in.

"...And I don't know _what_ the owners are up to. It's not just resources, I can hardly get any _information_ out of them –"

"Angela, I hate to be a jerk –"

"I know, I'm sorry..." Angela laughed through thick, smiling lips. She made the _blah-blah_ motion with her thumb and fingers. "I know."

"Just a little pressed for time."

"Aren't you a little late for first shift?"

"Heading to the Observer after lunch."

"Oh, that's right!" Eyes wide, she leaned over and whispered, "Do you know anything the rest of us don't about the _eye-gouger?_ "

"I only know what I read in the papers."

"Oh, of course sweetheart..." Angela sat back and smacked her forehead. "Duh. What can I do you for?"

"You ever drop off the copy of our lease renewal?"

"Oh, shit..." Angela got her chair rolling, yanked open a file cabinet and put her fingers to work. "I'm sorry. It's all falling apart, and the company won't give me any help –"

"It's all right. Things are bad all over."

Angela handed over the forms.

Jessica folded them into fourths, tucked them away.

Waited, unsure why Angela wasn't seizing on this rare blip in conversation.

"I'm real glad you're staying with us another year," Angela said. Tired enough to take her time. "You and Dinah are two of my favorites around here."

"Don't tell anybody I just had an emotion, but... Agreed. It's good to finally have a real home."

Angela put a hand to her gypsy bosom. She opened her mouth to add something. Possibly a whole series of somethings, cut short by a knock at the door.

"Good morning," she called out, eyebrows furrowing.

"Good morning," came the reply, delivered in an overly formal tenor. Before Jessica could turn to catch the source, she heard the speaker add: "I'm Detective Captain Donahue with the Verona Police Department. This is Detective Sargent Randal. Are you the building manager?"

Jessica turned in her chair, too late to decipher which one of them was which.

They were both wearing suits. Neither tailored to match the other in color, but close enough in style to give the impression of unspoken teamwork. One of them was a broad man, somewhere in the neighborhood of forty-five years old. He stood at around five-eleven, a Latino-Anglo cross promotion. Dark hair trimmed so close, there was no telling the texture. His gaze was both alert and soft, large brown eyes with room for both.

His partner came in at about five-ten. One of those bodies that gave away nothing beneath the suit. Could have been a bundle of sticks, or ripped as a UFC contender. His hair was sandy brown, professionally cut, sticking up with just enough product to put him some five to seven years below his partner. His blue eyes and pale, pouty lips implied reserved naiveté, begging to be underestimated. But there was no covering the quiet contours of his thoughtful expression, offhandedly taking in every detail.

"Yes, I'm Angela Lansing..." She unconsciously straightened her hair, leaned back. "How can I help you?"

"We've got a bit of a mix up with an apartment number," the older one ventured, now clearly Detective Donahue. "Hoping you could help us locate one of your tenants."

And as Jessica flashed back to her manufactured memory of Jason Castle, she had to ask herself if maybe she hadn't been expecting this all along.

"Jessica Kincaid," Donahue specified. "Know where we can find her?"

Jessica sighed and raised her arm.

"Yo," she proclaimed, unable to take any satisfaction in the surprise painted across the faces of what appeared to be two otherwise unflappable detectives.

# **Chapter 6:** **Angry** **Jonny.**

Truth be told, Jessica was relieved.

She led the detectives up the stairs to her apartment, happy to accept their continuous apologies for bothering her at home. Never doubting the many years they must have spent refining their act.

Both of them had their own roundabout way of presenting themselves.

Detective Donahue, while clearly a racial hybrid, offered no indication of being affected by culture or ethnicity. Even his accent refused to tilt in any predisposed direction. His vowels and consonants were neither Northern or Southern; he was second-generation anything. Speech patterns that were either politely reserved or tacitly suspicious. His sentences defied punctuation, mixing periods, ellipses and question marks.

Detective Randal kept stride with his counterpart in every way. Undoubtedly a man of manners, though his mannerisms were no easy fit. His cheeks betrayed a flush that would have passed for embarrassment, anger, even panic if there had been some context to him. As it was, he spoke with the same routine ambiguity as his partner.

The landing outside her apartment was suffused with the stale reek of weed, courtesy of neighbors for whom stuffing a towel beneath their front door was simply too great a task. Jessica half expected the detectives to make a detour. Start knocking on doors, searching for the source.

Neither one seemed to care.

Jessica slipped the key into the lock.

She turned to face them. Eyes fluttered to the green folder tucked under Randal's arm. "Just so you know, gentlemen, I don't plan on being a headache. But I am very well versed in my rights. So come on in, please, but if I catch either of you two snooping around..."

"Noted," Randal agreed.

"Though bear in mind," Donahue added, either playful, or serious, or both... "All the technicalities in the world can't stop us from gleaning."

" _Plain view doctrine_ and all that jazz?"

"You're handling yourself pretty well, Jessica. Given the situation."

"Given the situation." Jessica opened the door and led them to the living room table. "Just so long as you don't think I ain't taking this seriously."

"I'm glad you are." Donahue moved to the chair across from her. "Looks like you know why we're here."

"I can guess." Jessica made room for Randal, who reached for the seat to her right. "Before we get to it, can I get you anything? Coffee, water...?" She paused. "Actually, that's it. Coffee or water."

"Not going to offer us any spirits?" Donahue asked, pointing towards the far wall, where an antique Singer sewing machine doubled as Dinah's liquor cabinet. Not much of a spread; bottle of tequila, bottle of Kentucky Gentleman, Jack Daniel's. A few mini bottles of Skyy vodka, untouched. Beneath sat the multidisc stereo. Speakers wired on either side of the Singer.

"Those aren't mine."

"I'm fine," Donahue said.

"Water's good."

"Well," Jessica motioned with her head. "Follow me."

She led them down the hall, unwilling to leave the detectives alone for even a minute. Showed them into the kitchen, maneuvered her way across the linoleum, reaching up to a set of cabinets above the electric stove. She pulled down a glass and a ceramic mug. Poured Randal a glass of water, fresh from the Britta pitcher. The coffeepot was already full, as was the custom. First to rise, first to brew.

She filled it to the rim, took a sip.

"Coffee drinker, huh?" Donahue asked.

"For the record, detective, could you please note that I didn't take this opportunity to be a smart ass?"

"Smart ass?"

"You saw me drinking coffee."

"Yes."

"And then asked me if I'm a coffee drinker."

Donahue nodded. "To which you could have easily said, _wow, you really are a detective_."

"Yes."

"Or, _whatever they're paying you, it ain't enough_."

"Also good."

"My report will include that you prefer an extremely roundabout way of being a smart ass."

"Good."

"You're a coffee drinker, huh?"

Jessica took another sip as she led them back to the living room. "Far as drugs go, it's my only vice."

"Not the most standard thing for a teenager to say," Donahue observed.

"Well, considering the kind you must come across..." Jessica went to the window and unplugged the Christmas lights. Turned on the overhead fan and sat down. "Being a detective and all. How firm is your grasp on what qualifies as a common teenager?"

The two detectives joined her at the table.

Donahue leaning back, one arm slung behind the chair. Legs crossed.

Randal leaning in. Hands clasped politely over his folder like a wining poker hand.

"You make a fair enough point," Donahue said. "But in this case, I think you know what I mean."

Jessica took a sip of her coffee, watched as Randal mirrored her with his water.

Donahue motioned with his head. "I notice there's an ashtray over on the windowsill."

"Feel free."

"Don't smoke."

"Me neither," Randal echoed.

"No vices other than coffee," Donahue asked.

Jessica smiled sweetly. "My aunt's got enough for both of us."

"Doesn't bother you?"

"I'm not one of those."

" _Not one of those_ what...?" Donahue asked, pointing in the general direction of his argument. "My two guesses would have to be you're either a _live and let live_ straightedge, or a recovering substance abuser with the guts to resist while others indulge. We've established the coffee debate. So I've got to assume my first guess ain't the one."

"Then again," Jessica countered. "Could be I am simply not... sanctimonious."

"Is that it, though?"

She took another hit of coffee.

Once again, Randal matched her movements, swallows and all.

"You're second guess is the appropriate one," Jessica said.

"Recovering...?"

"Alcoholic." The very word brought back vivid memories of her lost years. A smeared watercolor of desperation, fear, and the bleak whimper of self-annihilation. "I did any number of things when I was younger. It's your turn to be a smart ass now, if you like. _When I was younger_. I know, I'm seventeen. But, yeah. I don't mind telling it. I did drugs – weed, coke, ex. Smoked like a fish. But above all else, I drank. That was my number one. I've been clean for three years, but you never forget your first." Jessica motioned towards Dinah's minibar. "So, no, I don't care that others may need a little something to make it through the day. That's what I mean when I say I'm not one of those..."

Donahue cleared his throat. "Got it."

"Any particular reason we just did this?"

"I was showing off." Donahue didn't hesitate with the reveal. All business, all at once. "You've been excessively glib with us so far. Which is fine. You've also been polite, accommodating, which is most certainly fine. I don't believe this indicates any sinister motive. But just in case it does, I wanted to make it clear that we know what we're doing. Randal and myself are not at all bad at our job. And we thought you should know that."

Jessica was waiting for Donahue to cap his speech with an abrupt shift in gear: _Now start talking, kid, tell us everything_. Instead, he remained quiet. Randal followed his lead, allowing the fan to do circles. Motor clicking, kicking up thin clouds of dust.

"Anything else I should know about me?" Jessica asked.

"You live with your aunt," Randal piped up. Jessica was waiting for him to flip his folder open, reveal a complete dossier. Didn't happen, and the detective continued to preach to the choir. "Dinah Titus, your mother's younger sister. You lived with your mother, Kendra Kincaid, in Louisville, Kentucky. A missing person's report was filed on her back in May of 2006. According to the Louisville PD, she was a nurse at a VA clinic. Left work one night. Never came home."

"No." Jessica took another sip of coffee. "She never did."

This time, Randal didn't join her. "Shortly after that, you were arrested on an aggravated assault charge. Bumped down to public affray on the condition that your aunt take full custody of you. June of that year, she did. You were enrolled in Brookside High... A little strange, considering that's not technically your district."

"Not that we plan on telling anyone," Donahue said. "I wouldn't want my kids going to Washington High, either. But you have given Brookside a different address, and we're going to have to ask whose it is..."

"Carlton Walsh."

"Any relation?"

"My Aunt's boyfriend from maybe three years ago. Works at a lab on Pantheon's East Campus."

"We will be checking up on that. OK?"

"OK."

"And so..."

"And so," Randal picked up. "Straight A-student. Keep to yourself, mostly. October of 2008, you filed a sexual harassment complaint against Glen Roberts, the health and biology teacher at your school. A pillar of the community. One of those independently wealthy kinds who don't have to dedicate their time teaching public school, but do it anyway. He was eventually fired. Wife left him. Took the kids. He shot himself in the head."

"I've had myself quite a year," Jessica agreed, indifferent to how glib Donahue would take it. "Also, you left out a little something."

The detectives gave her room to continue.

"My pops cut out on mom and me when I was only two. Another parent gone MIA... Just saying, you might want to add that to your profile, there."

"Actually, we don't do psych profiles," Donahue said. "We've got an independently contracted forensic physiologist for that sort of thing."

"So I guess that makes us all caught up..." Jessica reached for her mug, looking for a little something to wash down the bitter aftertaste of her life thus far.

"There is something else that Randal didn't mention, Jessica. You currently work as a waitress at Spiro's, over on Main."

"Good Calamari," Randal said.

"That's what I hear, Randal."

Jessica waved. "Bring it on in, detective."

"Clearly. You were among one of the last people to see Jason Castle before he was assaulted."

_About time_ , Jessica thought, even as she realized her cup was empty.

"So, a few questions?" Donahue asked.

"Yes, please. Go ahead."

"You don't want to grab another cup of coffee?"

"Depends. How much longer is this going to take?"

"Not long," Randal assured. "We've got somewhere to be soon."

"Then go right ahead. Do it, to it."

"We talked to one of the shift managers..." Donahue began, moving forward in his seat. Assuming Randal's position, even as Randal slipped into a less intrusive pose. "According to Guy –"

" _Gee_ ," Jessica corrected, sounding out the proper pronunciation.

" _Gee_ , right, sorry... According to him, you had a bit of an unpleasant encounter with Mr. Castle."

"He was an unpleasant person."

"Seems a little harsh there, Jessica."

"They say you should never speak ill of the dead. Jason Castle is alive, so the rules don't really apply –"

"Man had his eyes cut out. His tongue severed."

"Yes. Sorry..." Jessica took a breath. "It's just that when the two of you deal with evil characters, at least you have authority over them, OK? Waiters, waitresses, we don't... we're like puppets, basically. We don't get to wave a badge, all swagger, and demand that people treat us with proper respect."

Donahue frowned, possibly the first time Jessica had seen his lips go sour. "I don't think you want to go there, Miss. I really don't think you want to compare some jackass at table thirteen to a man who just beat his wife to death with a wrench."

Jessica didn't. "I'm sorry."

"Not a problem. I think I get what you mean."

"And I think we can gather your feelings towards Mr. Castle," Randal added. "So again, moving on... You know we're going to have to ask you about what happened at closing time."

"I folded a hundred napkins, scooped out used candles, did my close out, tip out –"

Donahue appeared to respect the irony and filled in the blanks. "You, your aunt, and a couple of stragglers at the bar got into a bit of a... thought experiment, sounds like. How to best exact revenge on the likes of Mr. Castle... You know – the ruling class."

She closed her eyes, sighed with visible regret. "Yeah, I might have said –"

"We just want to verify what Guy told us you said."

"Which was...?"

"He said that you said..." Randal paused, as though taking out an imaginary notepad. "He said you said, _I would just kill him. Kill him and not get caught_."

"Did you say that?" Donahue asked.

From somewhere outside, another ice cream truck sailed past Camelot Apartments like a windup toy, followed by the excited cry of coalescing children.

"Yes," Jessica admitted. "One or two words off, but who cares, right?"

"Well." Randal clapped his hands together, shifted in his seat. "That's all we need to know about that... Now, about these two gentlemen seated at the bar. An African-American male, middle aged, by the name of Chaucer Braswell?"

"Yes."

"And a Caucasian male, somewhere in his late twenties?"

"Yes."

"Paid cash. You remember his name?"

"Eli."

"Eli got a last name?"

For some reason, Jessica felt no urge to help them out on that front. Kept Messner to herself. The detectives didn't seem to mind the denial, asked her to recall whatever she could about Eli and Chaucer's end of the conversation.

"Did Eli mention what he was doing in town?"

"Wasn't aware he was any more or less in town than anyone else."

"Guy mentioned that Dinah mentioned that he was carrying a Florida license..." Randal said. "Dinah kept referring to him as Mr. Sunshine State."

"He didn't mention what he was doing in town."

"Never seen him before?"

"No..." She reached for her coffee, remembered it was empty. "Mind if help myself to another cup?"

There were no objections.

# ***

Jessica returned to find the detectives just as she had left them.

Seated at the table like a pair of trained dogs.

Jessica plopped down in her chair, took a sip. "Neither of you have asked me about the man Mr. Castle was having dinner with."

Donahue smiled. "Your grammar notwithstanding..."

"Of course."

"Chris McDonald..." Randal said. "Works for Generation Pharmaceuticals. His alibi checks out."

"And mine?"

"We don't know your alibi yet."

"I was asleep."

"Careful," Donahue advised. "Makes it sound as though you know when the assault took place."

"When did it take place?"

"What did you do after you left Spiro's?"

"Dinah and I came back here. She had a few glasses of wine. A few cigarettes. She went to bed at around one-thirty in the morning."

Randal took a look around. "And you can verify the time, how?"

"Laptop. Time's right there in the lower right hand corner."

"May I show you something?" Randal asked.

"Sure."

Randal flipped his folder open, just long enough to remove two photographs. Shuffled them as though trying to decide which one he liked best. Slid a single glossy over towards Jessica.

"Does this mean anything to you?" Randal asked.

Jessica wasn't sure what she was seeing. It took a few seconds to figure that Randal had presented the photograph upside down. She corrected this mistake and found herself accosted by two vibrant words, red splatters against a hard surface...

#

Jessica contained a looming shudder. Glanced up. "What am I looking at?"

"What do you see?" Donahue asked.

"I see the words _Angry Jonny_." Jessica took a closer look. What she had first assumed to be blood took on a different texture. "Looks like spray paint. Can't tell how big the letters are, there's nothing else to give a sense of scale. My guess is whoever did this ain't an experienced hand. See how some of the lines begin with a slightly larger splotch? It's as though they pressed down on the nozzle and waited for the paint to show up on the surface before moving down, or up, or across."

"Well..." Donahue coughed. "Would have settled for, _I see the words Angry Jonny_ , but... not bad."

"I knew a few taggers back in Louisville. "

"Does what you see mean anything to you?" Randal asked.

"The image or the actual words?"

"Does what you see mean anything to you?" he repeated.

"It's a song. The artist's name is Poe. It's off her 1995 album entitled _Hello_. She spelled _Jonny_ with an H, though, so don't know if that means anything to you."

Donahue leaned back, crossed his arms. "How old were you in 1995?"

"Three. Possibly four."

"Mm."

"May I ask...?" Jessica ventured, eyeballing the second photo in Randal's hands.

"You may."

"Am I a suspect?"

"Witness. Of sorts."

"So all this?"

"Let's say this is just an exercise in getting to know you."

"Getting to know all about me?"

"Ah..." Donahue pointed across the table. " _The King and I_. Am I right?"

"Never seen it. Just know it's a Rogers and Hammerstein song. "

"Doesn't make it any less of an obscure for a teenager."

"Again with the teenager bit."

"Long as we're being honest, you seem to be operating way above your pay grade."

"I do happen to have a best friend who is eighteen years older than me, and it does expose me to certain songs, movies, bits of trivia that others aren't privy to... River Phoenix, to name a one."

Donahue smiled. "Who's your friend?"

"That would be my aunt. Also my roommate. Also, I've pretty much already lived my teenage years to death. Nowadays, I'm stuck paying rent, saving up for college, and generally overcorrecting for all past mistakes. I don't have time to keep up with team Edward versus team Jacob, or where Lindsay Lohan is throwing up this week..." Jessica held up their photograph. "You want this back, detective?"

"On to the next slide..." Randal reached over and traded photographs.

This time around, Jessica had no idea. She rotated the photograph a hundred and eighty degrees, then back. Tried for one more change in perspective, then gave up.

Randal reached over, gave the picture one last, corrective turn.

"Thanks," Jessica said. She glanced back down, sensing she had just passed a key test. Faced once more with the same spray paint scars, lines taking on the form of a nameless symbol.

#

Jessica shook her head. "I don't know what this is..."

Apparently, ignorance was the shortest distance between two points of questioning. Randal promptly took the second picture, shuffled it with the first, then slid them both into his folder.

"We don't know either," Donahue admitted, now very much at ease. "That character was spray painted on the wall where the victim was found, just below the words _Angry Jonny_. We haven't gotten anything back on the brand of spray paint used, and so far –"

Donahue paused.

Randal was quick to take over: "We're aware that you were chosen as the winner of _Observing the Observer_ , which technically makes you a member of the press. Didn't think it was worth bringing up."

"Though we do have to wonder how the paper managed to catch where Jason Castle took his last meal before we did," Donahue smirked.

"Yeah, I'm afraid I can't reveal our sources," Jessica said.

Donahue nudged Randal. " _Now_ she gets cagey."

Randal grinned. "No worries, Jessica. There's actually going to be a press conference in about an hour, so there's not a whole lot you'll be able to tell Mr. Al Holder that we won't cover ourselves."

"Although, I guess it wouldn't hurt to set the record straight on one particular thing."

"What's that?" Jessica asked.

"I don't know how the term _gouging_ got picked up by the press, but far as forensics go, it's not what we're dealing with."

"What are we dealing with?"

"Gouged is more of a press. Like fresh squeezed orange juice. Castle's eyes were cut. Sliced right out of his sockets..." Donahue paused, gave Jessica a chance to keep her coffee down.

She welcomed the opportunity. "How did someone cut his eyes out and his tongue without his screams waking up half the –"

"Save it for the conference," Randal interrupted pleasantly. "Will we see you there?"

"Don't think they're going to send an intern on that particular assignment."

"You're a smart one, Jessica Kincaid," Donahue told her. "Wish you were playing for our side."

Jessica had a sip of coffee.

"You sure you don't remember Eli's last name?" Randal asked.

"No idea."

"Then it probably doesn't matter," Donahue countered, parading his own dishonesty.

From the other end of the apartment, Jessica heard the back door open. The sound of Dinah dropping her purse on the counter, followed by a customary call: "Jessica? You awake?"

"In here, Blondie!"

Dinah's footsteps preceded her, and both detectives stood, folding their hands politely before them.

Upon entering, Dinah froze.

Brought the living room down to a solid seventy-three degrees.

"Ms. Dinah Titus, I'm Detective Donahue –"

"I know who you are," Dinah interrupted. She crossed her arms over a faded Lucky Charms T-shirt. Stuck out a defiant, denim hip. "Read about you two in the paper last year. That kid who did a swan dive off the Verona Hilton."

"Yeah," Donahue shifted his weight, as though the memory were still strapped to his back. "That's us."

"Hope you guys didn't do anything too stupid like search the premises. I know my rights."

"Just gleaning."

"Yeah, I'm familiar with the _Plain View Doctrine_."

Jessica smiled. "See, every now and again, Blondie here learns a little something from me."

"Not funny, Jessica..." Dinah removed a hair-tie from her wrist, methodically bundled her curls into a bun. She marched to the front door, swung it wide. "I'll be more than happy to talk to you some other time. But not today, and not in my apartment."

Randal raised a polite hand. "Actually, we're parked round back, so if we –"

"Too bad. You're leaving through the front."

Donahue reached into his coat. Took out a card and placed it on the table.

"In case either of you think of anything..." He turned to Dinah. "Or if maybe you just want to talk."

Dinah pointed to the threshold. Closed the door behind them, even put her ear to the peeling paint.

"OK, Blondie." Jessica stood up, scooped her mug off the table. "You do realize the peephole works far better if you use an _eye_ , right?"

Dinah abandoned the door. "Not the smartest move in the world, Jess."

"How'd it go at the Prescott-Pantheon?"

"Who _cares_ how it went at the Prescott-Pantheon?"

"Well, I just got a copy of our lease renewal..." Jessica removed the papers from her back pocket. "So part of that agreement's probably going to involve paying rent at some point –"

"I talked to Evan Stern, the hotel manager. Talked to my guy in the restaurant. We got an interview tomorrow with Nora, head of F and B. Now what the hell were you doing talking to those guys?"

Jessica followed Dinah into the kitchen. " _Seriously_ , what is wrong with you –"

"Seriously, how can you ask seriously?" Dinah poured herself the rest of the coffee and placed the pot in the sink. "Jason Castle is undersecretary of health and human services for North Carolina. He was politically appointed, that's what you told me. Political, right? The man's got to have more enemies than _you_ , girl."

Jessica leaned against the fridge, right shoulder destabilizing a stanza of magnet poetry. "So?"

"So with all the possible suspects they might have, it doesn't seem strange they came talking to you?"

"No."

"Why the hell not?"

Jessica pointed towards the hallway. "Sit down, and I'll tell you all about Angry Jonny."

By the end of their conversation, Dinah wasn't feeling any better, time wasn't passing any slower, and Jessica had to tune into a press conference that wouldn't make things any clearer.

# **Chapter 7:** **Too Good to be True.**

Her day thus far: Jessica was out of work, out of touch, and under suspicion for the assault on Jason Castle.

Worries that melted away as she walked through the doors of the Verona Observer. Footsteps echoing, buoyed by the cool air as she strode past security.

The guard smiled, gave her a wave. "Afternoon, Jessica."

"Hey, Scott."

"Gonna take 'em to school today?"

"Gonna try."

"Make us proud, beautiful."

The elevator doors were open and waiting. She stepped in, entirely at home within the grinding, industrial hum of her slow ascent.

Jessica breezed through the third floor, unable to remember what it had looked like on her first day. She fielded greetings, waves, hasty smiles from people she had already come to think of as equals. A world away from the poisonous halls of her school, accusing eyes of her own classmates.

A little too good to be true, but she was willing to run with it.

Run with it all the way to Al Holder's office.

He was seated in his chair. Pressed against the leather like an astronaut at liftoff. Remote control leveled at the television, where that afternoon's press conference retraced its steps in choppy, digital rewind.

Ethan Prince was resting his ass on the desk, cue-ball head glinting. He gave her a swift, dismissive look. No different than day one, and Jessica doubted that dynamic would ever change.

"You catch the press conference?" Al hit pause. On screen, the speaker was stuck in an unflattering freeze frame. Eyes glued shut, jaw hinged at an odd angle beneath a modest mustache. The caption beneath almost came across as sarcasm: CHIEF OF POLICE JAMES VARGAS.

"Yeah, I saw it."

"Leaves a lot to be desired, doesn't it?"

"Yeah..." Jessica cleared her throat. "Then again, I don't know how anyone could take much away from these things. Always figured the whole idea of a press conference was to keep people in the dark."

"Like all things, it depends..." Al held up a finger, pressed play. "Check this out."

The image lurched forward.

"... _The assailant used an unidentified anesthetic agent. Without signs of a struggle, it is more than likely he was rendered unconscious within seconds. If he was taken in his sleep, it is unlikely that Mr. Castle will be able to provide eye-witness identification._ "

Jessica swore she could hear the crowd wince at Garcia's use of _eye-witness_.

"Crap, wait. Hold on..." Al struggled with the remote. "Hang on... Here, this is what I don't get."

Garcia had been replaced with Captain Detective Donahue. He stood at the podium, no less comfortable than he had been sitting in Jessica's living room. Only this version was far more diplomatic. Not a trace of humor, sentences clocking in at ten words or fewer. It might have been her imagination, but Jessica sensed he was playing down his intelligence. Statements following each other with little flow or dramatic build. Just enough to appear competent, but sufficiently bland to make his inevitable evasions more believable.

" _The words are not our primary focus. Neither is the symbol spray-painted below them. Our concentration will be on forensics. And when it comes to forensics, we must tread carefully. Information will be released as we determine it safe to do so. We are still in the process of sorting the evidence. We also think –"_

Al punched the remote, once again.

Jessica was pleased to find that Donahue paused far better than his superior. Eyes half-closed, sure, but below the surface lay a sly smile. A coded message meant solely for the perpetrator.

_Coming to get you, asshole_.

"Here's the thing about press conferences," Al explained. "There's key information that can hurt their investigation. But if they don't give enough, taxpayers start to wonder just who's keeping them safe at nights. It's a lot like trying to get the most out of a first date, if you don't mind the expression."

Jessica shrugged. "Only if you mind me asking what it was like to go to school with Thomas Edison."

"Ha!" Al laughed, scratching at his mustache. "It's because I'm old. Got it."

"Yes, sir, you did."

Ethan rapped his knuckles on the desk, "Al, I think you need to tell –"

"Let me give our promising young friend a lesson," Al interrupted, a touch of apprehension in his voice. "Point is, Jessica, these guys are stuck on a high wire. They want an arrest, but in order to get one, they have to keep certain things from the public. So here's what gets my mind a-wandering..."

Al drew in his feet, swiveled to face Jessica. "They say the focus is on forensics. Didn't hear much about it, though, did we?"

Jessica nodded. "Nothing about the anesthetic used to knock him out."

"Got someone at the hospital who mentioned minor burns around Castle's mouth and nose."

"Sounds like –"

"Chloroform," Ethan interrupted, stealing Jessica's thunder. "Yeah. Until we get verification, we can't print it."

"And they're also mum on _all other details_ ," Al said. "What do they give us? Angry Jonny. The spray paint, that symbol on the wall... And that's usually the kind of thing they keep to themselves. Helps them identify anyone who comes forward with a fake confession. But they talk it to death. Serving it up fresh from the kitchen... A little too good to be true, maybe?"

"You think they're trying to distract us? Like a magician with misdirection, sleight of hand?"

"I was wondering what _you_ thought."

"Maybe there was more than one symbol on the wall. That gives them enough cover to kiss and tell –" Jessica stopped short, blindsided by another image of Jason Castle. Only now, his limp, mutilated face carried with it the spattered words of Angry Jonny. Lopsided crescent moon, just below the signature, topped with a cross. Joined by two other symbols; blurred, out of focus, writhing madly with a pulsating, inner life.

"Detectives Donahue and Randal stopped by my apartment to see me today," Jessica blurted out.

The two men in the room shared a look.

"Jessica..." Ethan's voice made a clean break from his standard patronizing. A little too accommodating for Jessica's taste, a little too good to be true. "Please don't think we want to put you in an awkward position, but if their investigation has gotten to the point where they're already talking to you –"

"Hold on a second, there," Al cautioned.

"– I'm guessing they must have already combed through every other possible witnesses –"

"Ethan –"

"They didn't mention _anything_ about this at the press conference!" Ethan thundered, clearly reacting to some prior conversation. "I don't control how these assholes spin it!"

"And I'll handle this."

"Al, I really think –"

All summoned his most ferocious stare, teeth clenched below his mustache. "I'll take care of it."

Jessica's eyes had been darting between the two, following an invisible tennis ball sail back and forth across the net. Landing on Ethan, who ran a hand across his naked dome before giving the desk a light punching.

"Whatever," he said. Stood up abruptly and charged past Jessica. Paused at the door long enough to say, "Been nice working with you, kid."

"Leave now," Al commanded.

Ethan slammed the door shut, taking most of the air along with him.

Al turned back to the television screen. He held the remote between his hands, tip resting against his chin. Eyes misting with visible gloom.

And suddenly, Jessica understood. "Oh, shit."

"Looks like you've been expecting this."

"Doesn't matter how it looks, does it?"

"I got a visit from your vice-principal today... Mr. Clarence Davenport." He turned in his chair, tossed the remote on the desk. Rubbed the back of his neck, sighing. "Is there anything you want to tell me?"

"Not yet."

"Davenport thought I should know... that your essay is remarkably similar to that of another submission for the _Observing the Observer_ contest. Specifically that of one Cali Jenkins."

"Hold up..." Jessica held up a finger. "Head cheerleader, Cali Jenkins?"

"She wouldn't sign my yearbook, so I can't say for sure if –"

"Cali Jenkins? _Really?_ "

"Why, what's up?"

"Well, apart from being accused of plagiarism... Cali's a senior, first of all. She's already been accepted to Princeton. As a legacy, by the way, so she doesn't _need_ another line on her transcript."

""Nothing unusual about that," Al reasoned. "Got a lot of seniors interested in working here, for the experience if nothing else. And, cheerleader or not, Cali's a pretty formidable individual. Straight A's. Student council. Extracurricular activities. Got more committees to her name than a US senator."

Al picked up a copy of the damming document, readily available.

The thought that it had been sitting on his desk from the moment she walked in made Jessica's blood turn molten, cheeks flushing as Al read the title out loud:

" _From Black to White: The Evolution of Barack Obama_."

"You've got to be kidding me."

"Jessica –"

"Why the hell would Cali even care about whether or not people consider the president _black_ enough?"

"Why wouldn't she?"

"In the three years I've known Cali Jenkins, there's not a moment to even suggest she has even a passing interest in race relations."

"And how well _do_ you know her?"

Jessica bit her lip.

Al sighed again. "It's basically the same essay."

"Basically, nothing."

"Cali traces the President's perception as a 'black candidate' to a 'post-racial' candidate."

"And mine goes back to the start of the primaries, when everyone was asking whether he was _black_ enough to resonate. Al Sharpton, Jesse Jackson, Cornell West, Michael Eric Dyson, all of the most prominent black leaders and intellectuals in the country were pissed that he wasn't _one of them_. White mother, black father, it's the same shit I've had to put up with my whole life! That experience is mine, my argument, it belongs to me!"

"And Cali did the same." Al kept his voice level. "Only as a white girl witnessing her family and friends coming to recognize the president as one of their own –"

"Culminating in an imaginary, reborn, post-racial America, understood."

"These essays are basically photonegatives. Black to white, white to black. Substituting two sides of a racial and cultural coin. These are very similar works, Jessica."

Jessica balled her hands into fists. Trembling, unable to stop herself from replacing Jason Castle with visions of vice-principal Davenport. Tied to a chair, beady eyes unearthed, tongue cut clean out of his mouth, no more lies from this little man.

Then she remembered to breath: "May I have a copy of that, please?"

Al picked up his cell, sent a quick text.

Celia walked in, cocooned in a green wool sweater.

"Sir?"

Al offered her Cali's paper. "Could you Xerox me a copy?"

Celia took it, walked out.

Jessica wasn't done. "You want to tell me how Davenport could have miraculously missed two identical essays up until now?"

"He puts it on his assistant."

"I know Brookside is better off than most public schools, but Davenport ain't _got_ an assistant."

"David Towne. Another senior. Seems Brookside gives community service credits to teaching assistants. Or, in this case –"

"Long story short, please?"

"Long story short, David dropped the ball. Must have discarded Cali's submission assuming that it was just an extra copy of yours. By the time it got sent to us..." Al let the scenario play out.

"Do I get to face my accuser in court?" Jessica asked, slowly losing her drive to argue.

"You mean Davenport?"

"I mean Cali."

"Not as simple as all that..." Al said embarrassed. "Cali and her family are spending their entire vacation on a farm in the south of France."

"I believe her people call it _summering_."

"I believe they do."

"Strikes me as odd that Cali's been bragging about her French getaway from the past year. Doesn't seem like she had any intention of spending her summer working at a hole-in-the-wall like the Verona Observer –"

"I'm going to let that slide for now."

"My submission was _published_ in your paper. Why didn't she say something then?"

"Could be she didn't read it."

"Didn't _read_ it?"

"She knew she'd lost. South of France ain't a bad consolation prize... not to mention that _Cali_ , no matter what you say, hasn't accused you of anything."

"Doesn't that seem exceptionally convenient? Sir?"

Celia let herself in, handed Al his copy and original.

Jessica could smell the Xerox fumes, even from where she stood.

With that courtesy out of the way, it was Jessica and Al. Alone again.

Neither wanting to bring it in for a landing.

"Jessica... Don't think I don't know that Clarence Davenport was one of Glen Robert's best friends. This newspaper reported every angle of that situation, I _know_ the situation. I was hoping over the course of our short time here... well, that maybe that was ancient history."

Jessica didn't reply.

"You're a hell of a smart girl, Jessica. I don't mind telling you, this paper's on the precipice. People don't get their news from us anymore... Hell, we hardly get our news from us. I may be just another useless dinosaur, but from the moment I met you, I felt I had something to teach you."

"My stake in the Angry Jonny case notwithstanding?"

"Huh..." Al swiveled back to the television screen for a moment. "I guess that's what we're going to be calling it from now on."

"Sir?"

"No, Jessica. I never cared that you were a pipeline to Angry Jonny. A boon, no doubt. But I've got a feeling that before this is all over..." Al took a moment, gathered all the momentum that he could. "Jessica, until this is all sorted out, I'm going to have to let you go."

Jessica felt a malignant lump surface in her throat. "Right."

"I'm going to keep this as quiet as I can. Far as anyone in this office is concerned you're taking time off for a family emergency."

"OK."

"And for the record, I think Clarence Davenport is full of shit."

"Then why can't I stay?"

"Well... he could go to the press, couldn't he?"

"Huh... I guess I should thank you."

Al groaned. "For what?"

"For earlier... Once I told you that I had spoken to the detectives. Ethan was really keen on getting all he could out of me, wasn't he? Even though he knew you'd be letting me go."

Al avoided her gaze. "Maybe."

"Well, thanks for not taking advantage," Jessica said, heading for the door. She paused, fingers wrapped around the stainless steel handle. "However..."

"Jessica, you don't have to –"

"You were wondering about the press conference...? You were wondering why they were so weak on the forensics, even after playing it up how they did."

"Yes?"

Jessica turned around. "They say Jason Castle was found by the maid. Cleaning lady?"

Al nodded.

"Well..." Jessica squinted, playing the scenario. "None of the neighbors heard any screams. There was no sign of a break-in. Turns out Chloroform was the anesthetic agent that knocked him out and kept him from feeling any –" eyes cut out, tongue severed, the image made her flub her words "– Of any being aware of what was happening to him. If Castle was caught in his sleep, and if he was still unconscious when the maid found him..."

"Go on."

"I'd take a look at the blueprints for his house."

Al's smile was tempered sad resignation. "How's that?"

"...There's a good chance, depending on when he regained consciousness, and where his bedroom is in relation to the rest of the rooms... Well, there's a good chance the maid entered with her key and made a clean sweep of the house. Literally wiped almost the entire place free of any evidence. Just by doing her job."

Al laid back in his chair. "My God."

"That's right. You wonder why there's no talk of forensics? Maybe that got taken care of by someone who didn't even know they were mopping up a crime scene... Maybe Angry Jonny got lucky."

"A little too good to be true," Al added.

"Yeah."

"You're a smart girl, Jessica Kincaid."

"Not smart enough." Jessica hoisted the door open and power-walked her way across the room. For every two steps, the offices of the Observer stretched out another three. Treadmill toes taking her past the concerned faces of those she had made the mistake of getting to know. Her index finger was already extended, stiffly anticipating the elevator button. She jabbed at the arrow, repeatedly. Almost bending her fingernail back. From beyond the doors, cables groaned against lazy gears.

Unable to wait, Jessica slammed against the stairwell door, concrete steps echoing all the way down.

She burst out into the lobby.

Scott nodded in her direction, raised his sandwich aloft in a casual farewell.

Jessica forced a smile and a wave. "See you in a bit, Scott."

And then she was outside, ordering her legs to keep moving, to take her as far from there as they would carry her. Didn't get too far. Halfway across the parking lot before she came to a halt. Loose bits of asphalt grinding beneath worn sneakers she had just found the confidence to wear to work.

Jessica dialed Dinah.

Got nothing but voicemail.

She took a deep breath and put on a happy face: "Hey, Blondie. Call me back, ASAP."

Jessica took a seat on the scalding hot bench by the front door. A few feet away, one of the custodians watched her between drags of a cigarette. He reached into the pocket of his gray jumpsuit and pulled out a pack of Camels.

He flicked the top, revealing a tightly packed row of soft, cotton filters.

Jessica sighed. "Wish that I could, sir."

He gave a sympathetic nod and extinguished his own smoke. Left Jessica seated, watching the cars speed along the highway, waiting for her aunt to take her back where she belonged.

# **Chapter 8:** **Chaucer's** **Tales.**

Jessica was halfway through her second orange soda, taking her third pass at Cali Jenkins' submission, when she caught sight of Chaucer Braswell.

How long he'd been sitting at the bar was anyone's guess.

It was a slow night for _On The Rail_ , even for a Tuesday. Of the ten pool tables spanning the green and white checkered floor, no more than three had been occupied at any given time. A group of Pantheon grads stood at either end of the shuffleboard table, which bisected the hall in a wooden, twenty-foot stretch. Small collectives of regulars dotted the room. Working men and women, all keeping a close eye on their lighters. Specialty stouts and IPA's for those who had come to drink beer. Two-dollar Pabst Blue Ribbon for those who had come to drink a lot.

Even the jukebox had taken to fits of silence. Occasional runs of Steve Miller, KC and the Sunshine Band, or Stevie Wonder would then leave large gaps, filled with the neon rasp of decorative beer signs and manila glow over the bar.

Dinah had spent the night fuming between sips of domestic beer and wilted Camels. Every five minutes, she would interrupt her niece to see how the investigation was going, if she needed anything. Speculating how to best take down Clarence Davenport. Eventually, one of the local hustlers hit Dinah up for a game of nine-ball. The two of them had shuttled off to talk trash, leaving Jessica at the bar.

Casper Noel was working the bar, an increasingly rare event since graduating Law school. He towered over Jessica, even while bending low to restock the coolers. His eyes landed on her, a pair of copper toned mischief makers, grin permanently imbedded in sandalwood skin.

"What're you reading there, Jessica?" he asked, consonants crisp beneath his Carolina accent.

"Nothing but a big fat headache."

"Speaking of which, you ever going to come and see me at work?"

"I'm seeing you at work right now. How could I miss you, you're a goddamn ox."

Casper laughed, reached up and rang the bell above the register. "Left myself wide open."

A random customer would have never guessed that Casper was a magistrate for the city of Verona. It was his principal source of income, though it could hardly be considered a day job. Some of his shifts had him working well through the night; setting bail, signing warrants, committing an occasional street lunatic to the psych ward. Never without a story to tell, a firsthand witness to the ruined lives of others. But Jessica knew a thing or two about ruined lives. And her own firsthand experience before a Louisville Judge, awaiting a decision that could have resulted in any number of parallel lives, was not one that she cared to repeat.

Even as an observer in the wings.

"Yeah, I'll come check you in action sometime," Jessica assured him, knowing that wouldn't be the case.

Casper was looking to crack wise when he spotted something across the room.

"Pantheon kids," he muttered, rounding the bar. "How hard is it to keep your gosh-damn beer off the pool table?"

With Casper no longer obstructing her view, Jessica could see clear across the bar. The last time she had seen Chaucer, he had been dressed to the nines. Even in casual wear, he proved to be a stylish standout. White shirt, well-pressed, top two buttons undone. Eyes fastened to the television above the bar, bottle of Heineken in hand. He must have sensed the weight of her stare. Tilted his head with a smile, and abandoned his post.

Chaucer skirted the wooden arc of the bar and came to rest by her side.

He didn't hover. Didn't plant an elbow or lean in, the way countless men did while determining whether she was worth their while. Didn't prop his foot on the lower rung of her barstool. Just took his seat, keeping a good two feet away.

As though reading her thoughts, he asked, "Did you know that Americans need more personal space than any other nationality?"

Jessica did not. "Doesn't surprise me."

"Why do you suppose that is?"

"Why do I suppose I'm not surprised?"

"Why do you suppose we like our distance?"

"I don't really have anything to compare our culture to."

"Never been abroad?"

"Nope..." Jessica pursed her lips, blew a couple of brown coils away from her forehead. "I hear the south of France is real nice this time of year."

"Seems like you've had a long day." Chaucer's eyes remained glued to the screen, slowly rotating his bottle between large fingers.

"You talk to the cops yet?" Jessica asked, putting an end to their dance.

Chaucer took a sip, reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a pack of Dunhill's. Tilted it her way.

She shook her head.

"Yeah, they stopped by..." Chaucer lit up, waved his hand to keep the smoke out of Jessica's face. "Donahue and Randal."

"Where exactly did they find you?"

"I'm staying at the Prescott-Pantheon."

"No kidding. I got an interview there tomorrow."

"At the restaurant?"

"Prescott dining room, yeah."

Chaucer smiled. "Movin' on up."

"Yeah, thems is some nice digs. I run the trail around the golf course almost every morning."

"You play at all?"

"Golf?

" _A game whose aim is to hit a very small ball into an even smaller hole, with weapons singularly ill-designed for the purpose_."

"I'm seventeen, and you're asking me about golf and quoting British prime ministers?"

"Damn, girl..." Chaucer chuckled, blowing smoke. "You are sharp as a tack."

"Yeah, my boss told me the same thing today, right before he fired me." Jessica took a swing of pop, wishing it were beer, her lips crying foul. "As did the detectives while they grilled my ass over a flame. Something about Angry Jonny?"

"When did this happen?"

"Just this morning. You?"

"Just this afternoon."

"How'd it go?"

"Standard routine." Chaucer turned in his seat. Placed his back against the bar, checking the scene. "Most informal police inquiries are just questions they already know the answers to. Like control questions for a polygraph. Asked where I worked, what I was doing in town. Which I know they'd already asked my employer over in Wilmington. Otherwise, they wouldn't have known where to find me."

Jessica leaned forward to get a better look at his profile. "What _are_ you doing in town?"

"Vacation."

"Is that the story, or the truth?"

"How about true story?"

"Just hard to swallow," Jessica said. "You live on the coast, you're clearly a man of means. So, what, when the beach just gets a little too ideal, you go two hundred miles inland and don't play golf?"

"Sharp as a tack," Chaucer repeated. "Hotel room comes as a favor someone owes me. And I'm here on business."

"What kind of business?"

"I suppose if it wasn't my own, then it'd be your business."

"So nothing related to the food service industry, then."

"See, this is why I said vacation." Chaucer brushed some ash off his black dress pants. "Don't need to be getting the police all up in my face." He turned back to the bar, polished off his beer. "Either way, I don't really have too much to sweat..." His eyes shifted. "You on the other hand... please tell me you were on the level."

His worried expression didn't sit well with her. It was genuine concern, no doubt. And Jessica had witnessed too little of that from too few people. Kick a dog long enough, and the next person who comes to pet him will send hair on end, teeth bared.

Chaucer squinted. "Ah."

"What?"

With a wave of his empty bottle, Chaucer summoned the barkeep, front and center.

"What's up, kids?" Casper took Chaucer's empty, tossed it into a recycling bin.

"So, Casper," Chaucer began, as Casper went to the industrial-sized fridge and opened the glass door. "You want to tell Jessica where you know me from?"

"This man's the man," Casper announced, running his fingers down shelves of bottled beer. Snagged a Heineken and swiftly decapitated it. He pitched the bottle cap at an unsuspecting regular before laying it on the bar. "Mr. Braswell here runs the Blue Paradise, out in Wilmington. Damn fine restaurant. Been a couple years since I made it out that way, but whenever I do, I always stop by and see him."

"And, as _you_ can see, Jessica," Chaucer said, "I do the same for our friend here."

"You need another Stewart's Orange, Jessica?" Casper asked.

"I'm good. All good."

Chaucer waited for Casper to depart before speaking. "So I'm not a cop."

"It would appear."

"Were you this careful with Randal and Donahue?"

"Well, much like certain restaurant managers in town on unspecified business, I don't have too much to sweat, do I?"

"For the moment you got a considerable amount to be sweatin'," Chaucer took a sip of his beer, thumbed his upper lip. "While you may not have had means, you most certainly have a motive."

"Motive?"

"You publicly announced that, given the chance, you'd kill Mr. Table Thirteen."

"Did they ask you to verify my nefarious little scheme?"

"I softened it up a little for you," Chaucer assured her. "Much as I could, anyhow."

"They really think I'd kill Jason Castle just for being an asshole?"

"If you could get away with it, would you?"

"Jason Castle wasn't killed."

"Please tell me that's not how you answered that particular question."

"It didn't come up," Jessica said, growing annoyed. No longer content to take his soft paternalism at face value. "Not to be a bitch, but what's it to you, Mr. Braswell?"

"You can call me Chaucer."

"I can call you whatever I want."

"They don't have any forensic evidence," Chaucer said, brushing it off. "You've got to figure the maid wiped that place clean of everything. Garage door open, no forced entry. All the evidence they've got is going to be found in the bedroom where Castle was found. Or on Castle himself."

"So?"

"So I'm sure you know all about Jason Castle."

Jessica's inability to stay even one move ahead of him was wearing on her. "Yes."

"Used to be a District Attorney down in Georgia."

"Yeah, once again, so what?"

"So he's got a list of enemies a mile long. But they're going to narrow it down. And while they sort through all the people he put away, the Chief of Police is going to be looking for someone to pin this on. Buy some time while they take their sweet time figuring out that none of these suspects Georgia days fit the bill."

"Get to the point, Mr. Braswell."

"If even one hair from your head landed on Jason Castle's clothes while you were waiting on him; if any similar evidence followed him home, and if any of it is found... They will ask for a DNA test. If you refuse, they will get a court order and make you do it. And when they find a match, they will make an arrest. And they will do all they can to catch you in a lie, delay the trial while they do whatever they can to dig up anything they can. And though you may eventually go free, while you may never see trial... that's going to be the next year, two years of your life. But it will follow you for all the rest of it."

The jukebox awoke from its nap.

James Brown, from beyond, reminding them that this was a man's world.

Jessica pushed her bottle of orange soda aside. "Just a restaurant manager, huh?"

Chaucer shrugged. "I'm on vacation."

"Damn, is this conversation ever over." Jessica leaped from her seat, took a twenty from her bag. "Casper!"

Blink of an eye, and there he was. "Yes ma'am."

"What's the damage for Blondie and me?"

"Ten bucks."

Casper was merciful when it came to charging regulars. Jessica threw him a grateful wink, slipped him the twenty and told him to keep it. He slid over to the register, rang the bell three times, and gave Jessica the double guns. "Stay safe, mop top."

"Always..." Jessica turned to Chaucer. "As for you, you've got three seconds starting thirty seconds ago to tell me something real, or I call Donahue right now and tell him you ain't really in town on a pleasure cruise."

Chaucer didn't appear remotely threatened. If anything, Jessica thought she saw a slender, inexplicable trace of pride swimming in the muddy depths of his eyes.

"I wasn't always a restaurant manager," he said.

"You don't say."

"I used to be a private investigator."

Jessica had to laugh. "Oh, shit. Mr. Easy Rawlins in the flesh."

"You wanted real."

"Still not sure I've gotten it."

"Then listen close; The detectives will be knocking on your door again. Maybe not tomorrow, and probably not the day after that. But don't relax just yet, because there's just one thing that's gonna put you in the clear."

"What's that?"

"If Angry Jonny strikes again."

Jessica stammered silently. "Hold up –"

"Conformation bias. The pitfalls of searching for an obvious motive is that you miss the more disturbing possibilities. Chief Garcia, Detectives Donahue and Randal... they may not be saying it, but they're thinking it. Hoping they're wrong. But there is always the possibility, considering the calling card spray painted on the wall... Well, if Angry Jonny's pissed about anything other than Jason Castle, there's no telling whether Angry Jonny is done pleading his case."

"You mean like a serial killer?"

"I mean exactly like that."

"And if Angry Jonny puts on another show, then it puts me in the clear."

"Given the astronomical odds that you would be implicated in the second time around."

"You really think there might be another? Just like this one?"

"I don't know," Chaucer unsheathed another Dunhill, lit up. "If there isn't, God help you... If there is, then God help us all."

The jukebox went dark.

Jessica tucked Cali's essay beneath her arm. "Best of luck on your business, Mr. Braswell."

"Chaucer."

"Sure."

She strode across the pool hall. Found Dinah positioning herself behind the cue ball, eyes crossed in a drunken attempt at concentration. Body swaying, ass mesmerizing a couple of onlookers. She took her shot, missed the object ball by a good mile. Table scratch wasn't exactly the most graceful of exits, but Jessica didn't have time to watch her aunt lose another game.

"Hey, Dinah, we got to take off."

"Why's that?" Dinah slurred, reaching for her beer. "Not like we've got work tomorrow."

"Actually, we've got a bit of an interview over at the Prescott-Pantheon."

"Huzzah. Another dead end job in a dead end world."

"I'll explain in the car." Jessica took hold of Dinah's elbow. "Casper's got us squared, let's just go."

Dinah shrugged, chugged the remainder of her beer.

The two of them made their way out.

Jessica caught sight of Chaucer, still seated at the bar. Hands right back around his beer, surreptitiously signaling for another. Unaffected by Jessica's fast getaway. Revealing nothing through the thick curtain of smoke.

"Looks like I've got a little research to do on you, Mr. Braswell," she muttered.

"What?" Dinah asked, absently putting her weight against the door. It swung outwards, and she went stumbling into the night.

Chaucer's eyes shot across the bar.

Jessica darted through the doorway and into the humid streets of Verona, where, amid the shadows and willowy streetlights, Angry Jonny remained at large.

# **PART** **THREE**

# June 26 – June 28

# **Chapter** **9:** **Eli's** **Coming.**

Same shift, different day.

Jessica tapped a few buttons on the touch screen, punctuated with the order to PRINT.

Had she closed her eyes, all remaining senses might have just assumed she'd never left Spiro's; the printer's obnoxious whine as the check for table twelve spewed out like a thin paper tongue; the polite mumble of high society; silverware scraping against plates, occasional laughter at a poorly timed joke; the mingled smells of mismatched dishes; her fingertips sticky from cleaning up after others.

Jessica tore the check from the printer's teeth and escorted it across the main floor of the Prescott. Empty tables flanked her, full spreads laid out in preparation for second shift. Large white doors lined the west side of the dining room, embedded with thick glass panes. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked onto the concrete patio, where a lengthy blue awning sheltered the outdoor seating. Beyond that, an overcast sky had given in to afternoon showers. Golfers were already making their way back to the hotel, pastel Polo shirts clashing with the disappointing weather.

Then again, nobody's life was completely immune from the occasional unpleasant surprise.

Malik and his parents glanced up from their coffee as Jessica arrived with their bill.

A trifecta of uncomfortable faces.

To be fair, Jessica's ex had put the charm into overdrive. All smiles and obliging remarks in hopes of smoothing over the rough terrain. It hadn't made the day go by any faster, but the finish line was finally in sight.

She laid the check on the table. "And I'll pick that up whenever you're ready."

"Hang on..." Malik's father got the check, scrutinized every last line.

Jessica glanced over at Malik.

He rolled his eyes.

Jessica couldn't afford to be caught with anything resembling a reply.

"All right, Jessica..." Malik's father laid down four twenties. Snapped the book shut and handed it back. "Keep it."

"Thank you, and I hope you had a pleasant lunch."

Malik adjusted his glasses, smiling. "We did. Thanks, Jessica."

Jessica didn't expect any echoes.

"And I am _gone_ ," she whispered, soft steps on the emerald-green carpet taking her to the hutch.

Jessica got her change from the bartender, amazed to find the tip coming in at twenty percent. She printed out her totals. Midway through sorting out her receipts, she heard a familiar voice floating just a few feet away.

"Good to see you again."

Eli Messner was seated midway down the bar. Arms crossed, scotch-rocks nesting on a white cocktail napkin. He raised his hand with a little wave. "Surprised?"

"Um..." Jessica glanced down at her paperwork, trying not to lose track. "Yeah, a little surprised."

"Sorry about that."

"I didn't say you scared me half to death," Jessica snapped. "Just an unexpected turn."

"Same here. Your old boss told me this was where you were working now, but I didn't think I'd find you on the first try."

"Say that again?"

"I can see the unease in your eyes, there..." Eli took a sip of scotch. "Just wanted to see how you were doing, is all."

"Same shift, different day," Jessica replied, scooping up a calculator and gathering her receipts. "Look, I'm going to the back so I can take care of all this nonsense. Pick this up in a bit?"

"Go ahead."

Jessica circled the bar, and plunged through the kitchen's double doors.

She bypassed the cooks and dishwashers, down a cinderblock hallway and settled in a cheap plastic chair near the lockers. Pulled up another seat, spread out her paperwork out and began to total up. All the while keeping a third eye on Eli Messner.

It had been a little over two weeks since Angry Jonny had elbowed his way into her life. In that time, just enough had taken place to leave Jessica certain that, for the rest of the summer, little else would.

Jessica had been unsuccessful in reclaiming her internship at the Observer. Al Holder hadn't been asleep at the wheel, either. His repeated attempts to contact Cali Jenkins and her family had come up short. Phone calls unanswered, emails bounced back with cheery, automated promises to get back to everyone upon their return. Even Vice-Principal Davenport had fallen off the map. Damage done, he had succumbed to a complete and infuriating radio silence. Running out the clock. The injustice of it all made Jessica livid. Sang out to her darkest angels. Late nights spent crammed into the folds of her budget futon, fighting the urge to scream into her pillow.

To soften the sting, Al Holder had remained in casual contact with Jessica. Every other morning brought a fresh email; updates on local stories, as well as national events that had come to roost in their very own backyards.

And of course, Angry Jonny.

On the twenty-third, the Verona Police Department revealed documented evidence that Jason Castle had been receiving unreported funds from various local insurance and pharmaceutical giants. No details had been released as to what specific charges would be leveled. Either way, it was enough to send the story spinning. What had begun as an investigation of an attempted murder probe had now morphed into a speculative free-for-all. In a sense, the polar opposite of a breakthrough. Countless Government agencies forced themselves into the fold. The national media, whose interest had waned since the initial reports, began to swarm all over the story, taking it upon themselves to rewrite the Angry Jonny narrative as one of shady political intrigue, complete with Castle's wife offering a twenty-five-thousand-dollar reward for the capture of the man who had assaulted her husband.

Two days later, Michael Jackson had been found dead in his mansion at 100 North Carolwood Drive.

And suddenly, the media had something other than Angry Jonny to dedicate their time to.

Jessica had succumbed to her own partial amnesia. Over the past two weeks, the image of Jason Castle's tattered face had faded from her mind. Once again she was little more than a working girl, living in her lonely world.

The sudden appearance of Eli Messner's had come as a wakeup call. Of what, she wasn't sure. No explanation for the fresh crown of sweat on her forehead, the faintest tremble in her hands. It took three rounds with the calculator to get her numbers straight. She stuffed the flurry of paperwork into her book and returned to the dining room.

She handed the bartender her book, waiting for him to cash out her credit card tips.

Glanced over and saw Malik propped at the bar, two seats down from Eli.

She blinked. "Hey."

"Hey, Jessica," they chimed in unison.

Eli and Malik turned to face each other for one hushed, territorial moment.

"Don't let me stop you, son," Eli relented, raising his glass in an unsolicited toast. "You go right ahead."

Malik's eyes flashed, ready to call home court advantage.

She decided to step in: "How can I help you, Malik?"

Malik frowned. "Hey. I ain't at the table, right? Don't have to act like you're still waiting on me."

"I _am_ waiting, actually, for you to tell me how I can help you."

"I came to see how you were doing."

Eli laughed from two seats down. "Popular girl, Jessica."

Malik turned to face him. "You got a problem?"

"No problem, son."

"Then step off," Malik shot back, voice low. " _Son._ "

Eli didn't look the least bit impressed. Backing down more out of respect for Jessica than the hollow threats of her eighteen-year-old suitor.

The bartender handed Jessica her book, "Everything all right?"

"Fine," Jessica replied, extracting a stack of bills.

"Going to the back for a minute."

Jessica nodded, began totaling her tips. "So what do you want, Malik?"

"I heard about what happened with the Observer."

Her eyes narrowed, kept counting out her tips.

"Jessica?"

" _Two, three, four, five and ninety-six_..." Jessica tapped her stack of greenbacks against the counter and reached for the tip-out clipboard. "Yeah, I heard you. Heard that you _heard_ about what happened. Let me ask you something, Malik, who else has _heard_ about this?"

"Jessica..." Malik was whispering now. "I need to talk to you about this."

"Who else knows?"

"Well... my parents know."

"Some surprise..." Jessica began plugging numbers into the calculator. "They must be tighter with Davenport than I thought. Did you know I haven't heard a word from him since he cost me my internship? Makes perfect sense now. Busy sharing few laughs with your parents, justice served and all that."

"It's _not_ like that."

"Then what's it like? You want to tell me you called bullshit? Told your parents to tell Davenport that yeah, they may hate me, but right is right, and he can go fuck himself 'less he gets me back in?"

"I am _trying_ to set things right."

"I suppose it's my fault for implying you could..." Jessica scribbled her signature, and tossed the pen aside.

Malik threw his hands up. "Fine."

"Yeah, just fine."

"Whatever, Jessica...." He thrust himself violently from his seat, knocking over a bowl of mixed nuts, sent them scattering. He stared her down, over steel-rimmed glasses. "I don't care what you think. I'm going to fix this."

"Goddammit." Jessica moved in, began scooping salty treats off the bar. "Just go home, all right? Go home, fix whatever you want. Just get out of here before I get fired again, OK?"

Malik stormed off. Large strides taking him through the entrance to the dining room, and out across the lobby of the Prescott-Pantheon.

She sighed, shook her head.

"What are you going to do with those nuts?" Eli asked.

Jessica glanced down at the handful of cashews and almonds in her hands. "Anybody looking?"

"Nope."

Jessica dumped the nuts back into the bowl. Wiped her hands on her apron and closed her eyes, leaning against the bar.

Outside, the rain had picked up, joined by a distant thunderclap.

When Jessica opened her eyes, she found Eli looking at her with a pair of curious, green eyes.

Jessica waved. "Hey, you."

Eli smiled. "Hope you don't mind me coming to see you."

"If by _mind_ , do you mean, _what the hell?_ "

"Yup. That's what I mean."

"Well, then..." Jessica stretched her back, groaning. "You just hang on. Got to change into my streets."

"I'll be here."

_That might not be so bad_ , Jessica thought, heading back to the kitchen for the last time.

# ***

Jessica changed into a pair of Jeans, kept her white dress shirt on.

She took a seat right next to Eli, aching feet grateful for the rest.

The bartender had just finished pouring Eli another drink.

"Need anything, Jessica?"

"Tonic water, please."

Eli pointed to the bartender. "It's on me."

"I actually get a free drink at the end of my shift."

"And you waste it on tonic water?"

"I'm seventeen."

Eli dipped a finger in his drink, tasted it. "You mean, in case I was getting any ideas?"

"Don't flatter myself." Jessica gave him the once over, a dramatic reenactment of their previous encounter. Without the fury of a miserable night out on the floor, she found plenty more to take in. Noticed the early onset of crow's feet decorating his eyes. A mild scar hovering just above his left eyebrow. Calm eyes shifting sporadically, left to right, as though trying to catch all available angles.

The bartender served up her drink.

Eli raised his glass. "Here's to Michael Jackson."

"Whatever's next for him has got to be better."

"Amen."

Their drinks collided softly.

Jessica noticed fleshy scars covering Eli's knuckles, most likely from some fight in the distant past. Pretty features and milquetoast physique aside, there was a definite possibility that she had a bad boy on her hands.

"So you came to see how I was doing?"

"Figured I owed you as much..." Eli explained. "A week or so after they found Mr. Table Thirteen... I went to the cops. Thought I'd go ahead and let them know I'd seen the man before he got attacked."

"Yeah, I got the same line from them... Two days later. They were asking about you."

"Likewise." Eli sniffed, drink resting against his forehead. "Put in as many good words for you as I could."

"Thanks for helping."

"Remains to be seen. And to bring it back, that's why I stopped by here."

"That right?"

"Wanted to make sure I hadn't gotten you into any trouble..."

"You're fine..." Jessica cracked her neck. "Cops got a whole other set of problems now. No matter what you or I might have said about Mr. Table Thirteen, at the end of the day... it's not about you or me, is it?"

Eli took a hit of scotch. "Can I admit a little something to you? A little nothing, maybe, on the evil side?"

"Sure."

"When I heard about it, what happened to Mr. Table Thirteen... I can't say I was entirely upset."

Outside, the storm had ushered in a premature dusk. The dining room had grown dark, house lights on low. A group of golfers wandered in for cocktail hour.

Jessica shifted in her seat. "I'm still not sure how I feel."

"That's a positive spin... But not knowing how I feel seems just as bad. Especially after it turns out he was way worse than any of us could have imagined."

Jessica found this grim tangent amusing. "Ended up worse than any of us could have imagined."

"Interesting."

"Certainly is different."

"Hm."

Jessica checked the time on her cell. "I'd better get moving. My Aunt's picking me up out front."

"Dinah, right? The blonde?"

"That's right." Jessica got up from her chair, already knew where this was going. "The blond, _white_ chick."

"You don't exactly act –"

"If you say _black_ , so help me God, I will _smack_ you."

" – Seventeen," Eli finished, laying down a pair of twenties. "People down here are real friendly, you know that?"

"People are friendly everywhere. So you can guess why I don't trust any of them."

"Can I walk you out?"

"I won't stop you."

Eli threw back the last of his scotch, and the pair of them made their way across the lobby's gray, slate tiles. A round, eighteenth-century walnut table stood centered atop a large, Persian rug. The crystal chandeliers glowed softly. Antique cabinets lined the walls, sparsely stocked with collectibles the world round, generous donations from Pantheon Alumni.

"So who was that character back there?" Eli asked.

"Who?"

"Kid at the bar. Black rimmed specs with the Huey Freeman afro."

"Ex-boyfriend."

"Ah...." Eli threw a thankful nod at the fleet of doormen and baggage handlers. "I'm going to assume that's not how he planned it."

"Boy cheated on me."

"Ouch."

They stepped out into the rainy evening. Beyond the cul-de-sac lay a vast parking lot, surrounded by a lush forest of thankful trees. A white, ethereal glow reflected off raindrops, collecting in scattered puddles, drumming against the Hotel's overhang.

"Was it anyone you know?" Eli asked, unsheathing a cigarette.

"Was who the what now?"

"Your boyfriend's little fling..." He lit up, tossed the match into a sandy, upright ashtray. "Was it with anyone you know?"

"He was doing the pre-frosh thing up at Wesleyan. Met some girl. Slept with her. Not a complicated story. Then again, I suppose most aren't."

"How'd you find out?"

"Malik's got sticky fingers. Total klepto. And I know where he hides his little prizes. The kind of secret spot where you might find a journal, if you were willing to look."

Eli grinned. "You boosted his journal, you little sneak."

"Dinah's idea. But... that ain't my style."

"I'm all about style. Do continue."

"The girl was leaving posts on his Facebook page not two days after he got back. When I asked him about his new friend, he was all sideways glances and what have you. So I took a look at her profile picture and saw she was wearing a shirt for the local AIDS hotline. I called the number, over and over, until I got her on the phone –"

"Hold up... Props for getting this far, but don't those hotline employees use assumed names?"

"In this case, yeah."

"So how the hell did you figure out when you got her on the –"

Jessica shrugged, secretly pleased with herself. "Her limited profile included links to three fan pages. One of them was the Twilight Fan Club, which I might add is unbelievably lame –"

"Don't like vampires?"

"Never met one. People who'd like to? Lame, lame, lame."

"Noted. Go on."

"So when I finally got someone on the phone answering to the name of Isabella Swan, I kind of figured I'd found my girl."

"Nice."

"I went ahead and told her my desperate story. About a boy I'd slept with six months ago, my first and only. One Mr. Malik Council –"

"Who you believe gave you a case of the HIV."

"Her reaction pretty much gave the whole thing away."

"So you let him have it."

"Damn straight," Jessica said. "He was throwing a party at his place. On Valentine's Day, no less. I served it up in front of everyone. Dinah was there that night, and you should've seen her laughing."

"Broke up with her man on Valentine's Day." Eli threw his head back, sent a thin trail of smoke sailing. "You are a dangerous girl, Jessica Kincaid. You know that?"

"And you know my last name, how?"

"The cops..." Eli tilted sideways, lightly rocked his shoulder against Jessica's. "Remember?"

"Oh, right..." She returned the gesture with a swift punch to his arm. "For a moment, I guess I'd forgotten what we were doing here."

"What _are_ we doing here?"

Jessica glanced up. Locked eyes with his.

The unmistakable wail of tortured brake pads cut into their moment.

Dinah's Paleolithic mustang pulled up, box frame rattling on sagging axles.

The valet didn't feel particularly obliged to move from his station.

Dinah rolled down the window in starts and fits. Removed a cigarette from her lips, pointed towards Jessica's escort. "I know you."

Eli nodded. " 'Sup, Dinah."

" 'Sup yourself," she retorted, killing the motor. "Jessica, I'm going to cover Alicia's shift for a few hours. You want to take my car, pick me up around eight?"

Eli stepped forward. "If you want, I can give her a ride..." He turned to Jessica. "Have you had dinner?"

"Dude!" Dinah took a drag of her cigarette. "She's seventeen!"

"That's odd... She doesn't act black."

Jessica shoved him aside. She stepped up to the Mustang window, bent down. "It's cool, Blondie. We'll grab a bite, slide on down to The Rail. We'll see you there when you're done."

"Are you actually suggesting we have some fun tonight?"

"You didn't hear it from me."

"Well, this weirdo can't be all bad, then..." Dinah tilted her head back out the window. "Hey, scarecrow!"

Eli held out his arms, taking stock of his own body.

"Yeah, you. I want her back in one piece, you got that? If I see so much as a scratch, I'll blowtorch your ass. You got that?"

"One piece, blowtorch... noted."

Dina stretched her neck, planted a kiss on Jessica's cheek. "Later, baby."

"Don't kill nobody." Jessica stepped back and let the Mustang sputter out of the driveway and around the back of the hotel.

"That lady's nuts about you." Eli flicked his cigarette, perfect arc into the ashtray.

"Time's I feel she's the only friend I've ever had."

"What's the story with you two, anyway?"

"Are we grabbing a bite to eat or not?"

Eli pulled out a set of keys, motioned with his head. "My treat, I'm guessing, right?"

"Damn straight," Jessica replied, walking alongside him beneath the overhang. "And another thing; no more talking about me. I don't even know what you're doing in town."

"What makes you think I'm from out of town?"

"Sunshine state driver's license... Though I'm sure there's more to it than that."

"And what makes you say –"

"Earlier, at the bar... you said people were real friendly _down_ here. I ain't exactly a seasoned cartographer, but I imagine anybody from Florida would consider us to be real friendly _up_ here."

"Damn, Jessica..." Eli pointed his remote lock out into the parking lot. "You really are dangerous."

"Beats the shit out of friendly."

"On three..."

Eli counted them down, mashed the button on his remote.

From somewhere among the rows of metal tortoise shells, headlights flashed.

Jessica and Eli went barreling into the storm.

# **Chapter 10:** **First** **Date.**

Eli was a card player, so the story went.

Born and raised in Tampa. Well-to-do family, or so Eli had always thought. At seventeen years old, both his parents died in a car accident. Much to his surprise, the family fortune turned out to be smoke and mirrors. Or, in legalese, debt and assets. Bad investments with nothing to show for it but the things they owned. It all canceled out nicely, and Eli was left with nothing. Shuttled off to live with relatives in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

"This was back before that whole gentrification," Eli explained through bites of a steak burrito. "Just before the hipsters started laying their eggs there. Mostly Jews and Italians up in that place. One year of high school left. One lousy year, and I almost didn't make it. Straight D's, all the way. See, I wasn't always a bad student, but... Losing my parents, stuck with relatives I didn't know. In a city of strangers... Not that I couldn't have staked my claim _somewhere_... I just didn't give a fuck, you know? I was lost. Both hands and a flashlight, that old saying."

Jessica could relate.

Eli's lost years were drawn straight from the bottle. After graduating, he forewent college to pursue a series of dead-end jobs. Most of them ended in swift termination, courtesy of booze and an overall bad attitude.

"Then one night, back in ninety-eight... my eighteenth birthday. I'm about to go out and get wrecked, when a guy I know asks me to come with him to the Diamond Club. I didn't know what the hell the Diamond Club was. Thought maybe he was taking me to a strip joint, some place where an underage drinker can get past the bouncer, long as he knows who's who. What do I find instead, but a building up on thirty-fifth and set of steps leading up to an unassuming room with five or so card tables... Guy hands me a hundred bucks, explains the game, then sits me down at a four-eight, seven-stud table... Happy birthday."

Eli raked in three hundred dollars that evening.

"Beginner's luck is no myth, let's get that out of the way right now... And granted, as amazing as that first haul felt, I had my share of ups and downs after the fact. But I learned, real quick. Got to know the game, real quick. No lie, it was as though I'd found something to counteract that one act of misfortune that had turned my life upside down."

When Eli sat down at the table, and placed his chips in front of him... Fingers resting on the felt, fresh deck of cards sending out diamonds and clubs, aces and rags to meet their destiny. For the first time, he was in control of the elements. There was bad luck, there was good luck. All that mattered was what a man did with it.

And bit by bit, Eli managed to grind out a living. From the underground card clubs, to home games throughout the five boroughs, to the dismal lights of Atlantic City; there wasn't one night of the week where he couldn't be found sitting behind a hand. Waiting for that one perfect moment to go _taekwondo_ against anyone daring to overreach.

"It's not quite the most legal way to make ends meet, unless you go pro... So for years, I crashed with friends, gave them cash for the rent. Had my bankroll spread out and stashed in more places than a venture capitalist. Never bothered to get a New York license... always better for a guy like me to cover his tracks. No paper trail."

And what was he doing in Verona, North Carolina, of all places?

"Sometimes things can get hot... can't be the best at something without somebody, at some point, some game, thinking you're a cheat. Let's just say, I had one particular card game that went bad. Tough customers. Had a friend down here who was going to be gone for the summer, needed someone to look after his place. Help with the rent, look after his car. And let me tell you something about micro-cities like Verona: when it comes to cards..."

The poker craze of the previous decade had every Tom, Dick, and Nobody thinking they had it in them to be authentic players. ESPN, FSN, even non-sporting networks like Bravo had gone crazy with the drama of no-limit Texas Hold 'Em. While the major metropolitan cities were flush with players – California had even legalized poker rooms – every other nook and cranny in the United States was teeming with newcomers who relied on the misshapen analysis of sports commentators to guide them.

"The real money's down here. In Verona. Granted, hunting season's got to be at its peak when the Pantheon brats are in session. But for the most part, I've found some lean cuts of meat. Medium rare, a virtual banquet. Got my bankroll up to thirty-K, cash. I'm right at the point where I can head on out to Vegas and start doing this above board with the rest of the pros."

Jessica washed down the last of her garden burrito, ice cubes rattling against her teeth. She crumpled the plastic cup. Leaned back and regarded Eli with as much admiration as she was able to muster.

Eli took one last tug at his Corona, raised an eyebrow. "What?"

Jessica tapped her fingers on the small, wooden table. From the open air kitchen to her right, cooks and cashiers scrambled to put together orders for a line of clients leading out the front door of Caliente Cantina.

"Two questions..." Her words were almost lost beneath the blare of mariachi music blasting from the speakers. "First is: how did you manage to tell me your life's story while eating an entire steak burrito, and not gross me out in the process?"

Eli shrugged. "Everyone else finds me repulsive to the touch, so let me ask _you_... how is that I managed to tell my life's story while eating a steak burrito, and not gross you out in the process?"

"Uh, uh..." Jessica stood, collecting their trash. "Nothing about me until we're out the door, that's the deal."

"Tried to slip one by you, there."

"No sale, scarecrow."

The two of them cut through the chain of hungry customers. Jessica placed their baskets in the bus bins by the entrance. Eli tossed his bottle into the recycling, and turned to her.

"So what's your second question?"

Jessica crossed her arms. "You ever bet on pool?"

Eli mirrored her pose, skinny shoulders hunched under his sport coat. "Sounds like your money's not too happy where it is."

"Just a little lonely... maybe some of yours can come out to play."

"I should warn you, Jessica, I'm pretty good with a stick."

"Fine," Jessica shrugged. "Time being, how about we just shoot some pool?"

Eli smiled. "Jessica, you are just plain danger –"

The door swung open unexpectedly and clocked Eli squarely in the forehead.

His hand shot up to his face, as a set of abashed teenagers wandered in.

"Dangerous, yeah," Jessica said, grabbing hold of his available arm and leading him out. "Get some new material there."

And even after the long walk back to Eli's car, he was still laughing.

# **Chapter 11:** **Incident** a **t** **On** **The** **Rail.**

On The Rail was alive and kicking.

A packed house of pool hall heavies, couples shooting darts, and rambunctious shuffleboard fanatics fighting over vague technicalities. Tables teeming with empty bottles. Michael Jackson on the jukebox. Good chance it wouldn't be the last time Billy Jean would be making the rounds that evening.

Jessica and Eli stepped into a full on, cigarette sauna.

Casper Noel was regaling a barfly with yet another tale from the land of legal woes.

"And whenever they bring in drug cases, the arresting officers basically act like they just brought in Osama Bin Laden..." He pointed at Jessica, went to go nab an orange soda. Talking all the while. "At this time, the cops feel as though they just presented a slam dunk for an individual who's about to go to jail with a sky high bond... But not so fast. I ask the kid where he works. He says he's a cook at the Templeton. Strike one for cops. They know that real, _hardened_ drug dealers don't have full time jobs. I ask the kid, does he realize that he has to be in court tomorrow for a felony first appearance? He says no, but that if he has to miss work tomorrow for it, that he will. Strike two for cops; kid's not a flight risk. I ask the kid, _why'd you tell the cops you were growing weed?_ He says he doesn't know. I ask the cops, would they have known he had weed at his house if he hadn't told them? Of course, not. Would they have known he had weed in the van if he hadn't told them? _Hell no_. So then I say, _in light of the evidence and police actions I've seen here today, I find that the bond will be twenty-five hundred dollars_... unsecured. The kid don't realize yet that he's walking out of there, but the cops are just plain disgusted. I inform them that were it not for this kid's statements against his self-interest, they probably wouldn't have had a damn reason to even write him up for a traffic violation. And then I straight ordered them to _take those cuffs off!_ "

The regulars erupted in rowdy cheers, let justice be done.

Without a pause, Casper popped open Jessica's drink, placed it at the bar. "Hey, girl."

"Good lookin' out, Casper."

Casper turned to Eli. "What can I get you?"

"I'll just have a Bud Light."

"Can I see some ID?"

Directly to Jessica's left, Chaucer spun around in his barstool. Verona Observer open to the metro section. "Well, ain't that nice," he proclaimed, sending a wink Jessica's way before turning on the barkeep. "Don't believe you've ever once asked me for proof of age, Mr. Noel."

"Well, all right then!" Casper picked up Chaucer's empty and tossed it into the bin. "Cough it up, mister! I got five to one says this guy ain't a day over a hundred!"

Chaucer gave Eli a friendly nod as he dug his license out.

Eli returned the gesture, and the pair of them handed over their IDs.

"How you doing, Jessica?" Chaucer asked.

"Wondering why I haven't seen you around the hotel," she replied.

"Oh, damn!" Casper laughed, examining both DOB's, side by side. "You've got to be kidding me, Chaucer."

Chaucer groaned. "Well, _this_ was a mistake."

"Can't say black folks don't age beautifully," Casper concluded, handing them back their proof of age. "Bud Light and a Heineken, coming up."

Chaucer glanced at the license in his hand... "Hey, Eli."

"Yeah?"

"Last I checked, I wasn't white."

Eli nodded. "Last I checked, I wasn't six-one."

"Trade you?"

The two of them switched up, identities relinquished.

"Good to see you again, Mr. Braswell," Eli said, extending his arm.

Chaucer met his hand, cigarette clamped between his lips. "You talk to the cops already?"

"Last week. Seems I'm in the clear, anyway."

"Yeah," Jessica said. "Good to see you, too, Chaucer."

Chaucer smiled, picked his drink off the bar.

"What's that smile for?" she asked.

"You called me Chaucer."

Jessica took a sip of her soda. "So why haven't I seen you around the hotel?"

"Been busy."

"I'll bet."

Eli stepped into the conversation, holding his beer and a full rack. "You ready for this, Jessica?"

"Better know it."

"You want to join us, Mr. Braswell?" Eli offered.

" _Mr. Braswell_ ," Chaucer muttered, shaking his head. "Kids these days are too damn polite."

"Maybe it's that you're old enough to be my grandfather," Jessica assured him.

"Glass half full says I'm young enough to be your father."

"And now I'm going to have to kick your ass, too..." Jessica took the rack from Eli and motioned for them to follow her. "Try to keep up."

The three of them made their home at table eight, which lay perpendicular to a row of chairs bolted atop a red-painted riser. Each one with seats flipped up like wooden under-bites. Chaucer and Eli settled in. Jessica set up the first rack. She glanced over, saw Chaucer offer Eli a Dunhill. Neither one fazed by this chance encounter.

"Hey, Eli." Jessica pulled out a twenty. "What do you say? Nine-ball, race to three?"

"It's your loot," Eli hopped down and matched the bet.

Jessica took both their bills and stuffed them into a corner pocket. "All right, let's go."

Another Michael Jackson song kicking it on the juke box.

Eli, ever the gentleman, gave Jessica the break.

# ***

For the next half hour, Jessica dominated the table. Up two racks in the first fifteen minutes. Might have even sealed the deal with a straight run, but for an unfortunate scratch on the eight that put Eli behind the nine. The atmosphere grew more lively. Eli talking trash, Chaucer calling out the play-by-play from the stands. The two men kicked up some dust over who would buy the next round, settled by the flip of a coin. Ten dollar side bet.

And try as she might, Jessica had to admit she was having a good time.

It was enough to make a girl satisfied with nothing but orange soda.

By the end of the third game, Eli realized he was outgunned. Resorting to guerrilla tactics, he parked himself alongside Jessica as she set up her shot on the nine.

"You really think you can make that without scratching?" he asked.

Jessica chalked her tip. "If I get an itch, I'll let you know."

She bent over, lining up her sights.

Eli crouched down, face positioned alongside hers. "Top-left spin? Really?"

"You think I'm going to fall to pieces just because you blow in my ear?"

"Is that what I'm doing?"

"No," Jessica replied, relaxing her body as she sent the cue ball downstream to pocket the nine. She straightened, face to face with Eli. "It's just that when it comes your game, _blow_ is the only word comes to mind."

From the bleachers, Chaucer raised his bottle. "We have a winner."

Eli shook his head, trudged over and slapped a twenty into Chaucer's outstretched hand.

Jessica dug her winnings from the corner pocket.

"You're _seventeen_." Eli flipped down a seat and collapsed under the weight of his disgrace. He pulled out a pair of aqua-blue poker chips and began to shuffle them between his fingers. "To think, when I was seventeen..."

As though on cue, Eli and Chaucer began to harmonize Frank Sinatra.

Harmonize loudly.

"You are both extremely pathetic," Jessica informed them, rubbing her eyes.

When she looked up, Dinah was standing by her side.

Jessica's expression rightly matching those of every man in the bar.

At some point since their last encounter, Dinah had transformed into a cat.

Or, at the very least, the centerfold approximation of one.

Her torso was stitched up in a black vinyl corset, laces crisscrossing from her bellybutton on up, giving her breasts significant heft. White, fishnet stockings, complete with black, knee-high boots. Matching gloves that stretched to her elbows, topped with white cotton fringe. A thin, elastic band clung around her neck, dark-sequined mask hanging between her bare shoulder blades.

Topped with a headband sporting two pert, kitten ears.

"Hey, boys, my eyes are up here," she informed them, pointing with a pair of black press-on nails. She gave Jessica a kiss on the cheek.

Beneath the cheap perfume, Jessica caught the maddening whiff of gin martinis.

"Yes, of course," Eli said. "That's what that costume really brings out. Your eyes."

Dinah took a sip of her beer, licked her lips. "Scientists still haven't found a name for their color."

"What's the story with the outfit?" Chaucer asked.

"Take Back The Night march?" Jessica asked.

" _No_." Dinah twirled her tail a few times. "Got a new bar opening downtown, and they're going for a masquerade theme... and as far as _what the hell_ goes, how is it we've all ended up in the same damn place _again_?"

"Small world," Chaucer mused.

"Good enough," Dinah agreed, and leaped onto the riser with feline grace. "So what's the score?"

"Jessica's cleared my balls clean off the table," Eli confessed. He nudged Chaucer. "Why don't you have a go? Gain back our honor?"

"I ain't the one bet against her," Chaucer said, taking hold of Eli's cue stick. He lifted himself up with a stifled groan. Made his way to Jessica's side, and began chalking up. "And don't think I'm going to let you lift a dime off me."

Jessica watched with a wary eye as her aunt curled up next to Eli. "Quit while you're ahead."

"That's right."

Jessica took the chalk out of Chaucer's hands and moved to the end of the table.

She parked her ass on the edge, prepping the cue. Watched a weighted shuffle slide past, knocking an opposing team off the table. Ensuing cries of anger and jubilation filled the room, while the jukebox gave Michael Jackson another chance to serenade from beyond the grave.

Jessica turned around, lowered herself to the table.

Knees bent, shaft moving steadily along her bridge hand.

She glanced up, caught sight of Dinah laughing, throwing a vinyl clad arm around Eli Messner.

Jessica tensed her fingers, and let it fly.

Caught the bottom half of the cue ball, sending it a good foot in the air. Soaring over the rack, hitting the felt with a deafening bounce before clattering uselessly to the floor.

Rolled half way across the room before Jessica was able to recover it.

# ***

"Let me get this..."

Jessica tore her eyes from the Eli, who was playfully tugging at Dinah's tail. "Huh?"

Chaucer passed Casper his MasterCard. "Too late."

The oversized clock over the bar made it ten till eleven. Between their drinks and table time, God only knew what their tab had come to. The crowd had thinned slightly. Transients off in search of hard liquor or a more illicit high. Regulars stuck to the bar like flypaper. Jukebox mercifully giving in to the more mellow sounds of Aretha Franklin and Sam Cooke.

Eli and Dinah had been caught up in an unspoken, perpetual drinking contest.

Meanwhile, Jessica and Chaucer had followed their race to three with another to five.

Jessica had lost the first race by one rack. The second by five.

"Been reading the papers?" Chaucer asked.

"No..." Jessica absently toyed with a steel ashtray. "Not lately."

"Just the online stuff, huh?"

"Yeah."

Caper returned with the printout.

"Miss the locals and you miss a lot," Chaucer said, scribbling out the tip and total. Made it official with a sloppy signature.

Casper took a look at his haul and grinned. Reached up above his head and tugged on the bell, giving it a good seven rings. "What are y'all up to for the rest of this evening?"

"Got an opening downtown!" Dinah announced, shuffling up to the bar, arm in arm with Eli. "That new place, _The Cardinal_ , downtown..." She placed a casual hand on Eli's chest. "You coming or not?"

Eli seemed to have a hell of a way of holding his liquor. Sober enough to weigh his options, at least. "I really should get Jessica home."

"We can drop her off on the way."

"You can drop me off on the way," Jessica echoed sullenly.

Chaucer raised his hand. "If you like, I can go ahead and take care of that... I'm not sure how much you two have had to drink, but the less detours you have to make tonight, the better."

"That OK, Jess?" Dinah asked.

And Jessica was once again stuck being seventeen. "Yeah. Sounds good."

A blanket of wet summer smells greeted them as they stepped outside. The rain was coming down in a light mist, rainbows fading in and out of streetlights.

They all gathered beneath the green and white awning.

"Where you guys parked?" Chaucer asked.

"Across the way," Eli said, motioning to the parking lot of a closed funeral home.

"Me too," Chaucer replied, offering Jessica his copy of the Observer. "For your hair."

"My hair's invincible... Let's just do this."

The group forded the street, leaping over brimming potholes.

Chaucer dug into his pocket, realized he'd left his keys at the bar.

He handed Jessica his newspaper and darted back across the street.

Dinah and Eli began discussing directions, all communications impaired by rain and cheap beer. Jessica halfheartedly covered her head with the limp newspaper. Watched them talk circles. She was about to suggest that Eli drive so she could take the Mustang back to the apartment, when something caught her eye.

Jessica took a few sodden steps. Stood by the trunk of Dinah's car, peering into the dark.

At the edge of the parking lot sat a compact, late model Toyota.

Engine off. Lights out.

Wipers inexplicably activated, sliding back and forth in wide swaths along the windshield.

Jessica watched, mesmerized.

She took another step.

The driver's door opened.

From out of the Toyota's cramped confines, there stepped a monster.

He couldn't have been more than six-two, nothing worth losing any sleep over. But to actually _witness_ this man extract himself from the car was like watching a spider emerge from its home. Legs stretching out. Arms reaching, blindly searching for a handhold. Body unfolding, the specter of a clown from some abandoned circus act, slowly rising from behind the door. Still rising, extending upwards until Jessica thought there couldn't possibly be anymore left of him to reveal.

He remained where he was. Watching her through the rain, his face a pale, smeared thumbprint.

Jessica felt her feet meld with the ground as the giant slammed his door shut and began walking towards her. Long legs that hit the ground with unsteady intensity. Arms stiff, a warped puppet. Grey slacks coming into focus along with a blue windbreaker, dark hair pressed flat against an oblong skull.

_It's him_ , Jessica realized dully, reaching back to grab hold of the Mustang's taillight.

Angry Jonny.

The figure drew closer, arm raised in a limp, disjointed greeting. "Hey, there, Jessica Kincaid."

His gurgling tenor sent Jessica hurtling back to graduation day.

Standing behind the bleachers, the last time she'd seen vice principal Davenport.

"What the hell are _you_ doing here?" Jessica heard Dinah lash out.

Davenport stood fast, tottering uneasily under his own height. Thick lips split in a broad grin that failed to touch his unfocused, bloodshot eyes. Unfazed by the rain. Mud-caked penny loafers dirtying the cuffs of his wrinkled pants.

Jessica's muscles seized. No longer afraid, just furious at the mere sight of him. "So you're alive after all."

"You called my bluff, Jessica," Davenport slurred. "Got yourself good and _shit-canned_ from the paper, how great for you."

"Are you following me?"

"I'll tell you what... Round two, Jessica. How about that? A second chance. Born again, you can start over. We can all just... start over."

Jessica thought she heard Eli from somewhere far away: _who the fuck is this?_

"It's nothing," Jessica called back over her shoulder. "Let's just get out of here."

"Uh-uh." Dinah stepped up to her niece's side. "I'm not going anywhere, _I'm not letting this piece of shit get away with this!_ "

"Dinah, he's drunk, don't –"

"Round two, you got that?" Davenport sneered, spit dangling from his lower lip. "How about if I go ahead and make it known that you two don't actually live in the Brookside school district?"

Dinah took a step back.

"That's right!" Davenport proclaimed. "I talked to Carlton Walsh, Dinah. Your ex-boyfriend? He told all about how he's been letting _you_ use _his_ address for _all_ of Jessica's school business. But now, _I_ know where you live. _Other fucking side of town_ , that's where you live. How's that sound, Jessica? You can go ahead and spend your Senior year at Washington High, in that stink hole with the rest of the _blacks_ , how you like that?"

No, Jessica didn't like that.

But she didn't like Davenport just a little bit more.

"I'd like to see you get out of my face, _Clarence_ ," Jessica spat, voice echoing in her own head.

Davenport blinked, as though he'd never heard his own name. "What?"

"I'd like to see you get back in your car, and go home. I'd like you to pop open a few more cold ones and scream at the walls, because they are the _only_ ones who'll listen. I'd like you to curl up in bed, all by your lonesome, and think about this... you're looking at a woman who will _die_ before she lets you have your way. Now, be honest with me... How do you like _that?_ "

"Oh, Jessica..." He shook his head, voice rumbling. "You have no idea what I can do to you..."

Dinah took a hold of Jessica's shoulder, steadying herself. "I'm not playing, you drunk son of a bitch, you leave us _alone_ –"

"Alone, fine!" Davenport interrupted. "You can come clean right now, no playing –"

"All right, pal..." Eli stepped in, planting a hand against Davenport's chest. Skin and bones shrink-wrapped in his cheap suit. "Turn around right now and get back in your car. Right now, I ain't playing either. Do it now."

"Done playing with you," Davenport muttered, gaze soaring easily over Eli's head, drilling into Jessica's eyes. "Done playing with you..." He took a lunging step forward. " _You BITCH!_ "

Even as Eli rammed his fist into Davenport's gut, the vice principal's heft sent them both careening against Jessica. She fell flat against the Mustang, crush of their combined weight robbing her lungs of air. Eyes filling with rain. Blurry images coming in muddied, incoherent snapshots. Davenport's hands trawling for her face with large, ropey hands. Rusted paint scraping against her cheek. Eli going to town on Davenport's ribcage. Dinah caught up in the mix, fists pounding ineffectively against the vice-principal's face.

A stream of water found its way into Jessica's mouth, down her throat.

Just as she began to gasp for air, the pressure lifted from her body.

She rolled off the Mustang, feet planted firmly on the ground. Doubled over, arm spread out over the trunk.

Jessica straightened with one last, burning gasp to find Eli on the ground.

Dinah grabbing hold of his arms, black boots struggling to gain traction as she pulled him up.

Chaucer Braswell, holding Davenport in a headlock. Bared teeth grinding against his captive's ear, yelling for him to _Cool it, goddamn it!_

" _Cool it, right now, or I will SNAP your neck!_ "

Jessica called out the garbled vowels that made up Chaucer's name.

He looked up, whites of his eyes gleaming against his skin.

Wet with the rain, Davenport managed to slip out of his death grip. Twisting his body an ungainly three-sixty, he sent an elbow right into the aging detective's abdomen.

Chaucer let out a nauseated grunt, reached for something to hold onto.

Jessica lurched forward, wrapped her arms beneath his, fingers linked along his chest.

The parking lot lit up with the glare of headlights.

Davenport was back behind the wheel of his car, engine bellowing. He pealed out with a water-logged screech that sent his car fishtailing. Front bumper coming within three feet of Chaucer's outstretched legs. The side door smashed up against Dinah's tail light. Sparks flew from the undercarriage as the Toyota bounced off the curb, swerved onto the shimmering streets, speeding south.

Somewhere in the middle of their rumble, it had finally stopped raining.

Chaucer and Jessica slowly rose from their crouch.

Eli was already upright. Batting Dinah's concerned hands away, pointing towards Jessica.

"You all right, baby?" Dinah asked, clopping over.

From across the street, Casper came running.

"What the hell?" His cellphone was already unsheathed, at the ready. "Everyone all right? Jessica, Blondie? Chaucer?"

"Everything's good," Jessica gasped. She glanced down the street, lungs aching something awful. "He's gone. Ain't coming back, everything's fine."

"You want me to call the police?"

"No," Dinah said, leaning back against the car. "Don't worry about it."

"Dinah..." Chaucer caught his breath, wiping the rain from his face. "Listen, with every minute that passes, that guy's speeding away to –"

"We know who he is," Jessica told him, inexplicably lucid. "Clarence Davenport. This ain't the first time we've had trouble with him."

"Then you'd damn well better call the police."

"Yeah, well, I don't feel like talking to the cops tonight," Dinah snapped.

"Hey, if they don't want to," Eli panted, rubbing the early makings of a bruise on his left cheek. "Why not wait 'till tomorrow?"

"If you know this man, know his name," Chaucer managed... "And if the son of a bitch is drunk as his breath seems to indicate, that's half your battle, right there."

"Man's right," Casper agreed. "I'm not saying this won't hold up in court if you wait and file a report in the morning. But if he's arrested under the influence, he's going to have reckless endangerment and possibly an attempted hit and run on his list of offences. And you can be sure he'll cop a plea at the preliminary. You can be _damn_ sure."

"Yeah, well..." Dinah sniffed, crossing her arms. "I'm standing here in a goddamn cat costume. Dressed like a Goddamn child on Halloween, and I'm not talking to the cops like this. I'm going downtown, and I'm having a drink. I'm going to wake up tomorrow, hungover, but happy. And _then_ I'm going to the cops."

Chaucer put a hand on Jessica's shoulder.

Jessica looked across the street. A fair amount of people had gathered outside. Witnesses.

"Tomorrow," Jessica concluded. "Dinah, you go on and wave your freak flag high."

Casper flipped his cell shut. "You sure?"

"Yeah..." Jessica nodded, wiped damp curls from her face. "Clarence Davenport don't know he's in the clear. I can wait for tomorrow."

"All right then," Casper relented. "I've got to head back. Call me if you need me. Anything, all right?"

Jessica nodded, watched him run back across the street.

Had a pretty good feeling he was already gathering names for potential witnesses.

"Take me home, Chaucer," Jessica said.

He silently obliged, leading her towards an immaculately restored, maroon 1976 Eldorado.

"You sure you OK, Jess?" Dinah asked.

"Yeah, yeah... You two have a drink for me. Have a couple thousand, send some of those good vibes my way."

Jessica could hear Eli and Dinah debating in low mumbles.

Whether or not to go ahead with their night on the town.

She didn't feel like sticking around to sway the jury one way of the other.

Chaucer held the door open for her, and Jessica slid into the soft interior.

# **Chapter 12:** **Midnight** **Teatime.**

Jessica had just finished drying her hair, when she heard a shrill scream through her bedroom door.

She dropped the towel, tightened the sash around her cornflower bathrobe, and ran like hell. Yanking the door open, she leaped across the hallway. Her white socks slid on the kitchen floor as she scrambled to gain traction. Grabbing hold of the counter, she propelled herself forward.

With a quick, rehearsed flick of her wrist, Jessica turned the stove off and removed the kettle from the back left burner. The wail of white-hot steam died down. She flipped the lid, poured. Watched the teabags rise to the top. Scooped some sugar, added some almond milk.

Chaucer was standing at the living room window, staring out into the night. Hands behind his back. Dressed in khakis and a white-cotton T-shirt he'd stashed in his trunk.

Without a word, Jessica placed the mugs on the table alongside her closed laptop.

She walked back across the room. Turned the radio on, tuned in to 90.07.

The jangling chords of four-bar blues eased out into the room.

Chaucer's voice gave away what sounded like a sly smile: "The blues, really?"

"Usually a jazz station. Broadcasts from Verona Central University. Friday nights, though, they've got this show. _Blues Before Sunrise_. Straight out of Chicago."

"Bet you twenty bucks that's Blind Lemon Jefferson we're listening to."

"Not letting you take any more of my money," Jessica said, collapsing into her chair.

"Beautiful view."

Jessica tilted her head, checking out his profile. A past life of peak physical fitness was slowly giving way to traces of fat and loose skin. Not bad for a man his age, no doubt, but mortality wasn't done with him yet.

"You're looking at low rent apartments and a cemetery," she reminded him. "Come get your tea before it gets cold."

Chaucer obliged. Sat down across from her, removed the teabag and tossed it into the ashtray. Lit a Dunhill and did a French-inhale.

"Thanks for taking care of Davenport," Jessica said, taking a careful sip of tea.

"Taking care, nothing..." Chaucer sighed, shook his head. "Shouldn't have let him get away. Getting old, that's the real problem... There's times I forget I ain't a detective no more. Even after all this time... at the end of the day, it's a young man's game."

"You ever miss it?"

"It's like a virus," Chaucer said, drinking his tea. "Know why you never get the chicken pox after the first time?"

"Because of the antibodies."

"Because of the antibodies, that's right... But even if you're immune, that virus is still with you. Inside you. The price you pay for moving on is realizing there was always something wrong to begin with."

"Kind of like how there's no such thing as an ex-alcoholic."

"No such thing, no..." Chaucer snubbed out his cigarette

Jessica nodded.

Chaucer smiled from across the table, and unsheathed another cancer stick.

"So speaking of detectives," Jessica ventured. "They never showed up."

"Say what?"

"Donahue. Randal. Never came back for me."

"Hmm..." Chaucer brought the cigarette tip to his lips. Blowing smoke, watching the glow intensify. "Well, this new business with Jason Castle. All that money under the table. It's a pretty effective distraction... but that's all it is. Delaying the outcome doesn't change it one way or the other."

"What do you mean?"

Chaucer motioned to her laptop. "Mind if I use that?"

"Hang on..." Jessica opened it. Brought up the Internet Explorer, guiding the mouse along with varied left and right clicks.

"Erasing your browser history?" Chaucer asked.

No point in lying about it. "Yeah."

"Making sure I won't know you were checking up on me?"

"Yeah."

"How'd I do?"

"I let you into my home, didn't I?" Jessica slid the laptop over. "Go ahead."

Chaucer typed in a few keystrokes, mostly using his index and middle fingers. He scrolled down, while the blues continued to bemoan the loss of everything that had once made life worth living. "Here..." He slid the laptop back across the table.

Jessica sat up, scooting her chair close.

For a moment, she was sure Chaucer was taunting her. The glare of the Verona Observer website washed over her face, reminding her that this was where she had once belonged.

She ground her teeth, forcing the thoughts away.

Focused instead on the content before her: a long list of user feedback on the latest Angry Jonny article. Commentaries from the kind of people who wrote letters to the editor, listened to talk radio, or who had been told by one too many bartenders to _keep it down, or pay the tab and get out_.

**Kindred123:** _Too long, they have taken our money, stolen our country from us. Castle got what he deserved. As will everyone, when the time comes._

Chaucer stood up, rounded the table.

Leaned in close, resting his hand on the back of Jessica's chair as she continued to read.

**Patriot_Cash:** _Why stop at the eyes? Why stop at the tongue? Rip out the heart. Show it to Jason Castle, let him know it was black as night before he finds his place in hell with the rest of the politicians._

**Brown1999:** _While Angry Jonny shouldn't have done what he did, I sure do get it!_

**FightThePower:** _Angry Jonny is a hero. A warrior. While the rest of the country rots, while unemployment goes rocketing, while the icecaps melt and polar bears slowly drown, while corporations dump their stink into our water and our children, and the rest of the world starves, Angry Jonny is the revolution._

**ADAMS_FREEDOM:** _Liberals are laughing not because such things couldn't happen- even with their perfect, false GOD, we must now face ANGRY JONNY._

**GRACEOFGOD:** _"Every city and province, without exception, that does not observe this decree shall be ruthlessly destroyed with fire and sword, so that it will be left not merely untrodden by men, but even shunned by wild beasts and birds forever." (Esther 8:24)_

**Adam8:** _Are we really thinking there's justice in the courts? Where would Castle be ten years from now? I won't allow it. Even though Angry Jonny must be punished, his death won't change what he did. And if there is more, then I hope it takes all the fat bankers and vile elites with him._

"It kind of goes on like that," Chaucer informed her.

"Yeah..." As a rule, she generally avoided user comments. Wasn't just the raw anger, hatred, frightening diatribes. Mostly, it was the shoddy quality of the words that most upset her. Opinion in place of rationality. "It's getting weird out there."

"Strange days," Chaucer agreed, straightening up. He took a few steps into the living room, leaving a smoky trail. "There's people who say it's always been like this. That the times we live in are no more, if not less chaotic than what's come before. Just a problem of modernization. Now that it's so easy to find out what some lunatic over in Burlington thinks, we just take it to mean things are reaching a fever pitch."

"Doesn't sound like you buy it."

"What do you think?" Chaucer asked, turning back to the table.

Jessica crossed her legs on the chair, stretched her spine. "I think anger is rewarding. There may be any number of expressions to contradict that _; so angry I couldn't see straight, so angry I couldn't think, so angry it made me sick_... Truth is, it's a mighty big endorphin rush. And like most chemical releases, it's always going to be easier to say yes to anger. Fighting it is just too much damn work."

"You seem to have a pretty good handle on yours..."

"Maybe. But it ain't a walk in the park. Add to that the fact that I'm never even sure _why_ I even bother to keep it from taking over. There's days I feel I'm just two steps shy from being one of these."

Chaucer silently regarded the endless list of anonymous rants.

Her point now made, Jessica closed the window.

Chaucer's face softened. The desktop pic of baby Jessica and her mother smiled up at him. He moved in for a closer look. "Is that you?"

Jessica shifted in her seat, absently toyed with the desktop touchpad. "Yeah."

"And is that your mom?"

"That's her, yeah."

"You miss her?"

"Sometimes." Jessica brought the laptop towards her and brought up her homepage. "Kind of like a virus, ain't it?"

Chaucer nodded, didn't press the issue. He snubbed his cigarette out, drank the last of his tea. "Well, thanks for the conversation, Jessica. Best I be moving on."

"Thanks again for taking care of Davenport."

"Hmm..."

Something in his response stopped Jessica midway through keying in her password. She glanced up, caught him staring out the window, once more.

"Something wrong, Chaucer?"

"Nothing wrong, no."

"Can't be that nothing, right?"

Chaucer gave it some serious consideration before asking, "You know, I've come across men like Davenport more times than I care to count."

"Me too."

"And it's been my experience men like that don't quit. They have exceptional problems letting go of their obsessions."

"As I said, I've also had my fair share of –"

"How would you feel if I were to pay Davenport a visit on your behalf?" Chaucer offered, keeping the suggestion flat and free of intention.

"Pay him a visit why?"

"Maybe it might help. Might help if I were to... lean on him a little bit."

The very notion left Jessica breathless with excitement. She gave herself half a minute of happy speculation, fantasies running wild, before stepping back with a shake of her head. "Remember what we were talking about earlier?"

"Yeah. Guess we've already got ourselves one Angry Jonny."

"You let me handle Davenport."

"You sure?"

Jessica shrugged. "Mamma said something about there being days like this."

"Is that a reference to _The Shirells_?"

"Better know it."

"Got to say, I'm bursting with pride."

"Unless you're filled with Mexican candy, please don't."

"Candy free zone, I'm afraid." Chaucer gave his stomach a few pats. "Mind if I use your facilities before getting out of here?"

While Chaucer hit the head, Jessica took their mugs back to the kitchen. Threw some ice in a glass, filled in the blanks with tonic water. She returned to the living room, checked her email. The red and blue flash of police lights glanced off the walls, a disco moment before the engine of a cruiser roared past outside.

Jessica had one new message.

From Angela Lansing, the building manager.

SUBJECT: so sorry.

Jessica winced, wondering if maybe there had been some problem with their lease renewal. One apprehensive click later, and Jessica found herself nervously mouthing the opening words to herself:

Dear Jessica. So sorry to have to tell you this way. I've attached the email I'll be sending to the rest of our tenants come Monday. I just wanted to let you know first. You've always been one of my favorites. You and your aunt. If you have any questions, please stop by tomorrow after midday. I'll be in the office, clearing things out. Again, so sorry it ended up this way...

Jessica scrolled down, more confused than worried.

And as she began to read, those two emotions quickly changed sides.

"What's wrong?"

Chaucer was standing at the threshold, wiping the back of his hands against his shirt.

Jessica stared back at him, not bothering to retract her stunned expression. "They've sold the building."

"What?"

"Camelot Apartments," Jessica clarified, more for her own benefit than for his. Trying to keep the news from overwhelming her, eyes unable to focus on any part of the email. "They've sold my home."

The clock on her computer ticked five past midnight.

In a little under ten hours, Jessica would find herself in an interrogation room, doing all she could to assure the police that she bore no responsibility for Angry Jonny's second victim.

# **Chapter 13:** **Fringe** **Benefits.**

The windows were the biggest surprise.

Jessica had always envisioned interrogation rooms as death traps. She'd read somewhere that the ideal setting to coax a confession was to start with a small, soundproof room. Add a table, three chairs. One for the suspect, two for the authorities. Thick steel door sealed shut.

And of course, no windows.

Nowhere to turn, nowhere to run.

Jessica shifted in her seat, took a look behind her. Some seven feet up the wall were two windows, carved into the gray concrete. Pastel sunshine streaming through wire mesh. The room may not have been cramped, but it was symmetrically bare of all personality. Not even fitted with the iconic, one-way mirror.

The table before her was empty, save a digital recorder, slender and elliptical.

Despite the present circumstances, all she could focus on was the email Angela Lansing had sent her.

Jessica had already been fully dressed, on her way to the main office, when Donahue and Randal came knocking at the back door.

_We need to talk to you_ , Donahue had informed her, not so much as a good morning.

_And we're going to want it on the record_ , Randal had added.

Jessica agreed to accompany them downtown. Or, in less dramatic terms, five minutes down the street to the Verona Police Department. And now, in a room less dramatic than she had imagined, Jessica continued to think about the sale of Camelot, right up until the door swung open.

The detectives sat down across from her without a word. Randal laid a folder on the table, reached for the recorder and switched it on.

"Questioning Jessica Marshal Kinkaid," he dictated. "Ten hundred hours, Saturday, June twenty-seven, two thousand and nine."

Donahue reached into his coat and pulled out a bottle of spring water. He placed it before Jessica, leaned back. "Anytime you want us to grab you some coffee, just let us know."

"I will."

"Where were you last night, morning of June twenty-seventh, between the hours of one and five in the morning?" Donahue asked.

"Not wasting any time, are we?"

"Please answer the question, Jessica."

"I was at home."

"Could you please state your address?"

"Fifteen Hundred, University Road. Verona, North Carolina. Apartment K3A. Need the zip?"

"No. What were you doing between the hours of one and five in the morning?"

Jessica frowned. "I was asleep."

"Could anybody corroborate this?"

"I was asleep at the time, so if you're asking me if there's anyone who habitually watches me sleep –"

"Was your aunt, Dinah Titus, home at the time?"

"I don't know... Like I said, I was asleep."

"What time did you fall asleep?" Randal asked.

"I'm guessing around twelve-thirty."

"Guessing?"

"I was checking my email. Right before I closed my laptop, the desktop clock read twelve-thirty, so... maybe more like quarter to one."

"And Dinah wasn't home at the time?" Donahue asked.

"No."

"Do you know where she was?"

Jessica reached for the water. Twisted the cap, heard the neck snap. "There was an opening downtown. A new place called _The Cardinal_."

"Was she in the apartment when you woke up?"

"No."

"Do you know where she spent the night?"

"Don't know. She was due for a shift over at the Prescott. Could've come in, crashed, then gone off to work before I woke up."

Randal smiled. "But you can't tell us for sure, right?"

It wasn't exactly checkmate of the century, but Jessica felt she'd left her flank exposed. "Yes, sorry. Of course, I have no idea."

"Coffee?"

Jessica kept quiet.

"I really was about to get some myself," Randal assured her.

"Sure."

"How do you take it?"

"I think you remember."

Randal nodded, gave his partner a pat on the shoulder as he stood form his chair.

Jessica watched the junior detective exit the room. She took a sip of water that became four massive gulps. Drained clean. Sat the empty down and locked eyes with Donahue.

Hadn't Eli mentioned something about that last night?

_I see a player reach for his drink, that's when I reach for my chips_.

"What's going on, Detective Donahue?" she asked.

"Sorry to say, the time for show and tell is over."

"Shame."

"Not that you were ever in the loop. Everything we ever let you know, we let you know because we wanted you to know it."

"In case you're worried I might scurry off to Al Holder, rest easy. I am no longer in his employment."

"Interesting how that works out."

"Not really."

"What were you doing before you fell asleep?"

"Checking my email," Jessica said. "In case you didn't get that the first time you asked."

"What time did you get home?"

"About a quarter to twelve."

"Where were you before you came home?"

"How about I just break it down for you?"

"Of course."

"Want to wait?"

"For?"

Jessica motioned to the door behind her. "Your boyfriend."

"You think you're the first to make that crack?"

"Cutest, maybe."

"Maybe."

Jessica sighed, leaned forward in her seat. "I got off work around six. I saw Dinah just before I left. She was covering a shift for a few hours. I had myself a bite at Caliente Cantina. I went to On the Rail. I played a few games of pool. I had a few orange sodas. Dinah joined me 'round ten. She went off to her party. I went home."

Randal came back in, carefully balancing three mugs between his hands. Before Jessica could even figure how he'd managed to work the knob, he kicked the door shut. Jessica had expected a resounding, dramatic slam. All she got was the sound of a latch clicking into place.

Randal distributed the coffee.

"Thanks," she said.

"You said you got off work at around six," Donahue told her as Randal sat down. "You saw Dinah just before you left. She was covering someone's shift for a few hours. You had a bite at The Caliente Cantina. Went to On The Rail. Dinah joined you there. Ten-ish. She went off to her party, and you went home..."

Jessica reached for her coffee. "You get that, Detective Randal? All caught up with last week's episode?"

Randal glanced over at his partner, casually taking a sip of coffee. "Yeah, I'm all good."

"Good," Donahue said. "Could anyone else corroborate where you were?"

"Yes..." Jessica gave it a moment's thought. Figured this wasn't the time to play possum. "Eli Messner and Chaucer Braswell."

"Really."

"Yes."

"They were at the pool hall?"

"Eli was having a drink at the Prescott. He drove me to the Cantina. Then we went and shot some stick. Chaucer was already there. Dinah joined us. There you have it."

Randal grinned. "The Angry Jonny All-Stars."

Donahue shot him a look.

Jessica covered this observation with a sip of coffee. It appeared as though Randal had let his guard down. Then again, was it really like Donahue to give away that Randal had given it away?

"You want me to leave you two alone?" Jessica asked.

"Why didn't you mention Eli and Chaucer earlier?"

"Because you didn't ask," Jessica replied, growing annoyed. "Look, if you want me to stay, you're going to have to give me something."

"We don't have to give you anything," Donahue told her. "Clarence Davenport was found in his home this morning. Eyes gone, tongue severed. _Angry Jonny_ written on the wall."

Randal saved them all a few minutes: "We already know about your situation with Clarence Davenport."

"So let's not get into that right now," Donahue said. "You left the pool hall. With Dinah, Chaucer and Eli. The three of them were parked at the funeral home across the street. Once you got there, you were accosted by Davenport. He attacked you, then sped off in his car. And you have failed to mention this, why?"

"Yeah." Jessica smirked. "Yeah, sorry about that."

"Sorry about that?" Randal leaned in. "Why wouldn't you tell us? Come to think of it, why didn't you file a complaint against him last night?"

This didn't look good. "You know all about Davenport and me?"

"Yes," Donahue affirmed.

"Do you know about his friendship with Glen Roberts?"

"Yes."

"Do you know that Davenport was the reason I lost my internship?"

"We do..." Donahue crossed his arms, face blank. "That's what we frequently refer to as motive."

"You really mean that."

"Why didn't you tell us about what happened outside On the Rail?"

"Leverage," Jessica said.

"Please clarify?"

"I didn't _want_ to report what he did. I told everyone I was planning to file in the morning, when I felt less... well, who cares what excuse I gave? Plain truth, it was what I'd been hoping he'd do: snap, eventually. I figured enough people had witnessed the altercation. My plan was to go to him on my own. Tell him that he had gone too far. I was going to tell Davenport that, unless he stopped screwing with my life, unless he got me my internship back, I would go to the cops... I really believed I had him this time."

"Only that's not how it worked out," Donahue concluded. "Instead, Davenport ended up... well, how anyone who crosses you ends up these days."

"Which helps me how?" Jessica asked. "Instead of getting what I want, I'm sitting here in an interrogation room, talking to you two."

"Actually, this isn't an interrogation room," Randal informed her. He smiled and shook his head: "You don't want to see our interrogation room."

Jessica cleared her throat.

"Could you take a look at this, please?" Donahue asked. He opened the folder, removed a quart-sized Ziploc bag. Rather than a blunt instrument, or some blood-encrusted X-Acto knife, all it contained was a standard, eight-by-eleven sheet of paper. He placed the bag and its innocuous resident before her.

It was a scrawled note. A little too scrawled; jet-black capital letters, thick and rough around the edges.

Jessica leaned in close. Peered past the ripples and plastic eddies.

THIS STORY BELONGS TO JESSICA. LET HER BACK IN, MR. HOLDER. OR INNOCENT PEOPLE WILL DIE – ANGRY JONNY.

Each word jumped off the page, collective message leaving Jessica more confounded than cold.

"What is this?" she asked.

"We were hoping you could tell us," Randal said.

"No." Jessica gave the letter a second read. "No, I can't tell you anything about this. What _is_ this?"

"This is a letter," Donahue said. "Sent to the Verona Observer. Snail mail. The envelope was addressed to Al Holder. Arrived just this morning. Looks like Angry Jonny's got a bit invested in your wellbeing, Jessica."

Jessica wanted to protest. Got so far as opening her mouth.

Stopped. Drew her dry lips shut.

"Well. Glad you don't feel like arguing otherwise." Donahue sounded relieved, though no less stern. "Angry Jonny's first victim was just a passing inconvenience. Some jerk in a restaurant. His second, Clarence Davenport... A bit of a thorn in your paw. And now, it appears you've got yourself a bit of payback. Add to that, an anonymous letter demanding your reinstatement to the Observer... I'd say this is working out pretty well for you."

"Yeah, thems is the facts," Jessica agreed, nodding.

The two detectives exchanged a look.

" _Thems is the facts_?" Donahue repeated, putting a finger to his earlobe. "That's it? That's all you got. Thems is the facts."

"Well, thems _is_."

"Do you even _care_ about what he did to Clarence Davenport?"

Jessica felt the indignation boil over. "When I say _thems is the facts_ , it's because there's nothing left to say. I can't deny them. That's what makes them facts. And I'm not going to defend myself because that is what _guilty_ people do. Explanations are _your_ job."

"Helping us is your duty as a citizen," Donahue reminded her, leaning forward with emerging menace. "That's regardless of whether or not the constitution can or cannot enforce integrity or decency."

"And this is your master strategy to enlist my help? Accusations, recrimination. Sanctimonious little speeches about the content of my character?"

"You're angry at us?"

"Here's the _facts_... For every piece of information incriminating me, there's any number of factors that don't add up. When the letter was postmarked. Why Angry Jonny refers to people _dying_ , when it's clear this asshole's not a _killer_. If it's occurred to me, then it's occurred to you. I've been nothing but help so far, but instead of asking, you thought why not scare me with a story that's got more holes than a sinking ship. The facts are, I'm pissed that you think I'm that _stupid_."

Jessica laid back in her seat, crossed her arms and legs.

Sealed herself off good and tight as the room regained its previous dimensions. Walls receding, windows widening, once again letting in a good dose of summertime sheen.

Randal raised his coffee cup. Absent sips, as though he had never been listening.

Even Donahue took a more relaxed pose. Leaned into his chair, abandoning bad cop for something a little more easygoing. He glanced up to the ceiling, as though trying to get a look at his own thoughts, hovering just above his head. The glimmer of a smile touched his lips. Leveling his gaze, he gave Jessica a slow nod before speaking:

"I think you enjoy being treated like an adult," Donahue told her. He spoke with a slow, confident stride, perfectly at ease with the time it was taking to gather his thoughts. "Scratch that, Jessica. Every teenager wants to be treated like an adult. I think maybe the difference is, you _appreciate_ being treated like an adult..."

Jessica felt her anger melting away, serpent shedding its skin.

"Then again..." Donahue continued, smile receding from his eyes. "It could just be that you have a real fucking problem being treated like a child."

Jessica's abdominals tightened.

"Talked down to," Donahue clarified. "Condescended to. Nothing wrong with that. Being an adult's got its own fringe benefits. But here's the thing..." His smile had now completely vanished. Replaced with a dead, uncompromising look. "The older you get, the less you get to know. About everything. The less there _is_ to know about everything. If being a kid means the world is one large, open book, then being an adult means all you ever get is a shitty little pamphlet reminding you why you're going to hell."

Donahue sighed, taking no pleasure in what he was about to say.

"I like you. Randal likes you... But we're not your friends, Jessica. Randal's not your friend. I'm not your friend. Matter of fact, there's not a soul in this building who is. We don't care about friendship. Fuck friendship. There's someone out there. Someone more ruthless, more driven, and, yes, possibly more dangerous to the safety of this city than anyone we've ever tried to track down. Someone that absolutely must be stopped. And as of this moment, you are officially standing in our way."

Donahue crossed his arms. "You want to be treated like an adult, be prepared to get tried as one."

Jessica didn't bat an eye. "Can I go now?"

"Yeah." Donahue reached over, stopped the recording. "Could've gone whenever you wanted. Thank you for your time."

"Thank you for my ride home," Jessica said, standing up and straightening her shirt, jeans. Doing all she could to brush Donahue's declaration of war from her clothes. "Or is this one of those dates where if a girl don't put out, she's hoofing it home?"

"We are here to serve and protect," Donahue said curtly. "Detective Randal will escort you to your apartment. After which, he will gladly take you to your next destination."

"Oh?"

"As of this morning, you are officially back on staff with the Verona Observer. Report immediately to Al Holder. He'll fill you in on the rest." Without taking his eyes off Jessica's, he pointed to Randal. "Get her out of my sight, Detective."

Randal escorted Jessica past security. Bundled her into his car and drove her home. Told her to get changed, the only words he had spoken to her since leaving the station.

Jessica went to do the detective's bidding.

Taking the steps one at a time.

With his assault on Clarence Davenport, Angry Jonny had rid her of another enemy and graced her with two more.

On the bright side, the sale of Camelot Apartments was no longer the foremost problem in her life.

# **Chapter 14:** **The New Guy.**

Al Holder sat at his desk, digits intertwined beneath his mouth, save for two index fingers forming a steeple against his mustache. He looked tired, pale. Haggard expression an extension of his wrinkled shirt, skewed tie, and unbuttoned cuffs.

Jessica sat, waiting. The door was shut, effectively sealing off all sounds from the office. She sensed any number of people hovering outside, dancing on one leg, impatiently waiting for their leader to move on the story.

For the time being, it was just the two of them.

"I imagine you've heard of the Pentagon Papers," Al said.

"New York Times published them in1971. Basically, the classified plans to keep the Vietnam war going, including secret bombings of Cambodia, Laos and coastal raids on Vietnam."

"When what I should have said is I imagine you've heard of Wikipedia... It was one of the first and greatest debates concerning what newspapers must print and what they simply cannot."

"I think I see where you're going with this."

"It's more for my benefit than for yours," Al assured her. "I'm thrilled to have you back with us, Jessica... I mean that. But I wish to God it didn't have to be this way. The only people who know about the letter are in this room. Ethan doesn't know. President of the Observer, the board, none of them..." Al closed his eyes, face contorting like the seconds before admitting infidelity. "And I plan to keep it that way."

Jessica gave him a thankful smile.

"Yeah, I know..." Al chuffed, held up a meaty palm. "Whatever. It kills me to do it, but the alternative is much worse. I don't want the public knowing about this, not just yet. If I did, you'd basically have a sign around your neck. Donahue and Randal have informed me that they will take similar steps to assure your secrecy."

"How long do you suppose that will last?" Jessica asked.

"I don't know. We take it one cycle at a time. Time being, here's what's what. You left on personal business. That business is now taken care of. As long as you continue to work here, I'm hoping we won't receive any more complaints from our psycho-at-large. If we do, we will deal with them as they come."

"Thank you."

"Don't get ahead of yourself. I've got maybe two minutes to bring you up to speed..." Al reached for his coffee, took a sip. "After you left, I felt it was my duty to fill your position."

"You've been interning for yourself?"

"Glad to see you haven't lost your sense of humor. Point is, you know I did all I could to prove Davenport wrong." He paused. The vice-principal's name had now taken on a very different meaning, and they both knew it. "Point is, it didn't look like I was going to be clearing your name anytime soon, so I went down the list and tried to find a runner-up to fill the position. We got a new guy now, and to keep things on the down-low, he's going to stick around, so I hope you don't mind a little competition."

"There's no _I_ in _team_ , sir."

"Depends on the typo."

"What about Ethan?"

"Huh?"

"Ethan Prince, your second-in-command?" Jessica reminded him. "Mr. Metro? He knows Davenport got me booted."

"Yeah..." Al straightened his tie. "Soon as we heard about Davenport, I told him I was calling you back in. He asked me, _and what's Davenport going to say about that?_ "

"What'd you tell him?"

"I told him it doesn't look like Davenport's going to be saying much of anything for a while."

"That's real dark, sir."

"I ain't the one cut out the son of a bitch's tongue. And if you hadn't already gathered, these are dark times. You ready to get to work?"

"Yes, sir."

Al rose from his seat, rounded his desk and made for the door.

Jessica cleared her throat. "Sir?"

Al turned.

"I am... also unhappy with how I ended up back here."

"I know."

"Really. I really am."

"Jessica..." Al pointed to his face and traced a sad outline with two swift circles. "Not a therapist... OK?"

"Yes, sir."

"Let's get moving."

Next door, Ethan Prince was perched on the edge of his desk. A single, bony butt cheek resting on his day planner, phone to his ear. Off to one side stood Celia, dressed in her usual Klondike regalia. Rosy cheeks encompassing a tiny smile as she leaned in and gave Jessica's arm a compassionate squeeze. Sympathy for whatever fabricated emergency had called Jessica from duty.

Ethan hung up and furiously rubbed his pen against a worn legal pad. "All right, here's the rundown..."

"Where's the new guy?" Al asked.

"Doing what new guys do: getting me a box of pens. In other news, I just got off the phone with Jim. Apparently, this all started with a call to the VFD. Neighbor was walking his dog, round about three-thirty in the morning. He thought he heard a smoke alarm from inside the house. He called the men with the red suspenders, and they're the ones that found Davenport in his living room. Tied to a chair. Eyes, tongue, the whole ball of wax."

"Does our neighbor have a name?"

"Jeffry Cates."

"And did Jim manage to talk to him?"

"On the phone, yes. Not much of an eye witness, the man's a less than respectable eighty-three. Didn't notice anything out of the ordinary as far as our boy Angry Jonny. However..." Ethan raised a finger. "One of the firemen told him the alarm was set off by a burning coffeemaker."

Al nodded. "Do any of the stations have this?"

"Cops aren't talking to anyone. Fire department's been asked to keep mum as well. Jim found out about Mr. Cates from one of the neighbors standing by the barricades, so unless Mr. Cates is a some kind of aging media whore, everyone else is one step behind."

"Let's get this online." Al turned to Celia. "Get Lloyd to call Jim, get the ball rolling."

Celia nodded, stepped outside.

"So the cops aren't talking?" Al asked.

"Getting a little redundant there," Ethan said. "Larry went downtown, couldn't get a thing."

"No other breaks, no other witnesses?"

It took Jessica a few beats to realize that Al's curiosity was based solely on her safety. Hers and his, already worried just when the pipeline would spring a leak.

"There's a press conference at two," Ethan said.

"Last time it took them two days."

"They're looking to slip this one past the rotation... Case you haven't heard, Michael Jackson's still dead."

"So this press conference is just going to be a treasure trove of useless information."

"Unless there's something Jessica would like to add..." Ethan smirked, shifting in his seat. "How about it, girlfriend? Anything you know that we don't?"

Jessica sighed. "When I was thirteen I was sent to the principal's office for peeing in the boys' room."

"Nothing at all?" Ethan prodded, stretching out across his desk. "I'd be curious to hear what you have to say, now that you're back here pretending to be a journalist."

"Wouldn't want to step on your toes. You've been pretending a whole lot longer than I have."

"Stop." Al ordered. "Both of you."

"It's a fair question," Ethan shot back and slid off the desk. Hands on his hips, thumbs hooked into his black, Kenneth Cole belt. "Davenport's the one that got you tossed. Now he's gone." He turned to his superior. "I saw the lead detectives in your office this morning, Al. I know they were here for our help in publicizing some kind of hotline for scared witnesses, but what if that wasn't it?"

"Go on."

"We all know that both victims were related to Jessica... What if the cops know it too?"

"Then I'm sure you'll read about it in our paper," Al said curtly.

"That's bullshit, Al."

"It's also my call, isn't it?"

"It's a _wrong_ _call_."

From the doorway came the sound of someone clearing their throat.

"Come on in, new guy," Ethan said, motioning with his hand. "Got lost on the way to the supply closet, did you?"

"Stopped to help with a printer jam," Malik stammered, handing Ethan his pens.

Jessica had to laugh.

Maybe it was her ex-boyfriend's meek deference to Ethan Prince. The way Mr. Metro had already bent the new intern to his beck and call. Perhaps it was the cagey look in Malik's eyes; overwhelmed and lost in a suit his parents had clearly bought him. But ultimately, it was the knowledge that the only reason he was there was because Jessica shouldn't have been.

"Uh, Jessica..." Al gestured uncertainly towards Malik. "This is our new intern –"

"Hey, Jessica," Malik cut him off with an awkward smile. "Surprise."

"Hey, Malik. Surprise yourself."

"And it appears you two know each other," Al concluded.

"Girlfriend," Malik said.

"Ex-girlfriend," Jessica clarified.

"No offence, sir," Ethan casually shook the box of pens in his boss's direction. "But there's days I wish we ran a gossip column."

"Anything's got to be better than this," Al muttered. With his next breath, all switched from farce to focus. "OK... Press conference is in an hour and a half. I want a staff meeting in half an hour. The King of Pop may be dead, but I don't want his ghost on my front page."

"Sir?" Jessica raised her hand. "Anything I can do?"

"We can do," Malik amended.

"Anything we can do?"

"You're interns," Al said, shooting them both a twisted smile. "You can go see who needs lunch."

Considering the day she was having, Jessica was just fine with that.

# ***

Nearly the entire office got together to watch the press conference.

As expected, the facts were few.

The fire department had found Davenport's body. Paramedics and police notified at once. No sign of forced entry. Time being, it was assumed that Angry Jonny had entered through, of all things, a doggie flap in the kitchen door. Nobody commented on the absence of a dog, or Davenport's wife and kids. Davenport had been duct taped to a chair in his living room. Eyes cut out, tongue severed.

Only this time, the writing on the wall was not courtesy of a spray can. For the moment, the authorities were claiming some sort of charcoal instrument. The words Angry Jonny, once again accompanied by the stamp of an unidentified symbol.

The network's camera had zoomed in for a good enough look, fuzzy image slowly coming into focus.

#

The significance of the two symbols remained a mystery.

Clarence Davenport was currently under observation at Pantheon Hospital. Guard on the door. Condition listed as critical. He had lost a good deal more blood than Jason Castle. His anemic condition had led to a stroke, from which he had yet to awaken. No comment on the connection between Davenport and Castle. No mention whether the federal investigation would extend to this latest victim.

The current line was that there were still no suspects in either case.

And again, unlike the rest of the staff, Jessica was just fine with that.

Shortly after four, the interns were dismissed for the day.

Jessica was three steps out the front door, when she remembered that Dinah had no idea where she was. Moreover, Jessica had no idea where her aunt was. For all she knew, the police had her down at the station. Sitting in the same room. Or worse yet, sitting in that other room...

Jessica made the call.

Got nothing.

She dialed the Prescott Dining Room.

The hostess answered the phone. "Prescott at the Pantheon."

"Amanda, it's Jessica. Is Dinah still there?"

"Um, yeah. She's kind of slammed right now, but if you want –"

"Nah, it's cool..." Jessica breathed a sigh of relief. "Just let her know I called."

Jessica slipped the phone back in her bag, fresh beads of sweat breaking out on her forehead.

She'd almost forgotten why she'd left in such a hurry, when Malik emerged from the building, jingling his keys. "Need a ride?"

"I'm fine. Dinah's coming by to pick me up any second."

"That right?" Malik scanned the parking lot. "Any second now."

"Look, I don't want to get into this –"

"Look my ass," Malik snapped. "I tried to tell you about this yesterday. Just yesterday. I was there, at the Prescott. I was ready to get into it, and you blew me off. Tell me that ain't true."

"OK. Yeah. That's on me. But don't act all blameless. You knew what Davenport did, you knew the circumstances. Now I find you got a little something out of it, and I'm supposed to be good with this?"

"Got a little –" Malik balled his fists. "You are frustrating, baby, you know that?"

"Hey, Malik –"

"I really was going to try and set things right. But to say I had some master plan..." Malik shook his head. "I ain't like you, Jessica. I'm not resourceful. For sure, not as capable. But could you, please, for one moment, let all that go? We're stuck with each other for the summer. And I wish it was me instead of Angry Jonny that had brought you back here." The keys began to rattle in his hand. "I wish this hadn't been about Clarence..."

"Shit..." Jessica sighed. "Yeah, sorry. I forgot. You all were close to him, weren't you?"

"I never liked the man... But he'd been in my house. Many times. And that means something."

"We shouldn't talk about him in past tense."

"Take away a man's eyes, snap his tongue clean from his mouth. What you're left with is a different man..." Malik glanced down at Jessica. "That's the point, don't you think? That's why he doesn't kill them, he just... changes them. Forever."

"I think that's exactly the point... And I guess it can't hurt to put the personal on hold for a bit. I've got to hit the manager's office before she leaves for the day, if she hasn't already... And I gratefully accept your offer."

"Yeah?"

"No doubt."

"So..." Malik gave a sheepish grin. "Does this mean...?"

"I said _on hold_. Don't go jumping to conclusions. You got no place to land, and I will walk home if I have to."

"I thought you needed to see the manager."

"At Camelot Apartments. I assume you remember how to get there."

The pair of them cautiously ambled over to Malik's Subaru Outback.

"What's going on with Camelot?" Malik asked.

"Much as I hate to resort to clichés, I'll explain on the way."

It was time to see what else the day had in store for her.

# **Chapter 15:** **Beginning of the End.**

"They're called _Daedalus Incorporated_..." Angela hoisted a large box onto her desk. She took a quick moment to rummage through her belongings. Strands of midnight getting in her way. "They're based in Atlanta. The new management team should be on site by Monday..."

Jessica and Malik stood by her desk.

It was like the numb aftermath of a family emergency. Getting the news, racing for the hospital, locating the incapacitated relative. Nothing left to do but nod with dumb regularity while the doctor explained the prognosis.

"Daedalus gave me an offer to stay on, but I didn't get the details 'till yesterday," Angela continued, as she shut the front door. She slipped her key in, locked up for the last time. "Frankly, it was an insult. Reduced pay, more hours. Health plan's a joke. Non-negotiable." Angela floated back to the desk, disoriented. "You know, I still have no idea what these guys even look like. Just sitting in an office hundreds of miles away, making decisions, making decisions..."

She began to lift the box, thick arms revealing a surprising amount of muscle.

It came crashing back down. "Wait, my plants..."

Jessica nudged her ex. "Malik, help the lady out."

Malik hopped to, reached over the desk and lifted the cardboard box.

Jessica scooped the large fern from off a filing cabinet. "Go on and get your baby fichus, Angela. We'll walk you out."

The three of them made their way down the hallway, in through the kitchen. It dawned on Jessica that soon she might have to make the same farewell tour of her own apartment. Every last possession slowly trickling out the way it had come in.

The back door led out to the courtyard, a large expanse of lawn boxed off on either side by buildings _H_ and _J_. A group of grad students were seated on the ground, soaking in the sun. Smiles and bathing suits, doing what they could to convince themselves they had made it to the beach that summer. A family of four sat at one of the wooden picnic tables. The nearby barbeque pit was aflame, sending out smoke signals in sweet, mesquite plumes. One by one, they all turned to stare as Angela crossed the sunny divide. Merriment on hold. Conversation dying out, perplexed faces trying to make sense of the somber procession.

"So this is the future site of a swimming pool," Angela said. "The offices, whole ground floor is going to be stripped and turned into a lifestyle center."

"What the hell is a _lifestyle center_?"

"Fancy word for a gym," Malik said.

"Why the lifestyle center?" Jessica fumed. "Why the pool? YMCA's right around the corner."

"That's not the last of it..." The lawn bled out into a small hill sloping towards the unpaved parking lot. "They're going to completely remodel the apartments. Washers and dryers, full-sized ceramic top stove. Granite counter tops. Going to refinish the floors, add carpet in the bedrooms –"

"Carpet?"

"Yeah." Angela's voice cracked as she opened up the back of her minivan. "Word is, they're also putting in florescent lights. That, along with the new infrastructure that's going to be involved with the washer and dryers – pipelines, heating vents – means that they're probably going to bring the ceilings down a good foot or two."

"What's going to happen to us?"

"They're going to be doing one building at a time." Angela placed her drooping fichus into the car, then reached for the fern. "I don't know in what order. They'll have to relocate the tenants of whatever building they work on. Don't ask me where, but they need to pay for all of it; moving you out, and back in. And until a resident's lease is up, they have to keep charging the same rent as they did before."

Jessica wiped the sweat from her neck. "Why would we _need_ any of this?"

"Any of what?"

"The renovations."

"Who cares what you need, Jessica?" Angela told her, smiling sadly, cheeks red from the heat. "Look, they say they don't want to lose the residents they've got. Truth is, and this is _not_ a rumor: the marketing will focus primarily on Pantheon undergrads. Off-campus housing has been trending all across the country. That's who they're trying to attract. And when they do, in around a year or so, they're probably going to try and flip this place. Resell it to turn a profit. Once your lease is up, the rent is going to skyrocket. Don't know by how much, though I can promise you, starting well before then, your electric bill is going to feel the hurt."

"I'm guessing no more free heat in the winter, right?"

"Putting in central air, honey." Angela slammed the back door shut. She took a look around the parking lot, past the surrounding chain-link fence, beyond which ran a backstreet dotted with sagging houses. She even gave the dumpsters one last look, as though hoping there were some last piece of business that could keep her there.

Jessica kept going over it in her head. Same as she did with any situation, looking for a way out.

Something to exploit, some loophole nobody else had figured out.

"Well, I guess that's it," Angela said. Opened her arms.

Jessica moved in. Felt the weight of Angela's embrace, eyes closed against the scent of her perfume. Listening to the birds, the creak of towering trees as the wind bent branches to its will.

They parted, and Angela's eyes were red.

Jessica didn't want to ask, but she wouldn't have another chance. "What am I supposed to do?"

"The construction's going to start on Monday," Angela said, sniffing. "They'll probably distribute letters to all of you. Don't take it at face value, neither, girl. You just make sure you know what's what. These Daedalus assholes are sneaky. Do not allow yourself to be misused or misled."

"Never have before."

"That's my girl..." Angela wiped her eyes. Cleared her throat. "Well... take care of yourself, Jess."

"You too."

"Don't worry about me. I think I got another job lined up."

"Damn it." Jessica smacked her head. "I'm a jerk for not asking."

"Far from it, honey..."

Angela left it at that. Shuffled over to the driver's side, slid in and closed the door.

Revved the engine and backed up.

Jessica welcomed Malik's touch as he took hold of her arm and gently moved her out of the way. The brake turning furious before putting it into first. Wheels spinning, a small chunk of dirt hitting Jessica below her left eye.

"Shit."

Countless windows stared down at her, festooned with Christmas lights, homemade curtains, ornaments, and pet plants, all of which would eventually have to be taken down.

Out in the courtyard, the grill continued to sizzle, while clueless grad students dismissed what they had witnessed as something that they could worry about tomorrow.

Funny thing, though.

String enough tomorrows together, and eventually, all people were left with was today.

Collect enough of those, and soon everyone would be left wondering whatever happened to yesterday.

# **Chapter 16:** **Ill Communication.**

It was seven in the evening. Jessica sat at the living room table, eyes inches away from her computer screen. The overbearing humidity muddled its way through the windows. Stuck to her clothes, coated her skin with a layer of grimy sweat.

The day had gone cloudy, room gone pale blue. Shadows blending in a charcoal landscape.

Malik handed her a tonic on ice.

She absently pressed it against her neck, eyes stuck to the beige background of Daedalus's website.

"All right, you bastards," she mumbled, running the cursor over various links. ABOUT US. OUR MISSION. OUR COMMUNITY. OUR STAFF. "I swear there's a sucker born every minute, Malik."

"Don't have to tell me twice," he said, taking the chair across from her. He raised a bottle of beer to his lips, took a long, welcomed sip. "What's the word?"

" _Creating your home away from home_ ," Jessica read from the online manifesto. "And then there's a picture of college students smiling in front of what looks like a condominium."

"Black or white?"

"All colors of the rainbow."

"See, you got nothing to worry about."

Jessica smiled weakly. "You're full of shit, you know that?

"What else does it say?"

"CEO's one Jerome Keanen... They got a picture of him with a hardhat and everything."

"Right."

"Must be where he stores his caviar." Jessica took a sip of her tonic. Even minus the gin, she felt her lids growing heavy. "I can't keep reading this shit. Fuck, I am exhausted."

"You look exhausted."

"I am..."

"Been a while since I was last here. I like what you've done with the place."

"I've done nothing with the place."

"Well, keep right on doing it." He took another sip of beer. Adjusted his glasses, scratched his head through two atmospheres of hair. Gave himself enough room, then plunged in: "What happened to us, Jessica?"

"You got to be kidding," Jessica laughed. She cut and pasted the Daedalus URL onto an email. Typed in Dinah's address and hit send. "You cheated on me."

"And you called me out at my own party. Broke up with me in front of damn near half the school. On Valentine's day."

"So because you've forgiven me –"

"That's not what I meant."

"By all means, then, go ahead on." Jessica slinked to the couch. Her shin banged against the coffee table. She hardly felt it, sunk into the soggy cushions. Kicked her feet up and laid herself down. "Guess we might as well get our hands dirty."

"Look, oh-eight was a bad year for my family. My mom got her leg all shattered in that accident, her clinics got shut down, she lost her job. I was on antidepressants and my pops wasn't around for any of it. I stole shit. I lied. I messed things up for myself and everyone around me. But I've changed."

"Your underwear, maybe."

"Well, if the concept's such a damn problem for you..."

"Don't sulk." Jessica could hardly stand how good the cushions felt. "I just don't know what's left to say."

"I love you."

Jessica was too tired to hide the wince. "I... don't see how that's really true."

Way to go, Jessica.

Malik frowned. "You can tell me lots of things. How I feel ain't one of them."

"How do you know you love me?"

"I'm going to assume that means that you've never been in love."

"Which, I know, means I was never in love with you."

"No?"

Jessica rolled onto her side. "I guess I wasn't."

Malik's voice was a dead giveaway in the dim light. "Were you even attracted to me?"

"Obviously. Nobody gets to third base with me on plain game."

"But still, we never..." Malik trailed off.

Jessica smiled, lips lazy. "Don't think I'm not going to make you complete that sentence."

"Made love?"

"Malik, please. Don't get all antiquated just 'cause there's a lady in the room."

"Antiquated?"

"SATs are right around the corner."

"Seriously, why wouldn't you?"

With her arm hanging off the couch, Jessica let her finger make lazy spirals along the dusty floor. "I'm not one of those _sex is sacred_ kind of girls. If I want beauty, I'll watch a sunset. But before I moved here, I treated it with downright disrespect. It's a miracle I never got pregnant, let alone the fact that I'm clean."

"So now your attitude is, what? Never again?"

"I don't know what my attitude is." Jessica curled up, body melding with the couch. "But who knows...? Maybe if we'd talked about it back then, you might have closed the deal."

"If we're talking about it now, does that mean –"

"Oh, _so_ hell, no."

"Can't blame a guy for trying."

"Actually, the woman's manifesto clearly states you can blame a guy for pretty much anything." Jessica yawned, eyelids drooping. "And eventually you'll have to."

"So there's no chance for us?"

"Be realistic, baby," she murmured. "You're leaving for Wesleyan at the end of the summer."

"Summer's not over yet."

"Is that a promise or a threat?" Jessica managed, as Malik's silvery outline grew fuzzy. Became one with the room before slipping away.

# **Chapter 17:** **Someone's In The Kitchen With Dinah.**

Jessica awoke with a start, thrust into a black, shapeless void. A cold wave washed over her as she tried to open her eyes. Petrified to find they already were. She struggled, felt herself bound head to foot, unable to move. For one fleeting, high-pitched instant, she was certain she'd been caught. Drugged and bound, eyes eviscerated. The next victim on Angry Jonny's list.

Out in the darkness, the apparitions of Jason Castle and Clarence Davenport were choking on their own laughter, empty sockets and bloody mouths dripping with delirious retribution.

Jessica gasped, air rushing into her lungs in a rasping, lacerated scream.

Stop.

Wait.

This wasn't some anonymous cellar, or deteriorating woodshed in the forest. Not the trunk of an unmarked vehicle, or a makeshift coffin buried six feet under.

Her eyes slowly adjusted, abstract shapes now solid. Nerve endings recognizing her straight jacket prison as a tangled blanket, cocooning her body. Light blue wool weaving in and out between her legs, arms. Sweat pasted along a pillow that hadn't been there when she'd fallen asleep.

She was home.

She was lying on the couch. In the living room. In her apartment.

Malik was gone.

Light streamed from the hallway, giving shape to Dinah's silhouette.

"Hey, baby..." Dinah said, softly. Glass of wine balanced in her hand. "You awake?"

"Yeah," Jessica mumbled, sitting up. A thousand needles stabbed into her left arm. She drew in a breath, hissing through her teeth. "Most of me is."

Dinah chuckled. Moved in, still wrapped in shadows.

She sat on the couch, resting at Jessica's feet.

Set her glass of wine on the table. "You all right?"

"No..." Jessica grimaced, flexing her fingers. The room was now good as lit, readout on the DVR displaying a rigid 8:58. "Jesus... It's not morning, right? Evening?"

"Evening. I came in and you were asleep, I thought –"

"Are you OK?" Jessica asked sharply. Too many events, thoughts, all scraps in a junkyard. "I sent you an email... they sold our place. The cops, they came for me this morning... Blondie, what happened last night – are you OK, are you safe?"

Dinah took Jessica into her arms, seamlessly. "It's cool, Jess. It's all good. You're OK, I'm OK. Everything's fine. Just fine..."

"Oh, God..." Jessica pulled away, breaking free of the blanket. Blindly reached for her glass of tonic, drained what was left of the flat, watery mix. "Do you even know what's happened? What happened today, what happened with Angry Jonny?"

"Yeah, I heard... Of course I heard. Talked to the cops this morning."

"Huh?"

"Yeah, had my time under their hot lights."

"Blondie..." Jessica was switching subjects in her head, trying to keep track of her own playlist. "We're about to lose our apartment."

"I know. Slow down. Catch your breath."

"Yeah, that's the stuff..." Jessica breathed in, out. Fighting the nausea that came with an interrupted nap. "Everything's fine."

"Neither of us is in jail. Neither of us is out on the streets."

"Yet."

"Yet beats the hell out of now. Now, calm down."

"What do you suggest?"

"On the Rail," Dinah replied, scooping her glass off the table and standing up.

"That's your solution to everything."

Dinah shrugged. "Until you come up with a cure for the blues, it's the best one we've got." She headed for the hallway, hips swishing.

"Don't play. We've got to talk about this."

"Get yourself changed, we can be out of here in fifteen."

Jessica bundled the blanket and tossed it aside. Eyes dry, tongue swollen with thirst. With each breath, she slowly began to distance herself from the storm clouds in her mind.

She wasn't in jail. She wasn't out on the streets.

And more importantly, Angry Jonny had yet to find her.

"Yet," she repeated, and remained seated for another five minutes before finding the will to move on.

# ***

Slow night for a Saturday.

Jessica was seated in the corner by the front door. The heavy wooden bench beneath her was built right into the wall. Red and white neon shone down from the sprawling, polymer window at her back. She rested her elbows on the table, eyeballing the stained felt, residue of bygone card games.

Dinah returned from the bar, served up their drinks. Parked herself on the bench perpendicular to Jessica's. Had a sip of beer and popped a cigarette in her mouth.

"So how was your day?" Jessica asked, tossing a pair of matches across the table.

Dinah lit up, exhaled. "OK, confession time."

"Oh, I do love the sound of _that_."

"I went to the cops," Dinah said, taking out a sizable withdrawal from her beer. "Went to the station this morning. Told them all about Davenport and how he attacked you. Spilled the beans, you might say."

"No, I would not. It's a stupid expression. Didn't we all agree to keep our mouths shut?"

"I barely remember hide nor hair about what we agreed."

"What's with you and these old-ass sayings –"

"Look...." Dinah leaned close. "Day two, things looked different. I was worried. I felt if we didn't nail Davenport now, it would be never. I filed my complaint down at the station. Had the pleasure of talking to your two detectives. Then I went to work."

"What did you tell them?"

"Christ." Dinah reached back into her hair and removed the twisty tie, liberating a cascade of blond locks. They bounced happily before her frustrated eyes. "What does it matter?"

"Guess the cops didn't tell you."

"Tell me what?"

Jessica replayed her meeting with the detectives, bullet points. The letter, her possible motives for sending it. Her possible motives for eliminating Davenport. She recounted the conversation with Al Holder, and the subsequent press conference.

Casper strolled by and placed a fresh beer on their table before moving on.

"No one's mentioned the letter yet," Jessica concluded.

"And if the cops didn't ask me about it, you've got to figure they really do want to keep this under wraps."

"Yeah, but who's watching the detectives?"

Dinah glanced over her shoulder, various regulars at the bar placing bets on the nearest game. "Does this mean Angry Jonny is someone we know?"

"Someone who knows us," Jessica said. "Or, at least, someone who knows me. And if that's the case, I need to know more. I need to know all there is to know... I need to know what you told the cops."

Dinah sighed. She eyed the matchbook in Jessica's hand.

Jessica struck one up, did the honors.

Dinah expelled a cloud of smoke, leaned back in her seat. "I told them everything there was to know about you and Davenport. I described everything that happened that evening. I told them everything you already know."

"What about the rest of the night? Did they ask you for an alibi?"

"Yes..."

"So what happened last night after I left?"

Dinah hesitated. "Eli and I went downtown. We parked across the street."

"The lot across from Bill McAllister's?"

"Judging from opening night, it's going to be known as the one across from The Cardinal... packed house. Maybe only two-thirds of the crowd had come in disguise, but when you can barely make it to the bar, who's going to notice?"

"Go on."

"I opened a tab on the card, and told Eli to pick our poison. We drank. Drank a lot, actually. For a cat that skinny, he can knock 'em back with the best."

Jessica nodded, though she sensed Dinah was stretching the story.

"We got ourselves caught up with a group of Pantheon business majors. I told them to put a few drinks on my tab, and we had ourselves a time. The party got shut down at two. I managed to settle at two-thirty..."

"Dinah, apart from Eli, do you have any proof that you were at The Cardinal for as long as you were?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I know how it can be. How much do you really remember about last night?'

"...Not much."

"Do you remember the names of anybody you were hanging with?"

"No. Not really."

"You were at a costume party," Jessica said. "As far as witnesses go, there's no way anyone could have placed you there. What could the cops ask them: _do you remember a girl dressed in a costume?_ "

"Cat costume."

"Great. Slutty cat costume. We have achieved clarity."

"The cops made the same point," Dinah said. "I went online, brought up my Visa account. Printed it out, showed them the charges incurred on that particular night. The time stamp was two thirty, on the nose."

"And then what happened?"

"And then what happened _what_?"

"Donahue and Randal were kind of keen on knowing your whereabouts this morning. Whether you had stayed at the apartment, or if spent the night out. Or if you had come in early and left for –"

"I went back to Eli's place, and we slept together." The revelation was rushed, straight off the auction block. Within the same breath, she slowed it down. "Eli and me. We slept together."

Jessica leaned back in her chair, reached for her drink.

Those actions, when combined, didn't quite work out. Her hand fell several inches short of the bottle, leaving her fingers to rest on the edge of the table. "Oh."

"Yeah." Dinah handed Jessica her drink.

"Talk about confession time..."

Dinah wasn't exactly her mother, and thirty-six years old wasn't exactly the end of the rainbow. It wasn't as though Dinah hadn't brought men home before. Not just the random ones; there had also been several brief relationships that had never gone anywhere.

But this felt different.

Jessica switched gears, lurched forward. "So after... after all that with you and Eli... well, I can't imagine you exactly had your eye on the clock, but –"

"Fell asleep," Dinah said, happy to move on. "I woke up at around eight-thirty. Let Eli rest for as long as I could. Finally, I had to wake him up. Get back to my car."

"You didn't cook him breakfast?"

"Have I taught you nothing? Morning after is the man's job."

"Like it takes some kind of effort to make toast."

Dinah's laughter was layered unease. "Took a look in his fridge. Nothing but light bulb and a thermostat."

Jessica smiled. "Can't blame him for that. Not like it's his house."

"You'd think he's been in town long enough to score some groceries."

"How long _has_ he been in town?"

"That's a good question..."

They retreated from the conversation, suddenly engrossed in game of cutthroat at table one. The jukebox doubled back on itself, a little Joe Jackson for everyone to hum along with.

"Figure you're going to be getting any more fan mail from Angry Jonny?" Dinah asked.

"Hope not..." Jessica checked the time on her phone, polished off her drink. "Don't really matter, long as they don't directly benefit me. Either way, I think I've had enough for one evening."

"Don't go," Dinah whined, tugging at Jessica's shirt. "Eli's going to be here soon. We can all hang out."

"Well, he's not going to be here soon enough. Do you think he can give you a ride home?"

"Sure. I'll just stay here and lick the ashtray."

"Lick whatever you like..." Jessica inhaled a glorious amount of smoke, leaned over and kissed her aunt goodbye. "I'll see you at home later, then?"

"Yeah, probably."

If Jessica had to lay odds, it would be even money on whether Dinah would come through with _probably_.

After all, Eli was coming.

# **Chapter 18:** **Disney Owens.**

Jessica stepped into the shower. Washed away all traces of sweat and cigarettes, wrapped herself in her bathrobe and put the kettle on. Her every movement echoed through the empty apartment. She could actually hear the tea steeping. She wandered into the living room. Crouched down in front of the sewing machine, eye level with the two miniature vodka bottles. She turned the radio on, moved to the window. Streetlights like anemic cherries cast their glow on a conga line of parked cars .

Jessica's eyes narrowed, zoomed in on a dark blue Pontiac stationed across the street.

Through the tinted windows, she caught the glow of an onboard computer.

"Sup, officers," she muttered. Good chance someone was seated within that dark interior, checking on her every move. Her observation filled her with a sense of secondhand despair.

What did you do with your Saturday, Jessica?

I noticed a car outside my apartment that ordinarily wouldn't be there. Thanks for asking.

"Someday, I'll own several hundred cats," she sighed, sipping her tea.

She sat down with her laptop.

New message from Malik, checking up on her.

Jessica shook her head, moved to the next message.

Didn't recognize the sender: a Hotmail account belonging to one Disney Owens.

Didn't much trust the subject heading: HAVE SOME COFFEE.

"Are you spam?" she asked, clicking once. "Spam, spam, spam, spam –"

It took her less than five seconds to read the message; three simple sentences, stacked one atop the other in a dry, uninspired piece of poetry.

The police know something you don't.

They know how the alarm went off.

Do you know how long it takes Angry Jonny to brew a fire?

Jessica stood up abruptly, knocking her chair back onto the floor. Went to the window. The Pontiac was still parked outside. With measured strides, she double-checked the front and back door. Took the baseball bat from its resting place by the hallway entrance. She set the chair upright, took a seat, and stared defiantly at the message.

Went over each line, until they were burned into her brain. Satisfied, she archived the message and headed for the bathroom, bat resting on her shoulder.

Jessica flipped the light switch, lowered the toilet lid. Sat down, and reached for the pile of reading material stacked on the electric scale. She tossed aside a few copies of Newsweek, The Economist, and came upon a worn paperback. Same shape and heft as a high school textbook, cover boasting the user-friendly title: _What's What_.

Published nearly thirty years ago, it was a surprisingly handy reference tool. Self-described as a visual glossary of everyday objects, filled with pictures ranging from baseball gloves to religious attire, space shuttles to pottery wheels.

Ignoring her bookmark she turned to the index and looked up _coffee_. Found the subject and page number. A black-and-white diagram broke down all the obvious elements: diagonal lines stretching out from various parts of the typical coffeemaker, leading to underlined terms she was already familiar with. Filter basket, timer, reservoir. Nothing about the inner workings, wiring or specific safety hazards.

Not much of a help, but not a bad place to start.

She closed the book, threw it back onto the pile.

A few simple Google searches, and a pattern began to emerge. Her veiled tipster made a very good point. Tab by tab, she bookmarked the various websites. Shut down her computer and turned off the lights. Setting her mug in the kitchen sink, she approached the coffeemaker. Removed the pot and slowly ran her finger along its glass circumference.

She glanced up at the clock on the wall.

It was getting late.

Jessica retired to her bedroom. Turned on a small lamp by the futon. Went to her window, casually checked for the undercover car.

There it was, sleeping with one eye open.

"Maybe I will have myself a cup of coffee," Jessica murmured, yawning. "Tomorrow."

She dropped the shutters. Slipped into boxers and a white tank top. A stack of fresh, spiral-ringed notebooks on her desk called her over. She picked one up, paired with a ballpoint pen. Brought them to bed with her.

Jessica propped herself up against a pair of pillows and drew her legs up.

The notebook sat patiently in her lap.

In large, uppercase letters, she spelled it all out on the bright red cover.

ANGRY JONNY.

Jessica flipped to the first page and began to write.

# **Chapter 19:** **Friendly Advice.**

Sunday morning began with all the usual motions.

Popping the lid off a container of dark roast. Scooping a few measures into the filter, then sliding the clip into place. Filling the pot with water, and emptying it into the reservoir.

It was right about then that Jessica thought she'd try something a little different.

She set the empty carafe on the counter. Reached out and turned the coffeemaker on. Adjusting her tank top, she leaned back against the fridge and glanced at the clock. Marked the time at eight-fifteen. She crossed her arms, waiting. The sounds of boiling water reached her ears, followed by a slow sizzle as fresh water droplets began to hit the metal warming plate.

Another time check put the big hand at seventeen past.

Jessica nodded to herself and left the kitchen, gliding past Dinah's bedroom door.

Shut nice and tight.

Went to her room and got dressed for work.

By the time she was done buttoning her vest, the smell of burning coffee was wafting into her room. She removed a black tie from a the door knob and threw it over her shoulder. The stench was stronger out in the hallway. She lifted her eyes to the ceiling. The smoke alarm's placid, green light remained unconcerned.

Jessica returned to the kitchen, twenty five minutes into her experiment, putting the time at eighteen to nine.

The coffeemaker had finished percolating. A puddle of brownish liquid was sizzling on the warming plate. Small signs of charring here and there. A little smoke, to be sure, but nothing to set the world on fire.

Crossing her arms, Jessica leaned back against the fridge.

Waiting for alarm bells.

What she got for her patience was the sound of Dinah's bedroom door opening.

Floorboards creaking beneath shuffling footsteps.

Jessica didn't bat an eye when Eli wandered in, lanky body clad in red boxer shorts and a fitted, white T-shirt. Blond hair suffering from severe bedhead, all chicken feathers.

When he spoke, his voice had an early morning croak to it: "Um, Jessica?"

"Yeah?"

"He pointed to the empty carafe. "I think you might have left out a step or two there."

"If you'd like some breakfast, I could always make you some toast."

Seconds later, Dinah burst in. Oversized plaid shirt hanging down past her waist. "Jessica, what the hell are you doing?"

"Keeping it real."

"Real fucking stupid, maybe." Dinah turned off the coffeemaker. Reached for a set of oven mitts, dotted with placid ladybugs. "You want to tell me just what you were trying to accomplish?"

"Shit, Blondie..." Jessica reached for the plug as Dinah picked up the machine and held it over the sink, sending the remaining liquid down the drain. "I'm an ordinary gal, burning down the house."

"Going to have to try a lot harder than that."

"Anybody mind if I grab a cigarette?" Eli asked.

"Go!" Jessica and Dinah ordered in unison.

Eli left the kitchen with an amused smile.

Dinah set the coffeemaker down, oven mitts placed squarely on her hips. "So what the hell, girl?"

"I was just testing our fire alarm."

"You're going to have to –"

"– try a lot harder than that, yeah." Jessica leaned over, took a closer look at the charred, metal plate. "So by my watch, I let this nonsense go on for about twenty... seven minutes. Twenty-seven minutes, and it didn't look like this thing was nearly ready to burst into flames."

"There's a reason for that. It's called a thermostat. A small strip of metal. When it gets hot, it expands, and separates the current that heats the metal plate. As it cools down, it contracts, allowing it to heat up again."

"You are just full of useful information."

"Which you could have _asked_ me about," Dinah said, removing her mitts. "Yeah, that's why I threw out our old maker. Busted thermostat. Didn't realize you could replace it cheap, but so goes the learning curve."

"So goes it."

Dinah ran her hands though her blond locks, shook her head. "We're going to be late for work."

"I'm sorry I fucked up your coffeemaker."

"Yeah, me too." She gave Jessica a quick peck on the cheek. "We'll grab some java at the Prescott. You can fuck up their coffeemaker when we get there."

"Will do."

Dinah left the kitchen.

Jessica reached out, lightly tapped the white plastic.

Still hot, but cooling off.

She opened up a drawer, took out a Phillips head screwdriver. Mindful of her hands, she set the coffeemaker on its side and spun the bottom around. She bent close, readying the screwdriver.

"You may want to wait just a bit before operating," Eli advised from the doorway, tugging at a Marlboro.

"My patient can't wait another minute, doctor," Jessica deadpanned, raising her eyes.

"If the plastic's still even a little hot to the touch, just wait till you start poking around inside."

"Didn't realize I was in the presence of an expert."

Eli shrugged. "Wasn't always a card player."

"It's interesting to hear you say that while blowing smoke."

"Is this weird for you?"

Jessica straightened, delaying the autopsy. "Is what weird for me?"

"Dinah. Me. Here."

"All interesting points."

"I'm an interesting guy."

"Eli...I'm sure just about every girl you meet goes plain gaga over this mysterious stranger angle you've got going on. I'm sure you've assumed the same goes for me. But you're just not my type."

"Type?"

"You're kind of bony. Blond. Never mind the fact that I'm seventeen, a _minor_. And I'm guessing both of us are in enough trouble with the law as it is."

"I'm familiar with statutory rape laws, thanks."

"How familiar?"

"Now, that's just mean," Eli said, pointing an accusatory finger. "Mean and yucky."

"Then allow me to politely point out that you live in a house whose owner I've never met. You make your living playing cards, though I've never seen you touch a deck. You're a Floridian who's a New Yorker, who is now, it appears, going to be spending a lot more time being a Carolinian."

"In short?"

"You, sir, are not what you seem."

Eli stuck his cigarette between his teeth, crossed his arms and leaned back. "What if I told you I was a private detective?" he asked, tipping an imaginary fedora.

"I think you're getting yourself confused with Chaucer Braswell."

"Really?" Eli blinked, surprised. "He's a private dick?"

"Restaurant manager."

"Then what –"

"It appears ain't nothing as it seems..." Jessica told him, grabbing hold of the screwdriver and picking up the coffeemaker. "I've determined that about you, now have the respect to assume the same for me."

She breezed through his cloud of smoke, and headed for her room.

"Jessica, wait." Eli followed her as far as the hallway. "Can we pretend to be honest for a moment?"

Jessica had to appreciate the fact that he had stopped short of her bedroom, holding fast at the threshold. "We can certainly pretend."

"Of course, I like you. I like your style, I like the way you carry yourself. I like that crazy brain of yours. I like that you don't trade in bullshit. Also, you're pretty easy on the eyes..." He smiled humbly. "But just because I also like Dinah, doesn't mean you have to pretend to not like me."

"I thought we _were_ pretending."

"Then could we stop?"

"Let me pretend to think about it," Jessica said, lifting her chin and squinting. "Mm... Nope, no sale."

Jessica reached out with her foot and gently shut the door in Eli's face.

She walked over to her desk, and sat the coffeemaker down on its head.

Got the Phillips ready.

She paused. Took a moment to think about what Eli had said, then carefully placed a finger against the bottom of the coffeemaker. Just in case there was something to his advice.

# **Chapter 20:** **Beer Money.**

Sunday brunch at the Prescott was a blessing and a curse.

The blessing was of a row of tables, lined up end to end along the wall. A procession of sliver chafing dishes, each one brimming with an endless supply of oldies but goodies. Applewood smoked bacon, ham, lox, hash browns, scrambled eggs. Yogurt, cereal, fresh fruit. Fresh bread, bagels, jam, honey, butter and cream cheese pads. Complete with a stand for freshly prepared omelets and crepes, a la carte.

All for the low price of a single Andrew Jackson.

Apart from drinks – a mimosa, bloody Mary, or coffee, all of which came with special buffet discounts – most servers were in the clear as far as taking orders went. Sunday brunch was ultimately an exercise in clearing dishes between binges.

The curse was a subdued bottom line. People paid less for more, leaving a total that made for some lean tips. Earnings from the Prescott brunch shift were pejoratively referred to as _beer money_.

For Jessica, the tradeoff was a welcome one.

Less of a hassle, more time to focus on the tables she actually gave a damn about.

Especially when her last table was a one-top who actually had a bit in common with her.

"So what do you think?" Jessica asked.

Chaucer dabbed his mouth with his napkin, took a look at the bill. "I think this is an outrage. Twenty bucks and no Belgian waffles?"

"Was the omelet not to your liking?"

"Actually, my boss is obsessed with omelets, so that order's a tall one." Chaucer shelled out a couple of twenties. "Though it's best I hold my tongue. Knowing what I do about how your customers end up."

"Now that's just mean," Jessica told him, scooping up the checkbook. "Mean and yucky. After I do you the good service of inviting you to brunch."

"I am glad you called... I'm not keeping you from any other tables, am I?"

"No."

"So apart from the fact that I've had both an excellent meal and a clandestine meeting with my favorite suspect..."

"What do you think about the coffee thing?"

"I think it's solid," Chaucer said. "But more importantly, there's the matter of your anonymous helper."

"Do you think it's him?"

"Doesn't seem to fit. Considering the letter Angry Jonny sent the Observer, he's a bit more daring. A bit more old school. Email ain't how this guy operates."

"I'm going to go and settle this up with Dinah," Jessica said. "Pretend to bring you some change so we can talk about this some more."

"What makes you think I don't want change?"

"Knowing what you do about how my customers end up..."

"Now that's just mean. Mean and yucky."

Jessica winked, went to the bar. She handed Dinah her book.

Dinah's eyes were still red from another night on the town. "What's with Dick Tracy over there?"

"Best customer I've had in a while."

"I don't think he's what he seems..." Dinah made change, shut the register than handed Jessica her due. "Not what he seems at all."

"Something in the air," Jessica agreed, heading back to an ironically numbered table thirteen. She placed the book in front of Chaucer, let him glance at it, eyes all stern.

"So this mystery email..." he began. "I'm guessing it has to be from the inside. Someone who is both willing to leak information and who knows that you have a connection with Angry Jonny."

"You think this is coming from the police department?"

"Any reason to think it shouldn't be?"

"Well, got to give props to Donahue and Randal. So far they're doing all they can to keep the letter under wraps..." Jessica flashed back to her last encounter with them. "That being said, I don't think either one of them will be asking me to the policeman's ball this year."

"Who else have you told about the letter?"

"Just Dinah."

"Quite a mystery."

"We already have one of those."

"It never ends, does it?" Chaucer sighed, closing the book and handing it back. "There, go buy yourself something nice."

"Not going to fill out your comment card?"

"I'll do you one better." Chaucer rose from his seat. "Your shift over yet?"

"Follow me."

Jessica set herself up in the hutch by the bar and gathered her paperwork. Chaucer took the closest seat, stationed sideways. "I know a guy who might be able to sweep the email for you."

"Sweep it?"

"For lack of a technical term. It's like a cyber-version of the UV lights cops use to check a room for latent prints, fluids, fibers and the like. I can get him to do his stuff, see if he can't give us a little insight into who we're dealing with."

"Let's do this," Jessica agreed, taking her totals, credit card slips, and waving them in the air. "Blondie!"

Dinah coasted over, giving Chaucer a deferential nod. "Everything cool, Jess?"

"Chaucer's going to hook me up with a hacker," she said, handing off her book. "Going to get to the bottom of who this Disney Owens might be."

"Who the hell is Disney Owens?"

While Dinah counted out at the register, Jessica brought her up to speed on the email she had received. By the time Dinah returned with her niece's tips, she looked more irritated than concerned. "And why the hell didn't you tell me about this?"

"Would've told you this morning, but I didn't want to talk about it in front of your new boyfriend."

Chaucer's ears perked up. "Who's the lucky guy?"

"Eli Messner," Jessica volunteered.

"Not my boyfriend." Dinah shot Chaucer a dirty look. "And none of your business, Mr. Braswell."

"Best be going anyway... Jessica, I'll give you a call once I've set this up."

"Sounds good."

"Take it easy, Dinah."

Dinah waved him off, didn't speak until he was well out of ear shot. "Jessica."

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you before, Blondie." Jessica reached out and took hold of Dinah's hands. "From now on, all right?"

"Then could you tell me what the hell you were doing to my coffeemaker this morning, and why it's currently sitting in the trunk of my car?"

"I'll explain on the way."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"It will..." Jessica batted her eyes. "Feel like giving me a ride to the Observer?"

"I didn't think you were working today."

"I'm not. Just need to stop by and show my boss a little something."

With that taken care of, Jessica headed for the kitchen.

Pleased to find she still had it in her to smile.

# **Chapter 21:** **Coffee Mate.**

Al Holder hung up the phone, sent his chair into a dangerous recline and sighed. "All right. The sprinklers, alarms, all offline... Now, are you going to tell me why I'm sitting here talking to you and your little friend there?"

Jessica glanced down at the coffeemaker, stationed atop a filing cabinet. "You mean baby Ricardo?"

"Seriously, kid, I'm about to become very frightening."

"What time you got on your computer?"

"Four-fifteen."

"Count it..." Jessica strolled over to a filing cabinet. Plugged in the coffeemaker, reservoir a quarter full. She flipped the switch, and quickly moved to the opposite corner of Al's office. "Fact. One of Davenport's neighbors, Jeffry Cates, was walking his dog at three-thirty in the morning. Heard a smoke alarm going off from inside the house. Much like this one." Jessica removed a white, plastic disc from her bag and presented it to Al. "Standard, battery-operated." She stood on a chair and balanced the alarm atop a framed spread boasting NIXON RESIGNS. "Cates calls the fire department, they bust in and are confronted with what?"

"Davenport in his living room," Al replied, following Jessica's ritual with a mix of admiration and extreme trepidation. "All bound and bloody."

"And smoke coming in from the kitchen," Jessica added, hopping down from the chair. She glanced at the coffeemaker, drops falling onto the naked heating plate, sizzling. "The kitchen, presumed entry point for Angry Jonny... Now go ahead and Google _coffeemaker fire hazard_. No quotes."

"Why are you going about this so dramatically?" Al asked flatly.

"Because I don't get to have a lot of fun in real life."

Al sighed again, throwing a cautionary glance over his shoulder, where the smell of burning coffee was growing stronger by the minute. He typed in his search, eyes narrowing.

"I think you know which link to click."

"Already there..." He began to read testimonials from a Yahoo Answers. " _I once left a pot of coffee on for a day and a half. When I got back, the glass had cracked, and there was a smoldering sludge stuck to the bottom._ "

"There's over twenty entries on that page..." Jessica approached the desk, leaned over and pointed. "Don't have to do more than skim; most of them don't involve fire alarms going off. Some do, but see the one constant?"

"Most of these people left their coffeemakers on anywhere from twelve hours to an entire weekend."

"And yet, I saw Clarence Davenport just _four and a half_ hours before the fire department found him. Now these people are talking coffeepots. What happens when you switch it on without the pot in place?"

Al lifted his eyebrows.

"Pretty much the same thing...Unless you've got a problem with one of _these_."

Jessica pulled a small, plastic device from her pocket and tossed it on the desk. No bigger than a thimble, shape of a miniature nightlight. Al picked it up, brought it close to his face.

"It's a thermostat," Jessica said. "Inside there's a small metal strip. When it gets hot it expands, pulls away and cuts the current. When it cools off, it contracts, it closes the circuit. On and on, until someone turns off the unit."

"Where did you get this?"

Jessica nodded towards the file cabinet. "From what would appear to be a perfectly functioning coffeemaker."

Al turned once more, too lost in the moment to even notice that the coffee was beginning to consolidate into a black, static tar pit at the base. "Are you saying what I think your saying?"

"I'm saying exactly what you think I'm saying. I'm saying that in order for the smoke alarm to have gone off when it did, Davenport would have had to turn on his maker without putting the pot in place, and on top of that, the thermostat would have had to have chosen that precise night to stop working."

"Unless someone went ahead and removed it."

"Took me all of five minutes," Jessica said somberly.

"Do you think he was trying to time-stamp the attack?"

Jessica shook her head. "I thought about that. And no. Not unless neighbor Cates walks his dog at the same time every evening. And even then, it's a pretty slim bet that he would have heard the alarm."

"So what are we left with?"

"You remember how you got the cops to admit that there was almost no forensic evidence because the maid did a cleanup job on the entire house?"

"Angry Jonny may not have even wanted the fire department to have come as early as they did."

"Maybe he wanted an actual fire to break out. Pandemonium. As it stands though, just a cover of the same song. Fire department busts in. Not only does protocol force them to handle Davenport's body, administer any first aid they can... but in the process, they storm the kitchen, turn off the coffeepot, maybe even spray the place with their extinguishers. The kitchen, which was also the entry point. Any way you slice it, they've completely contaminated the crime scene."

Now that she had laid it all out, the excitement had turned stale. Almost rotten, giving birth to strains of disquiet, fear, and above all else, paranoia.

"He did this on purpose," Al mumbled, dipping into Jessica's frightened thoughts.

"What's worse, if he didn't do it on purpose the first time, then..." Jessica was only now just starting to get the bigger picture. "Not only is Angry Jonny still out there... He's getting smarter."

The smoke detector finally decided it was time to sound the alarm.

Jessica almost let out her own scream to rival the octaves blasting through the room. In two bounds, she was up on the chair, struggling with the hysterical device.

Ethan Prince burst in, waving his hand to clear the air. " _What the FUCK?_ "

"Shut it off!" Al yelled, unplugging the coffeemaker.

Jessica threw the smoke detector on the floor, took a large, vertical leap.

With a loud crunch, everything went quiet.

"Jessica, what the hell are you _doing?_ " Ethan seethed, before being knocked off his mark by Malik, rushing in with a fire extinguisher at the ready.

Malik took a wild look around, eyes landing on Jessica. "Are you working today?"

Jessica smiled weakly. "Where you been, homeboy?"

Malik held up a box of pens and shook them.

Al slid the windows open to a blast of fresh air. "It's all right! Everything all right, everything's good!"

"Clock it," Jessica said.

With a loud, rasping cough, Al stumbled over to the computer, jiggled the mouse. "Four-thirty."

"Four-thirty _what?_ " Ethan demanded.

"Fifteen minutes," Jessica said, catching her breath. "I think we've officially got a pretty good idea of when Angry Jonny actually struck."

"Ethan..." Al let out one last, rasping cough. "Get Janine in here. I want Lloyd in here, and I want you on the phone with your guy down at the department in fifteen minutes. Get layout, get whoever's doing the Michael Jackson story and tell them to put it on hold."

Celia ran into the fray. Momentarily confused by the stench of burning coffee, she quickly recovered. "Sir, there's news breaking on fourteen right now, you really ought to –"

In an impressive display of autopilot, Al blindly reached for the remote and turned on the television.

While the B-roll of Davenport's house was more than a day old, the BREAKING NEWS caption beneath spelled out something entirely new. The voice of the anchor was rendered meaningless in the damning words at the bottom of the screen:

CHILD PORNOGRAPHY FOUND IN BASEMENT OF DAVENPORT RESIDENCE.

"Oh, shit..." Malik whispered.

Ethan's hardened, time-tested jaw practically fell off its hinges. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

Without taking her eyes off the screen, Jessica dialed star-one on her cell phone.

"And who are _you_ calling?" Ethan asked.

"Dinah..." Jessica replied, raising the phone to her ear in a hypnotized stupor. "I'm guessing we're going to be here for a while."

Everyone began talking at once.

# **Chapter 22:** **Clean Slate.**

"And then she set the whole room on fire!"

Eli and Dinah rocked back, laughter tempered with a synchronized pull of beer.

Jessica averted her eyes from what she expected to become a sloppy, half-drunk kiss. She spotted another couple by the jukebox locked in a fairly explicit game of grab-ass. A couple of degrees to the left, and a simian preppie was bending his date over a pool table, teaching her proper use of a cue stick. His girl was all bubbles and heart-shaped laughter.

Apparently, destiny was going to have its way with Jessica that evening.

"Jess?" Dinah and Eli were watching her expectantly.

"What, what'd I miss?"

"Tell Eli," Dinah urged, a mother prompting her baby girl to sing _God Bless America_ before a hoard of drunk dinner guests. "Tell him about the press conference."

"Yeah, tell me about the press conference," Eli said.

"Uh..." Jessica had been off her game since the moment they had walked in and found Eli waiting for them. "So Ethan nailed it. Brought up the whole thing involving the coffeemaker. The thermostat. Basically got them to confess that the fire alarm had all been part of Angry Jonny's plan... big day for the Observer."

"And _who_ was it made it happen?" Dinah asked in a game show voice.

"Me."

"Jessica!" Dina raised her beer in the air. "My niece is going to bring down the whole freaking system!"

"Easy now."

"Best part..." Dinah continued to gush. "Jessica, tell Eli the best part, tell them what they found along with all that smut in that pervert's basement."

"Yeah, apparently there's evidence that... Glen Roberts was –"

"The fucker who sexually harassed Jessica."

" – yeah the guy who sexually harassed me, there's evidence that they had both been collecting these pics and home movies over the course of many, many years."

"The two of them!" Dinah cackled. "Davenport and that bitch Glen Roberts!"

"Yeah."

"That pretty much proves you were right about Glen. You are in the clear, and a lot of dumb motherfuckers are going to have to EAT their motherfucking words!" Dinah twisted in her seat, pumping her fist in a regrettable impression of Muhammad Ali. "EAT YOUR WORDS! EAT YOUR WORDS!"

The rest of the pool hall erupted in a barrage of whoops, simply because something loud had happened.

Dinah plopped herself back down. "This solves everything."

"It don't solve shit."

"Sounds like a pretty good deal to me," Eli said.

"You think it's good this happened?"

"Child pornographer exposed for the world to see?" Eli postulated. "Yeah, it's good this happened."

"Really."

"Tell me you don't agree."

"I don't."

"Interesting..." Eli took a sip of beer, leaned into the dirty look. Pulled out his poker chips and began to shuffle. "Because I don't think a day goes by I don't think about it. I see a mother slapping her kid around, right before the eyes of a dozen strangers trained to look the other way? Don't care if she _is_ a lady. In my dreams, I see myself picking up the nearest blunt object. One solid crack across her face. Bye-bye cheekbone, so long molars. High school teacher likes taking dirty pictures of little boys? Both eyes and his tongue doesn't begin to cover it. In my dreams, I make Angry Jonny look like a choir boy. And how about that Michael Vic? NFL quarterback drowns dogs, pleas himself down from three years to six months and a measly twenty-five-hundred-dollar fine. When he gets out, you just watch if the Eagles don't bring him right back into play. What do you have planned for him when you close your eyes?"

"Clearly, you can imagine."

"Yeah?"

"But I wouldn't. We're all angry. We're all pissed. To quote the comic, _There's a reason to kill everyone... just don't do it_."

"So our prayers are not singular, and none of us dreams alone. Your hands may be clean..." Eli's eyes made sure he didn't miss an inch of Jessica's face, monitoring her every twitch and tell. "But your mind is just as dirty as mine."

Dinah set her beer down. "Eli –"

"So what can you tell me about the night you slept with Dinah?" Jessica asked.

"Jessica!"

"We all know what we _could_ do," Jessica stated flatly. "I'm more interested in what we _have_ done."

Eli turned to Dinah. "What _did_ happen?"

Jessica snapped her fingers. "Don't look at her."

"What do you want? I was at the bar, had a few drinks, and I can't remember most anything after that. The whole night's a blur. Next thing I know, I wake up. Dinah's waking me up. An entire evening gone. You really want to tell me that's never happened to you? I mean, alcoholics do have a history –"

"Eli..." Dinah interrupted. "Go grab us a few more beers."

"Yeah." Eli slid out from his seat, picked up the empties. Turned to Jessica. "Another orange soda?"

"Go fuck yourself, Eli."

"Don't go fuck yourself, Eli," Dinah ordered. "Just go."

Eli gladly sauntered up to the bar and flagged down the bartender.

Dinah flashed her angry set of blues. "What the fuck is your problem?"

"Ain't got a problem. Just looking for the facts."

"Jessica, you've got five seconds to tell me you've got a problem with Eli and me."

"Or else what, _mom?_ "

Dinah looked as though she'd been socked in the gut. She slumped back in her seat. Reached out and gave her empty bottle a few twists. "Or else nothing. Shit, what am I going to do, send you to your room?"

Jessica was stuck mimicking her aunt's moves. "OK, I'm sorry... Of course, I was obviously catching feelings for Eli. Shit, you know as well as I do that there's a shortage of interesting men in this world."

"Interesting, nothing," Dinah snorted. "Eli's a goddamn mess."

"OK, or that."

"Not just that. You and I are equals, right?"

"Yeah."

"Mm-hmm..." Dinah lit a cigarette, kept on. "But here's the thing."

"Yeah?"

"I'm thirty six." Dina reached for her beer. Found it empty. "I'm thirty-six, baby, and I'm still stuck behind a bar. And the funny thing is I'm not looking for Mister Right. I'm not sitting in some beauty parlor, taking some Cosmo quiz to guide my search. But I also ain't doing much of anything else."

"I understand."

"No you don't," Dinah insisted, smiling sadly. "I know you've been through a lot, but you've got a big chunk of time ahead of you. And when I look at you, I'm so proud. Really. But with every day that passes, if I have to be honest with myself... That's one less day I've got left. And if Eli ain't Mister Right, then for the time being, he's doing what he can to make this world a little less lonely."

"Yeah," Jessica agreed, absently toying with the pack of Camels. "I don't know shit... Catching feelings for an older man, that's pretty twisted. Wrong, right? Puts me under the column marked _daddy issues_."

Dinah half-smiled, set the crescent moon on its side.

"Hey, look," Jessica said. "You and me? Friends forever, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, then this isn't the last time this is going to happen. I like hanging with older people. You are older people. And I'm not the same fourteen-year-old who came to live with you way back when. So let's get used to this, all right?"

Dinah managed to turn her smile into something more resolute. "Yeah, let's do that."

As if to test the accord, Eli returned with a pair of beers. "All clear?"

Dinah reached up and took hold of his arm. "Eli. Apologize to my niece for that comment you made earlier about her alcoholism."

Eli nodded. "I apologize for what I said. It was a cheap shot and I –"

"Shut your hole, that's good enough," Dinah interrupted. "Jessica?"

"I hope red ants crawl into your ears while you sleep."

"Now that's certainly good enough," Eli replied. He picked up Jessica's empty bottle and gave it a wiggle. "No kidding, how about I get you another one of these?"

"If you would."

Eli went about making things right.

Jessica watched him leave, sent him a silent goodbye. "We cool, Dinah?"

"No."

"What?"

"Jessica..." Dinah took a sip of her beer and laid her hand flat on the green felt table. "That was my coffeemaker. I need my coffeemaker, it understands me."

"Here..." Jessica reached into her breast pocket, retrieved forty dollars and slapped it into Dinah's palm. "Compliments of Chaucer Braswell."

Eli returned with an orange soda, and the three of them reconciled over a hearty toast.

But despite all the reassurances, Jessica was still forced to keep an eye on Eli.

Always wondering.

# **PART** **FOUR**

# July 4 - July 7

# **Chapter 23:** **A Man of Letters.**

"It's getting strange out there..."

Al Holder stood at his office window, staring out at the highway through slanted shutter gaps. Absently winding the drawstring around his fingers. He sighed with a noticeable wheeze in his breath. "Did you read my opinion piece today?"

Jessica rested her hands on the desk, pinstriped with midmorning sunlight. "Yes."

"What'd you think?"

"Very good."

Al nodded, breath heaving. "There's people out there who wouldn't agree with you."

"User posts?"

"Lighting up. Scrollbar's the width of a toothpick."

"Scary stuff."

"Getting strange out there..."

Jessica couldn't argue with that. In the six days since the revelation of Davenport's kiddy stash, the Angry Jonny investigation had splintered even further. Concerns that Davenport and the deceased Glen Roberts could both have been part of a larger ring had the entire department in panic. Computers were seized, hard drives dredged for correspondences and deleted files. Friends, family and colleagues were questioned. All dead ends; not a soul among them could have possibly imagined what had been hiding behind those smiles for so long.

_Not even in my worst nightmares_ , was a juicy bit of testimony that had found its way into print.

The only ones who could have shed any light on the investigation were Davenport and Roberts. Davenport had been officially placed under arrest, though he remained in intensive care after slipping into a coma.

Glen Roberts was obviously unavailable for comment.

For Jessica, the strangest development had been her immediate exoneration. Al Holder had insisted that their first article on Davenport's secret stash include the sexual harassment complaint Jessica had filed, along with how the community had rallied around Glen Roberts. And against Jessica Kinkaid.

With their very foundations shattered, people could not apologize fast enough.

Her Facebook page had gone ballistic. Every hour brought a fresh barrage of friend requests, mostly from Brookside students she barely knew. A few though, she remembered. Their grinning profile pictures clashed with memories of their furious slurs – _bitch, slut, whore_ – all hurled at her in plain sight and volume. Even the teachers who had turned a blind eye to these incidents had jumped on the bandwagon. While none of these requests had come with any official apologies, she supposed that this was online equivalent to _my bad_.

She had yet to accept any of these requests.

Simply not prepared to believe that the school pariah could so easily return after so long being banished.

And now, of course, there was the matter of the latest Angry Jonny letter.

"So you saw them leaving the meeting," Al said, getting down to business. He abandoned his post and sat down, motioning for her to do the same. "Detectives Randal and Donahue."

"Yes."

"I'm sorry I couldn't let you in. Senior staff only. I know the letter technically concerns you, but I'm still trying to keep your connection with the first letter a secret. As are the detectives."

Jessica licked her lips, confused. "So my guess is this latest one...?"

"Doesn't explicitly refer to you..." Al handed Jessica a Xeroxed copy. " _Where would you be without me, my love_. No question mark at the end of that, and it goes on... _Angry Jonny is not a boy scout. You are all unprepared for the revolution, a celebration of us_."

Jessica went over each word, capital letters askew. "I almost wish he _had_ mentioned me by name."

"There's nothing says that _my love_ refers to you."

"You think it doesn't?"

"There was a movie that came out in 1959. It was called _Hiroshima Mon Amour_. Hiroshima My Love. It details the romance of a French actress and a Japanese architect. There's a good chance Angry Jonny could simply be making reference to the film."

"Think so?"

"Of course not, are you insane?" Al smiled, little humor to be found in his tired eyes. "No, I think you're still in it."

"That's sweet," Jessica said flatly, chill bumps dotting her arms. "Angry Jonny has a crush on me."

"Everything else in the letter seems to be on par with the first. Probably a printed Microsoft Paint file. Black on white, freehand. Kind of brilliant if you think about it. Ain't nobody going to be able to do a handwriting analysis on something done with a virtual paintbrush. The letter he sent was even a Xeroxed copy... no way to trace what kind of printer he used."

"Great..." Jessica folded the letter into her pocket. "Now there's just a matter of what it means."

"You look tired."

"Haven't been sleeping well. Then again, take a look at you."

Al's mustache twitched. "Careful."

"No, I refuse. You look like hell. Enough to make me worry."

"Why am I still talking to you? I brought you in here to tell you about the letter. And now I've done that." His face brightened. "That means this meeting is over."

"Thank God. And thanks, Al."

Three successive knocks and Ethan Prince burst in, overlooking Jessica in his typical fashion. "I've got Jim on the line. He's all set up for the Tea Party rally in Asheville. Newsletter for the local chapter says they're planning to attend the fireworks at the stadium tonight. Not an official protest; just looking to bolster their numbers."

"Yeah, I've got this..." Al groaned, reaching for the phone. "What a bunch of freaks."

"A big bunch, though. Got the makings of a serious movement."

"My bowels have a serious movement every day. You know what the end result is?"

"Point taken."

"Come next Independence Day, nobody's going to remember them." Al cradled the phone in his ear, finger hovering above the buttons. "You can both go."

The door closed behind them, and Ethan casually asked. "What was that all about?"

"I'm getting the Pulitzer."

"Yeah, you're a regular Gary Trudeau."

"And what really pisses you off is that I know who that is..." Jessica waved her hand over her head: "That's where you thought the joke went..." She pointed to her forehead: "Here's where it landed."

"You don't know who Gary Trudeau is."

" _It's hard to be humble, when you're as great as I am_ ," Jessica quoted, heading across the room. She turned, did a little back stepping. "And twenty bucks says that's a reference your white ass couldn't possibly get."

"That's reverse racism!" Ethan called after her. "What if I told you to get your black ass back here?"

"My black ass don't speak loser," Jessica threw over her shoulder, giving her butt a firm smack.

Malik trotted up to her, matching her brisk pace. "Were you just flirting with Ethan?"

"You don't know me that well, do you?"

"Jessica –"

"Was not flirting. I hate that bitch, and that bitch hates this one."

"What's up with you today?" Malik asked.

"Could be that I'm overtired, and Dinah's new coffeemaker came with a pack of espresso roast."

"Uh-oh."

"Yeah, I'm technically insane right now."

Malik leaped in front of her, cordoning Jessica off with his arm. He forced a slick smile, though he appeared to be suffering from his own sleep deprivation. Eyes painted in soft focus. Skin several shades lighter, coming just short of an uninspired tan. "Where you headed?"

"Archives."

"You getting off work at five?"

"Same as you, baby."

Malik did a cute double take. "Are you flirting with me, now?"

"Hell no. Get to the point."

"My parents are having a cookout this afternoon." Malik dropped his arm, very much the nervous child who had first asked her out. "Firing up the grill, doing a little potluck with friends. Thought maybe you'd like –"

"Your parents hate me."

"Yeah, well... might be that ain't the case no more."

"Now that it turns out I'm not just some skanky liar who went out of her way to destroy their friend."

"Oh, God, look –"

"Wait..." Jessica grabbed a hold of his shirt, and pulled him into a supply closet. Flipped the light switch and closed the door. "There. Now... What have you got to say for yourself?"

"I thought we were talking about my parents."

"What have you got to say for themselves?"

Malik took of his glasses, rubbed his eyes. "All right, first of all, that sentence was just awful..." He replaced his specs, tugged at his collar. Looking for support among the reams of paper, paper clips and toner cartridges. "Second of all, why don't you just let it go?"

"Let it go?"

"Let. It. Go. They were wrong, you were right."

"I was _always_ right. What if Angry Jonny hadn't come along and given it to Davenport? I'd still be the same vindictive, attention starved bitch who tried to steal their little boy away."

"Who cares?"

"Easy for you to say, star child, what did you lose in all of this?"

"I lost my girlfriend."

Hardly a plausible argument, but his sincerity was overwhelming.

The door opened.

They turned to find Ethan Prince. "I could really use a highlighter."

Malik reached out, picked one off the shelves and handed it over.

"Also, some paper clips. I seem to be fresh out of paper clips."

Once again, Malik loaned a hand.

"Way to stay ahead of the game, new guy," Ethan said, before closing the door.

Jessica and Malik burst out laughing, sounds of mirth hitting their ears like a foreign tongue.

"May I ask..." Malik politely coughed out the remaining laughter into the crook of his arm. "Is there any reason you haven't responded to my friend request on Facebook?"

"It's Facebook, Malik. Not a grant proposal."

"So you'll come?"

"To your roast?"

"Cookout."

"Yeah..." Jessica sighed, punched him gently in the shoulder. "I guess I'll come along."

"Good."

Jessica reached for the door knob. "Yeah, good."

"What were you going to be checking out in archives?"

"Just a hunch, a guess..." She opened the door and stepped out. Stuck her face back in for one final sting. "Oh, and Mr. Holder needs some staples."

Before Malik could fire back, she slammed the door shut.

Went on down to check on the archives, secretly dreading the possibility of reconciliation.

# **Chapter 24:** **No Parking Anytime.**

As they approached the line of cars parked along the curb, Jessica felt the air conditioning plunge by several degrees. Malik slow-rolled into his parent's driveway. He cut the engine. Jessica hopped out and took a few steps towards the curb. She stared at the house across the street.

Yellow police tape encircled the perimeter of the lengthy, two-story brick residence.

"Look at that, mom's car ain't even here," Malik said, punching the security lock on his key chain. He joined Jessica, gave her a nudge. "What's up, you all right?"

Jessica pointed with her chin. "That's Jason Castle's house."

"Yeah."

"I must have seen his place a thousand times," Jessica mused, eyeing the garage, attached perpendicularly to the side of the house, entrance hidden from view. "How could I have missed it?"

"All kinds of messed up."

"Did you know Jason Castle was your neighbor?"

"Nah. Not till after the incident. Used to belong to the Inverso family, back in the nineties. These days, nobody knows who their neighbor is."

"The cops must have come by, looking for eyewitnesses."

Malik nodded. "They did."

"And when were you going to tell me about this?"

"Shortly after you and I started talking again, some three weeks after it happened. Now can we leave this at the office? It's the Fourth of July, let's have some fun."

"Yeah..." Jessica gave the house one last look. "Let's have some fun."

# ***

Malik slid the glass door open and ushered Jessica out onto the wooden deck.

His parents had a nice little turnout going on. There looked to be about thirty or so guests; university colleagues of Malik's father, health care specialists representing his mother's defunct clinics. Lively conversations mingled in the air along with the excited cries of children running circles in the yard, wreaking havoc on a game of horseshoes.

Their entrance was met with enthusiastic shout-outs, some noticeably tempered upon pegging Malik's date as the infamous Jessica Kinkaid. Jessica recognized confusion, guilt, resentment, and trepidation before zeroing in on one embarrassed smile in particular.

Malik's father was at the grill, spatula trapped halfway beneath a dormant burger. Caught unawares, a teenager whose parents weren't supposed to have come home until Sunday.

He slid back into host mode, waving them over.

"Malik," Jessica muttered through tightened lips, "did you forget to have me cleared with security?"

"I don't need their permission to bring a friend home."

"Right. Throw that out the window, see if it'll fly."

"Relax... after all that's happened, they got to accept you." He led her past a stretch table crammed with fried chicken, barbeque, potato salad, collards, slaw, biscuits, hushpuppies and cornbread.

"Hey, Jessica." Malik's father broadsided her with a warm smile. He made as though to shake, then checked himself. Began to wipe his hands on his apron without much success.

"Don't worry about it, Mr. Council," Jessica assured him. "It's cool."

"Good to have you here. You want a drink? Malik, grab the lady something to drink."

Malik left Jessica by the fire, smoke swirling with the thick aroma of grease.

"Jessica..." Malik's father motioned to a pair of middle aged men beside him. "This is George Samuels, head of African-American Studies, and Stan Henderson, visiting professor of Education."

Professor Samuels greeted her with an overbite smile, his light-brown cheeks dotted with dark, summertime freckles. "Jessica Kincaid. I read your piece for the Observing the Observer contest. Matter of fact, I actually used it in one of my classes this semester."

"Thank you. I read your book a couple times over. _The Surrogate Culture_."

"Oh." He put a humble hand over his heart. "I actually teach that one in both my classes."

The three professors had themselves a laugh, and Jessica smiled along.

"Well, your piece gave us all a good deal to talk about," Samuels told her. "Personally, I liked it. Thought you were a little hard on brother West and Dyson, though."

"I'm sure they've heard worse."

"You know that's right..." He nudged Malik's father. "Hey, Phillip. You never told me your boy was friends with sister Kincaid."

Malik's dad laughed uneasily, concentrating on his grilling. "Well, Patricia and I got into a bit of discussion at the time it was published. Things got a little heated."

"Well, Patty's a tough sell on anything."

"And, admittedly, I may have taken the article a little... personally."

"Nobody likes to wake up one day and discover they're old guard."

Malik bounded back into the conversation, emphatically sticking a bottle of water out for all to see. "There you go, Jessica."

"Just water?" Malik's father wasn't done playing nice. "We're all adults here, one beer won't hurt. Jessica, if you want a real drink, it's –" Whatever look his son was flashing, it was a good reminder. "No. No beer, then... Why don't you two go grab some plates. Load up, there's plenty."

Samuels gave her a wink. "You come back and talk to me once you've got some food in you."

"To both of us," Professor Henderson added, clearing thin strands of red hair from his sunburned face. "Think they might like to have you up at Princeton."

"Better watch yourself, Stanley. Doe hunting in our back yard, shame on you."

"Let's get you someplace safe," Malik said, putting an arm around Jessica and leading her away. "You all right?"

"So far, so weird."

"You hungry?"

"Not really."

"Don't let my mom catch you not eating," Malik warned, picking up two paper plates. "Don't know where she's at, but you can bet she'll show at the most inconvenient moment."

Jessica's nerves groaned in protest. "I know. And thanks."

"For what?"

"Having me over."

"Ain't no thang," Malik smiled, as the two of them made their way down the table.

Jessica's options were limited. Faced with a spread of numerous dead animals, she made do with potato salad, hush puppies, and collard greens. Malik took a bit of everything, humming quietly. He finally topped himself off with a precariously balanced wedge of cornbread. "Got a clearing on the bench, right over there..."

"Malik!" Someone called out from the crowd. "Get over here, son! Let me look at you!"

"Shit." Malik motioned for her to keep on without him. "Be with you soon as I can."

Jessica found a spot on the wooden bench encircling the deck. Gave a polite nod to her neighbors and opened her water. She glanced out towards the yard. The sun had become a blood orange, half hidden by surrounding trees. A pair of citronella Tiki torches burned brightly, keeping mosquitoes at bay. From inside, the stereo softly trumpeted swing from a bygone era, bygone city.

Jessica thought maybe she was within her rights to relax and enjoy herself.

She impaled a pair of hush puppies, savoring the deep-fried goodness.

Was about to try the slaw, when the back door slid open.

Malik's mother stepped out, left hand gripping her cane, fresh glass of white wine in the other. Pearl buttons glinted delicately against a loose-fitting turquoise blouse. A pair of fitted black slacks told the world there wasn't a car accident out there could stop her from showing off the contours of her legs. Endless pride trading in her sneakers for a pair of beige, tassel-strap heels. Hair cut in a Michelle Obama, above-the-shoulder bob.

Her eyes zeroed in on Jessica's.

She politely made fast time with the small talk, zigzagging from one person to the next, steadily drifting towards the uninvited.

Jessica put her fork down in preparation.

Malik's mother refilled her glass, then took a seat next to Jessica.

"Welcome to our party," she said, smiling broadly. "Glad you could make it."

Jessica engaged in the customary matching of smiles. "Thanks for having me."

"Mm..." She took a sip of white wine, leaving dark-red lipstick to rest on the rim. "Sorry we don't have more vegetarian selections."

"Not a problem, Mrs. Council. I'm good with the hush puppies, slaw and collards. All I need."

"Collards were cooked with ham."

"Didn't catch those," Jessica said, taking a closer look. There were the tiny, pink cubes resting comfortably in their wet, leafy bed. Without thinking, she added, "Sorry."

"Hope you plan to eat what's on your plate. I don't like to waste food."

"Don't plan to.

"Malik's been eating meat again."

"I noticed."

"I know he gave the whole vegetarian thing a shot while you and him were going together." Patricia said. "Guess it didn't stick."

"Wasn't my plan."

"What wasn't?"

Jessica knew she shouldn't be doing this. Knew it, knew it, knew it. "I think he was just giving it a try."

"You know, being a vegetarian is a privilege of the privileged."

Again, another loaded statement with no appropriate response. _So is living in Forrest Hills_ , might have been a reasonable comeback, but it wouldn't have landed. Patricia had a severe disconnect between Queens and her current life in the suburbs. _You don't have any friends who are vegetarian?_ Lots of luck with that; Jessica wasn't a friend, and Patricia Council would have no problems hammering that particular argument home. Jessica forced some slaw into her mouth, food tasting no different from the plastic spoon. Stomach warning of a nervous uprising.

"I would be the first to agree," Jessica managed. "It's a first world honor."

"Don't know about honor..." She took another sip of wine, a rather large one. "If you're fortunate enough to get your hands on food, whatever it may be, you should thank God, then eat it."

_Unless you're a Jew, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist_... That wouldn't hold water; Jessica was none of these. Pointing out the cruelty of America's stockyards would only be seen as a condemnation of Patricia's own attitude towards animals. A personal love of animals was out of the question; after all, weren't there thousands of human rights atrocities that paled in comparison to the plight of lesser mammals, fowls and fish?

"I do what I do," Jessica said. "Whatever anyone else does, their decisions, their lives – not my business."

"How much you care is up to you." Malik's mother finished off her wine. "You're as involved with your cause as you want to be."

Jessica reached for her water, brought it to her lips, unwilling to take the bait.

"You've spoken to my husband already. I suppose he's doing OK?"

"He seems to be doing fine."

"Did he apologize?"

_Shit_. "No, he didn't."

"We were both wrong about Clarence," she said. A little too cool, little too matter of fact. "And we were both wrong about Glen Roberts. I think we owe you an apology."

Jessica set her plate aside, plastic-wear stuck in her left hand. "What's past is past –"

"What happened to Clarence is a tragedy..." Malik's mother interrupted. "I won't deny that I'm thoroughly... disgusted with what he was up to. What him and Glen Roberts were up to... And I'm sorry about that. And I'm sorry about what happened, Jessica, but... are you sorry?"

"Am I sorry for what?"

"Malik tells me you've been making quite a name for yourself at the Observer. Going all private eye. Digging around, helping your boss connect the dots. Was that your idea?"

"Was what my idea?"

"To have the paper mention your sexual harassment suit in that article about Clarence and Glen?"

"It wasn't a suit –"

"Your skin is thin, and I see right through you." She brought the wine glass to her lips. "I know a thing or two about how people make good on bad situations. I know what comes next. I know you think you've secured your place with us. Left us blinded by your righteous victory. Absolved yourself of all accountability. But the only reason you are here is because someone out there is reading your darkest thoughts. Granting your most evil wishes. Behind every great man there is a great woman. Behind you, all I see is a man who calls himself Angry Jonny... Though I might be inclined to think differently if you were to tell me you were sorry for what happened to our friend."

Jessica was stunned. Not just at what she was hearing; she was appalled for thinking she could have waltzed back into the good graces of this family without giving something in return. She thought about how good she had felt, just minutes ago. She thought about the angle of the sun, the laughter of children in the yard, the taste of hush puppies. Hated herself for those few seconds of bliss.

She casually stood up, and marched over to Malik. Broke into his conversation. "Malik, I need you to take me home."

"Jessica," Malik was still stuck between laughter and a spoonful of barbeque. "What's going –"

"Something's come up, I just need to go. I'll be out front."

Jessica left him to the confused stares of his guests. Knowing this wouldn't play well, Malik ordered around by his own date, in his own house. She didn't care. Cut through the kitchen, living room, and burst out the front door, seething. Took a swing at the air. Stalked to the silver outback and planted herself against it.

The alarm went off, lights flashing.

Malik was already running out the front door, silencing the car with his remote.

"It was mom, wasn't it?" he asked, stalking towards her. "What did she say?"

"Who gives shit what she said?" Jessica walked away from him, down the driveway. "Can we go?"

"You know how she is."

"That's your defense, _you know how she is?_ " Jessica couldn't bring herself to look at him. Crossed her arms and stared out at the cordoned property of Jason Castle. "Fucking unreasonable, that's what she is."

"Yes, I know." Malik came to her, still clutching a soiled napkin. "Of course she's unreasonable."

"Damn right! I say up, she says down. I say fast, she says slow –"

"Jessica –"

"What made you think _anything_ had changed?"

Malik tossed the napkin aside. "Jessica, my mom doesn't do arguments any more. She spent _years_ trying to bring cops to justice in New York, and her side _always_ lost. And they always lost because arguments and ideas never made a difference. I know she doesn't make any sense sometimes. I know she picks a position, then ignores everything else that contradicts it. But you've got to understand, she's got a busted leg, her job was taken –"

Jessica had stopped listening halfway through.

She stepped out into the road, eyes scanning the sidewalk across from Malik's house.

From behind her, she heard Malik calling out her name.

Jessica pulled a three-sixty, taking in every car parked along the street.

"What, what is it?" Malik asked.

"Check it out. All your parent's friends. Parked all the way up and down, except here." She pointed to the bright red curb in front of the Castle residence.

"Yeah, that's a fire lane..."

"But look..." Jessica walked down the street, came to rest at a fire hydrant stationed well past the house. "There's where the red curb begins..." She pointed a few feet to the right of the hydrant. "And it keeps going. Keeps going on, and on..." She followed the red paint, which led all the way past Jason Castle's house. "That doesn't add up. No fire lane is that long. All they need is room to access the hydrant..."

Jessica retraced her steps, noticing a sudden irregularity in the red paint as she approached the hydrant. "Malik, don't you get it?"

"No..." Malik glanced up and down the street. "Get what?"

"Look, all the civilians at your party saw the red zone, and avoided it."

"It's always been there."

"Far as you can remember?"

"Well... I guess I never thought about –"

"Who would? Nobody would park in a red zone, or think twice when they saw one. Castle didn't want anyone parking in front of his house. Or wanted to know when someone was. _He spray-painted his own curb_..." Jessica reached down, dragged her finger along the rough surface. " _He_ had a can of spray paint. It was his, the same spray can that Angry Jonny used to leave his calling card on his wall. Maybe the wire he used to tie Castle came from the same place."

"Jessica –"

"Angry Jonny's letter stated that he wasn't a boy scout. He wasn't prepared. He took the necessary materials from Castle's house to do his dirty work. After he was done, he ditched them. Then, with Davenport, he found duct tape in the kitchen, maybe a charcoal briquette, and used that. _He never brings his own tools_."

Malik wasn't ready to bite. "Cops say the same weapon was used at both scenes."

"Could mean the tool that did the cutting is some kind of common, household instrument."

"Look, I know you been batting a thousand so far –"

"Objects, tools, items used in a crime. Those are the key pieces of evidence that get your average criminal caught. Angry Jonny is screwing with his MO just enough to keep the cops off his ass, while letting the rest of us know he's the same one behind every attack."

"There's one thing you haven't thought of," Malik said.

"What's that?"

"Maybe Angry Jonny never intended to do any of it. It may look like a master plan to us, but nobody's stopped to consider that it was all just improvised on the spot. Maybe what he did to Clarence is just a trick. An unrelated person chosen to make it _seem_ like he actually knows what he's doing."

"Unless it's all supposed to _seem_ random."

"Could he really be _that_ smart?"

Jessica's cell put an end to the speculation.

She checked the number, answered the call. "Hey, Chaucer. I just found something –"

She paused, listened. Nodded. Hung up.

"What was that?" Malik asked.

"I need to pick up my computer," Jessica said. "Then I need to get to the Center for Human Genetics building at Pantheon."

"Wait, why there?" Malik asked, trying to keep up as Jessica strode to the car. "What about _this_ , this breakthrough?"

"It'll still be there..." Jessica knocked on the passenger's side door. "Come on, all is forgiven."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I could kiss that mother of yours for sending me out of that party." Jessica hopped into her seat. "Turns out I couldn't have stayed if I wanted to."

"I really do worry about you, Jessica."

"Nothing to worry about."

"Says you. But I'm not sure how happy Angry Jonny's going to be when he finds out you've been the leading snoop behind all those articles at the Observer."

"Who's going to tell him, you?"

"Who says I'd need to tell him anything? Maybe he already knows."

In her excitement, Jessica almost told him about the original letter sent by Angry Jonny. Channeled her energy into three loud slaps against the dashboard. "Let's move it. I got a date with a computer geek."

"Fine, whatever," Malik said glumly. He backed out of the driveway, tires lifting onto the fire lane that wasn't. "You just keep on doing what you do, Jessica Kincaid."

There was a piece of advice Jessica was confident she could follow.

# **Chapter 25:** **Black Hats.**

On the fourth floor of Pantheon's Center for Human Genetics, amongst a carpeted stretch of cubicles, in a corner alcove looking out over a cemented path leading to the football stadium, sat a gentleman by the name of Benjamin Morris.

He was somewhere in his late twenties. His short, sturdy body was comprised entirely of ovals; an aerodynamic snowman topped with a brainy noggin of dense, close-cut curls. Face a gleeful display of all-knowing confidence, olive skin with an incorrigible smile. He was an alert, intelligent sort that seemed to know a little bit about a lot of things. Brown eyes sparkling, arms folded over his plaid-patterned shirt.

Benjamin stared at the screen. Brought a finger aside his nose, then leaned over Jessica's laptop and cut loose with a barrage of emphatic keystrokes.

Jessica had been watching him go to work for a good twenty minutes.

Chaucer had been there for none of them.

"OK, so maybe if Mr. Disney Owens has done that, then..." Benjamin opened up a few folders, digging deeper into her hard drive. "Then we can... where are you, you son of a bitch?"

"So, what do you do here, exactly?" Jessica asked, wary of the physical her computer was undergoing. "Gene splicing? Cloning?"

"I wish. I'm just a guy that keeps the machines happy."

"Doesn't sound very spectacular."

"Son of a bitch!" Benjamin back tracked, muttering darkly. "All right, you bastard, let's see if this won't change your mind." He opened up Microsoft notepad, and began to punch a long line of code. This seemed to please him. "So where do you work?"

"The Prescott. F and B department."

"I hear they have a fantastic duck confit."

"I hear the same."

"You ever been to Tracy's over in Carrboro?" Before getting an answer, Benjamin went off. "They serve this amazing prosciutto. It's phenomenal. Make it themselves, salt it, wash it, the whole nine. You can't even get it in the summer months, because they do it up old school. In the winter, when the climate's just right..."

Jessica had to smile, even as his epic dissertation on dry-cured ham slowly drew him away from the task at hand. It took a special breed to pull off such a brazen display of know-it-all without eventually getting punched in the face. She glanced out the window, pleased to find he didn't need her full attention to keep talking.

The Timber Bowl had been open since two that afternoon, but as evening set in, the flow of eager patriots had become a thick, nearly unmanageable procession. Jessica watched from above, excited children tugging at their parent's sleeves, leading the way along the concrete path. She continued to nod absently in time with the pleasant drone of her own personal restaurant critic.

Even when Chaucer finally showed, imposing figure covering the cubical entrance, Benjamin didn't let it slow him down. "– and no nitrates. All of the stuff at Tracy's is locally raised, and –"

"Benjamin!" Chaucer waved his hands over his head. "The girl's a vegetarian."

"That's cool. Tracy's also has an amazing roasted vegetable –"

"Sorry to have left you so long with this crazy person, Jessica." Chaucer turned to Benjamin. "Have you got anything for us?"

"No."

"You're not good for a whole lot, are you, Benjamin?"

"No. No, I am not."

"So no good?" Jessica asked, disappointed.

"Sorry. My black hats provided me with some login credentials to another user on the same server. I tried to log in to the school's UNIX system. Used a stack buffer overflow exploit to gain root access to the system, blank the password of the compromised account. Then, using trace-route I was able to narrow the IP down to Germany..." It looked as though Benjamin was going to continue on in this fashion, when Jessica's Gmail account reloaded and Benjamin interrupted himself. "My, aren't you a popular girl?"

Again, there was her in-box; crammed with the pending friend requests of her repentant classmates. "Yeah, people are nuts about me."

"You seem nuts about them... Also seems like you've got another one."

"Great, another passive apology."

"No, I mean you've got another one from Disney Owens."

Benjamin respectfully rolled his chair out of the way and let Jessica take over.

Jessica got on her knees, face inches away from the screen. The subject line read, CLOSING IN.

She opened it, found the same poetic fragments as before.

They have possible match for clothes.

Looking to compare DNA sample.

They are looking to debunk alibi.

It's going to be Dinah.

"Chaucer, come have a look at this." She tilted the screen to let him get a better look. "What do you think?"

Chaucer scratched his head. "Benjamin, can you give us a moment?"

Benjamin nodded politely and disappeared down the hallway.

Chaucer asked Jessica to forward him the email. "Dinah was at the bar opening the night Angry Jonny went after Davenport, right?"

"Yeah."

"Anybody other than Eli got her back?"

"She's got a credit card statement. Says she settled up at two-thirty that morning."

Chaucer didn't look any less concerned. "Do you know where she is right now?"

"Said she was going to be at the fireworks with Eli."

"I almost forgot it was Independence Day..."

A light went off in Jessica's head.

Circuit overload burning the bulb right out.

She gently closed her laptop. Stood up, felt her knees pop.

"What is it?" Chaucer asked.

"I was wrong..." Jessica pulled out her copy of Angry Jonny's most recent letter. "I mean, I might have been right, but maybe this wasn't just about how he operates."

Chaucer took the paper out of her hands. Read the last sentence out loud. " _You are all unprepared for the revolution, a celebration of us._ "

Jessica slapped herself across the face, furious with her own tunnel vision. "Not us. I thought maybe Angry Jonny meant him and me, but the letter's all in caps. So the message –"

"– The message could just as easily read, a celebration of US."

"As in the U.S. A celebration of U.S."

"The fireworks."

Benjamin returned, leaning against the cubical entrance. "Hey... When did it get so dark?"

She turned around, glanced out the window.

The sun had all but vanished.

# **Chapter 26:** **In Plain Sight.**

Jessica and Chaucer jostled their way through the north entrance and scanned the crowd.

The stands were bulging at the seams, lit up like Broadway. Sequined clothes, glow bracelets and shimmering plastic trinkets had the whole swarm looking like a collection of patriotic ravers. Down on the gridiron, Pantheon's band campers were setting up their instruments. Whites of their nervous eyes visible from every angle.

The stadium had been built into an oblong valley; the east, north and west entryways led onto a thirty-foot-wide walkway that encircled three fourths of the stadium like an incomplete, concrete halo.

Vendors had been setting up their stands since midday. Cramped, mildewed tents serving up hot dogs, hamburgers, French fries and cotton candy, greatest hits of American cuisine. And it seemed every last hungry American was gathered at every last one; thick, unapologetic bodies clogging traffic up and down the promenade.

"This isn't going to work, is it?" Chaucer asked.

"We can do this..." Jessica tried Dinah's phone one last time. Straight to voicemail. "We've come here every year for the past three years. She _never_ goes down into the seats."

"Wanna split up?

"You go left, I'll go right."

"I still think we should call the detectives."

"And what am I going to say to them? I _think_ Angry Jonny's going to attack one person out of thousands in the middle of a crowded stadium?"

"If he hasn't already," Chaucer replied, motioning for her to lower her voice. "Let me call them. I know how to handle the cops. You just get Dinah and meet me right back on this spot."

"Do what you have to do."

Jessica dipped in and out of the current. Tried to keep her eyes level, an exercise in sensory overload. Surrounded by Uncle Sam beards glued beneath star-spangled top hats. Innumerable lady liberties, reaching from beneath bed sheets to hold up poster boards of protesting health-care reform. Patriots of all sizes were suited up in revolutionary garb and powdered wigs. Portly, bearded men walking lockstep in a chain gang, placards demanding an end to white slavery. Next to the men's room, a man in a crumpled suit sat bound and gagged to a wheelchair in yet another piece of performance art. A cockade hat covered his face, painted carmine red. Cardboard sign on his lap spelling out his grievance in black magic marker: HELD HOSTAGE BY BIG GOVERNMENT.

Children ran around unsupervised.

Stadium lights made day of night.

Jessica was beginning to agree with Chaucer.

This wasn't going to work.

Just then, as though honing in on her despair, Dinah appeared in the crowd. Standing on her tiptoes. Decked out in any number of Independence Day paraphernalia, blue glow sticks matching her shirt, matching her eye shadow. She waved, sluicing her way through the thicket. Threw her arms around Jessica in a drunken embrace.

"Happy Fourth of July," she cooed.

Jessica pulled away, took her aunt by the shoulders. "We have to get out of here."

"What? Why?"

"Where's Eli?"

The marching band started up.

Horns and drum line belting out the Rocky theme.

"Lost Eli about an hour ago!" Dinah had to yell over the enthusiastic cry of the crowd. "Went to the bathroom about an hour ago –"

"Can't talk about it here!" Jessica said, taking hold of her aunt and leading her back through the crowd.

"Baby, what's going on?"

"Blondie, are you absolutely sure about that night?"

"What night?"

"The night you and Eli...." Jessica was fortunate enough to bump into an enormous, hairy man, knocking the awkward right out of the question. "The night you and Eli went to The Cardinal."

"What are you talking about?"

"Can you honestly say you were there, or not?"

"I can show you my damn MasterCard statement if you want, just tell me what is going on."

Jessica couldn't be bothered with the tale of Disney Owens. Too busy dodging casual strollers and political performers. She caught sight of the man in the wheelchair, surrounded by a group of kids posing for a picture.

Just a dozen or so yards away from her rendezvous point with Chaucer.

Her wingman hadn't come back empty-handed.

Eli was the first to catch sight of them. He nudged Chaucer, then waved them over, anxiously bobbing up and down on the balls of his feet. Doubtless, Chaucer had told him more about their mission than Jessica had let on with her aunt.

"Where you been, baby?" Dinah asked, throwing her arms around him.

Eli pushed back. "We need to get out of here, right now."

"You should go with them," Chaucer insisted.

"Wait, what the hell?" Dinah looked from one set of worried eyes to the next. "Someone want to tell me what's going on?"

Her answer was a piercing scream from somewhere on the stadium's east side.

Followed by two more, then multiplied, a vocal tsunami moving with incredible momentum.

"Oh God..." Jessica unconsciously reached out and took a hold of Chaucer's arm. "It's him."

Chaucer didn't hesitate. He plunged into the milieu.

Dinah wasn't immune to the bug. "Jessica?"

"Go," Jessica ordered. "You too, Eli. Just get out of here before the cops come."

Eli grabbed Dinah's wrist and pulled. "I'm going with what the lady says, Dinah."

With no time left to soothe her aunt's anxious eyes, Jessica dove in after Chaucer.

The crowd's cantor had become a pair of battling currents. Terrified individuals fled, while the curious and heroic raced towards the scene, practically trampling her from behind. She stumbled, mercifully finding her balance, wondering how long before pandemonium spread to every corner of the stadium.

A membrane of stunned, morbid rubberneckers had formed around the epicenter.

Jessica elbowed her way through, in no way wanting to see what lay beyond that tightly woven tapestry. Got her fair share of bruises from all those shoulders before emerging from the thicket.

Ground zero.

The shock of what awaited her was nothing compared to knowing she had walked past him.

Twice.

A man bound to a wheelchair. Head slumped. Red painted face covered with a ridiculous, oversized hat. Cardboard sign reading HELD HOSTAGE BY BIG GOVERNMENT.

She had even seen a group of children taking pictures with him.

One of them must have accidentally knocked that hat off its perch.

Jessica was faced firsthand with the results of Angry Jonny's brutal hands.

The man's empty sockets stared up to the skies, a pair of onyx stones patiently awaiting the fireworks. Lids collapsed inwards, crusted in red. Her stupefied wonder was quickly railroaded by the realization that Angry Jonny had spread the blood all over the face of this nameless, middle aged man; nearly invisible streaks leading outwards from an unhinged mouth, lips like rotting tomatoes.

The cardboard sign had fallen to the ground.

Anti-government screed face down, revealing a second message on the back.

A familiar named joined by a previously unseen, though grimly familiar symbol:

#

Jessica's knees reverted to infancy.

Chaucer was there to catch her, set her straight as a pair of security guards cut through the masses. Rattled as anyone else. Barking out frightened orders as they struggled to contain the crowd.

"You best get going," Chaucer whispered into her ear. He slipped her a twenty and told her to grab a cab back to the apartment.

"What about you?" Jessica asked, unable to take her eyes off those gaping, eternal eye sockets. "What about you?"

"I put in the call, I got to stay."

In one swift second, Jessica put herself together.

Pulled out her cell as she turned to battle her way past the onlookers.

"I already called the police!" Chaucer called out after her.

"Fuck the police!" Jessica called over her shoulder as the crowd enveloped her. "I'm calling Al Holder!"

She burst through the throng, Al's phone ringing on the other end.

Down on the field, the band of hapless teens lowered their instruments as the bedlam spread far and wide.

Angry Jonny, unleashed.

# **Chapter 27:** **Vigilante.**

July Fifth was magnificently uneventful.

Jessica spent the entire day looking over her shoulder, never doubting the ambush would come. House of cards stacked far too high. She awoke expecting to find detectives at her door, demanding her presence downtown. Every time Al Holder called her into his office, her muscles would tense. The original Angry Jonny letter couldn't possibly stay secret for much longer. Just one set of loose lips, and Jessica's boss would be forced to go public. Even as the sun set beyond the Prescott-Pantheon, Jessica remained on watch. Waiting for the moment when the police would storm in and drag Dinah away, bound in metal jewelry.

And yet, it remained any given Sunday. Maybe better than most.

At the Observer, she received nothing but praise for the report she had submitted the previous night. Nobody seemed to care that the final story wasn't filed by her, tagged _additional reporting by Jessica Kincaid_. Her theory on Angry Jonny's improvisational MO became an instant favorite. The ensuing scramble had Al calling Jessica into his office every five minutes. The original letter was never mentioned.

Even her dinner shift went down with a spoonful of sugar. The guests were reasonable, tips above average. Chaucer put in an appearance for a light meal, then went to keep Dinah company at the bar. By the time Eli showed to help himself to a couple thousand drinks, the evening was approaching festive..

By the time her shift was over, it was as though July Fourth had never happened.

# ***

Jessica logged onto Google maps. She plugged in a starting address and destination.

Scrawled down the estimated travel time.

Repeated the process, putting the first destination as her starting address.

She added the second trip to the first, closed her laptop, spun around in her chair. "Total comes to twenty-five minutes."

Chaucer glanced up from Dinah's credit card statement. He shifted against the futon, wiped the back of his neck. "And here it is, plain as day. A charge for her tab at The Cardinal. June twenty-seventh, two-thirty in the morning, tidy sum of two hundred, forty-seven dollars and eighty cents – that's a lot of booze."

"But not a lot of time..." Jessica kicked her legs up on the dormant radiator beneath her bedroom window. "Davenport's neighbor heard the fire alarm at around three-thirty in the morning. Now I've only got personal experience to go on, but let's subtract fifteen minutes for the coffeemaker to trip the smoke alarm. That would put Angry Jonny at the scene no later than three-fifteen. Do the cops really think she could have paid, driven Eli home, tucked him in, gone to Davenport's, knocked him out and sliced him up in under forty-five minutes?"

"Twenty-five minutes in the car."

"Let's give her five minutes at Eli's. Let's give her ten minutes to walk to Davenport's, because there's no way she just parked that monster in front of his house and shimmied on up the driveway."

"That would give her five minutes to take out Davenport."

"And that's only if she had the chloroform with her. Just hanging out in her car."

"There's no way," Chaucer concluded, polishing off his Jack on the rocks. "No way in hell."

"Well, no cops came 'round today. Could be they came to the same conclusion we did. Or they got turned upside down by this latest victim."

"You sure you didn't recognize him?"

"Not sure his own mother would have," Jessica said. Still kicking herself for not decoding the letter soon enough. All that time wasted at Malik's when one hour might have been enough to intercept Angry Jonny.

Chaucer lit a cigarette. "Wasn't your fault, girl."

"You know I walked right past the guy. Right past him. Just thought he was another one of those freaks from Asheville or Charlotte come to protest the government."

"Still, you can't just knock a man out, cut out his eyes and tongue without someone noticing."

"You think Angry Jonny did it in some other location?"

"Which means some other _time_... Did you notice the victim's shirt?"

"Human tongue just gushes blood when it's cut. Angry Jonny must have been soaking it up. Waiting for it to coagulate before... I don't know, moving him somehow."

"Vendors setting up at midday. Protestors streaming in as early as two. He could have wheeled his victim in there at any point and just left. Matter of fact, if somebody hadn't knocked the guy's hat off, the body might not have been discovered till everyone else cleared out."

Jessica looked out the window and into that parallel dimension. A near-empty stadium, littered with trash and miniature American flags. The acrid smell of burnt pyrotechnics. And seated in a wheelchair, flat against the wall, a nameless man slowly regaining consciousness. A moment or two of panic, struggling against his ropes before realizing what's happened to him.

Opening his mouth to scream through split lips, teeth gleaming bright red.

"What do you think he did?" Jessica asked.

"What who did?"

"The guy. What does Angry Jonny know about him that we don't?"

Chaucer took the ashtray from the floor and placed it on the futon's armrest. "What makes you think there's anything to know?"

"Jason Castle was crooked. Davenport's been hoarding naked baby photos since God knows when. Seems like Angry Jonny's taking on the vigilante role. Our own personal Dark Knight."

"Hmm..." With worried eyes, Chaucer reached for his drink. He weighed it in his hand. Watched slivers of ice swirl around, almost gone. "You read Al Holder's op-ed in the paper yesterday?"

"Yeah... _The Cult of Angry Jonny_."

"Catchy title... Anybody who wasn't living around here right now would probably read it and think that's a little premature. But I've heard people talking. Low voices at the bars, grocery stores. Standing in line at the bank. There's a lot of folks wondering out loud, asking themselves if Angry Jonny's victims would have ever come to justice without him. And in some circles, it ain't just idle speculation. For some of these people, their mind is already made up... Did you see the comments posted on Al's piece?"

"Yeah."

"It's some scary stuff..." Chaucer took a sip, stood up and leaned against the windowsill. "And I've seen some scary shit in my time. Chicago in 1968. The West Side Riots. Thought that whole city was going to burn to the ground that year. Thought the whole country was. But it wasn't like the world wasn't warned. Could've seen it coming. Could smell it in the air, like the seconds before a thunderstorm." Chaucer inhaled, breathed in the memories. "Smells a lot like right now, Jessica. People are angry. And they're frightened. And you know what starts to happen after a while?"

Jessica shook her head.

"People begin to enjoy it."

From the back stairway came the irregular thump of heavy footsteps.

Chaucer and Jessica waited, ears keen to a couple giggling their way up the stairs. Someone stumbling on the landing. Keys Jingling. Then, the sound of a door slamming shut.

False alarm.

His cigarette down to the filter, Chaucer returned to the futon, snubbed it out. "Everyone's got something to hide. You take anybody, search their life top to bottom, clean out their closets, and this I guarantee. These attacks could still very well be random. If we've decided there's a vigilante in our midst, it's for one reason alone. And that's because we want one."

"It's my birthday tomorrow."

Chaucer didn't seem the least bit surprised. Welcomed this with a broad smile. "How about that? Eighteen years, right?"

"Can't believe it myself."

"Well, look how far you've come... Got any plans?"

"Got the day off work." Jessica victoriously raised her arms. "From the Prescott and the Observer."

"So let's do something then. How about it? You, me, Dinah?"

"Dinah's working a double tomorrow."

"Then allow me take you out to dinner. Eighteen years, Jessica. We only come this way once."

"Promise?"

"That's a yes..." With a hefty grunt, he peeled himself off the futon. Collected his drink, heading for the bathroom. He stopped at the doorway and turned. "Something you might want to do for yourself, though."

"What's that?"

"Go onto that Facebook nonsense and make some friends your own damn age."

"Don't start."

"Then don't hate. You're turning eighteen, and you deserve every fresh start that comes along with that. Stop being such a little bad-ass, Jessica. Let yourself _go_."

"Go where?" she muttered.

But Chaucer was already in the bathroom, door slamming behind him.

Jessica flipped her laptop open and logged onto Facebook. Multiple sets of eyes stared back, snapshot smiles at their very best. She thought back to her fight with Malik's mother. All things forgiven if she could just see her way clear to giving up a little piece of herself in return.

With a sour face, Jessica moved to the first friend request on the list.

Cursor hovering over the DENY button.

She sighed.

From the bathroom, Jessica heard Chaucer calling out over the sound of the tap.

He returned holding a copy of the _What's What_ reference guide. "I take it you haven't read this whole thing."

"Why?"

"Check out the very last page before the index," he said, tossing the book across the room.

Jessica caught it, flipped through some five hundred pages of outdated toasters, computer terminals, and military gear. There, on the last page, was a grid of bizarre symbols, meanings etched beneath each one.

A few in particular she was already very familiar with.

"How about that?" Chaucer asked.

The clock on her computer ticked off one minute past midnight.

"Happy birthday to me," she replied.

By the time she went to bed, Jessica Kincaid had gone from eight friends to one hundred and forty-two.

Genuinely repulsed by how good it felt.

# **Chapter 28:** **Hobo Signs.**

The conference room was host to a dozen or so bodies from different divisions, stations and pay grades. Coffee cups and early afternoon snacks rested on the rectangular table as Al Holder took the helm. He held a stack of Xeroxed pages aloft for all to see.

"They are called hobo signs," he announced, handing Jessica the packets for distribution. "Call them vagabonds, call them transients; these were the symbols left to warn other fellow travelers of what perils or possibilities lay ahead. Four horizontal lines in a row meant _housewife feeds for chores_. Large triangle, followed by three smaller ones: _tell pitiful story_. A rectangle with a dot in the middle simply meant _danger_."

Jessica handed Ethan Prince his packet, which he gladly snatched from her fingers.

She scratched the bridge of her nose with her middle finger and kept moving.

"As you can see, the sign from the Jason Castle symbol stands for _dishonest man_. For whatever reason, Clarence Davenport was marked with a sign meaning _can sleep in barn_. The sign found on our latest victim, one Doctor Frank Lazenby, interestingly enough, signifies _doctor, no charge_."

Jessica returned to the head of the class and took her place by Al.

Lloyd, head of layout, raised a fleshy arm. "Why are you telling us this? I mean, particularly us?"

"The fact that you asked is exactly why. Every person in this room has something in common. That something? You are all puzzle people. When you're not working, it's a pretty good bet you'll be found pouring over the London Times crossword or with your nose in a book of cryptoquotes. Or that Sudoku thing. Finding patterns is how you get your kicks. And I'd like to put this to some good use."

Al's face grew stern. He crossed his arms, quickly deflating whatever egos he'd inadvertently bolstered. "There's no doubt the police already know what these symbols are. They're working with the FBI, after all. Let's not pretend like we've managed to uncover what they never could... But Angry Jonny has struck three times in the past month. And I don't think he's done. Verona PD is offering ten thousand for any information leading to the capture of Angry Jonny. Castle's wife has raised her reward to fifty. Think it's going to make a damn difference?"

There was an immediate murmur from the meeting of minds, heads shaking side to side.

"Well, we've gotten to know Angry Jonny pretty well over the course of our own investigation... And I think it's time, high time, we started doing our part to help catch this son of a bitch."

Everyone nodded solemnly.

Al cleared his throat, ready to move on. "Ethan, my office, ten minutes. Lloyd, get me some spreads on how we're going to fit the grids and three symbols he's already used. You've got half an hour. Everyone else... Not only is the information before you courtesy of Ms. Jessica Kincaid, but it also happens to be her birthday."

"Happy Birthday!" came the rallying cry, along with a round of applause.

"Good. Now everyone say, _Go home, Jessica_."

"Go home, Jessica!"

The meeting broke up with an enthusiastic scramble.

Al leaned close to Jessica's ear. "Come join me for a cigarette."

At four in the afternoon, humidity and stagnant winds had turned the parking lot into a swampland. Al's sweaty thumb couldn't even catch enough traction to light his smoke.

"Allow me," Jessica volunteered, sparking up a match.

"Good work in there," Al said, puffing away. "I'm going to get Ethan to line up some questions for the press conference at five, see if we can't get them to spill a thing or two..." He wiped his brow, smiling nostalgically. "Got to say, for the first time in a while, it feels as though this old rag is actually here for a purpose. Like we're actually starting to serve the people again."

"Glad I could help, sir." Jessica paused. "You find anything new?"

"On our latest victim? No. You?"

"Been going at it nonstop. Still no idea what the hell Dr. Frank Lazenby has to do with me."

"Think its misdirection?"

Jessica shrugged. "Used to work for Generation Insurance, way up in claims. _Claims denied_ , is really more like it. Who _wouldn't_ want to cut out his eyes and tongue?"

"His wife and two kids, for starters." Al dropped his cigarette, squished it underfoot. Didn't dwell on it. "How you getting home?"

"Same way I came. Walking."

"That's like a two hour walk. You'll die out there."

"It's my party, and I'll die if I want to."

The front door swung open, and Malik trotted up. "Happy Birthday, Jessica."

"Thanks."

The two of them shared an awkward, fifth grade hug.

Fortunately, the chaperone was there to cut the cord. "Give this girl a ride home, would you, Malik?"

"With pleasure."

"And I'm out of here," Al said, waving farewell and heading back to work.

Jessica and Malik slipped into the Outback, strapped in.

"Got plans for tonight?" Malik asked, pulling out and heading for the freeway.

"Got a date."

"What? With who?"

"Someone tall, dark and handsome."

Malik squinted. "I'm confused. Does that mean me?"

"No. But don't worry, it's not a date either."

"So you have plans for tonight, none of which include me?"

"Don't get all puppy-dog."

"I ain't getting –" Malik punched the accelerator, swerved into the fast lane. "I'm not getting all puppy-dog."

"Tell you what, pumpkin. Why don't you meet me later at The Rail? Eight-thirty, nine o'clock? We'll shoot some pool, play shuffleboard. Unless that's too PG for a player."

"Whatever..." A smile crept onto his face. "Our first date, we paid for PG-13 and snuck into an R-rated flick next door."

"Don't get your hopes up."

"On The Rail, eight-thirty. I'll be there."

"You missed our exit."

Malik whistled pleasantly at the opportunity to double back.

Stretch the ride out just a little bit longer.

# **Chapter 29:** **Tip Line.**

Jessica directed Chaucer to a stretch of bars downtown.

"Of course," Chaucer said, parking outside their destination. "I offer you the world, and you take me slumming."

They crossed the street, asphalt still smoldering at six in the evening.

_Southland's_ patio was teeming with the after-work crowd. Sales clerks, waiters, and clock watchers seated at rickety wooden tables or perched on the ensconcing, four-foot brick wall. Cigarettes blazing over pints of IPAs.

Inside, it wasn't nearly as crowded. One or two occupied tables, a handful of barflies buzzing around. The room was awash with a dark red flush, tempered by dim overheads and the vibrant colors of a flat screen TV. Smoke mingling with the scent of fresh-cut fries, beer and liquor.

Jessica scanned the bar, eyes landing on a trio of Pantheon preps.

One of them glanced over his shoulder.

None other than Eli Messner, decked out in his usual cheap suit and tie.

Their eyes met. Only for a moment. Then, without a hint of recognition, he turned back to his drink, laughing uproariously along with the rest.

Chaucer nudged her. "Again, you sure this is where you want to eat?"

"You may be treating, but I'm the one that's taking you out..."

"Let's get a table then."

"No table."

The bar ran the along the length of the back wall, then turned down along the left side of the room. At the end, it cut back into the wall, leaving enough space for three to sit. The perfect spot for Jessica to watch Eli and his compatriots yuck it up.

Chaucer joined her in the fox hole, hip to her game. "Guess you've made our friend."

"Hard to miss."

"Not going to say anything?"

"If he's blowing me off, he's got his reasons."

Chaucer shook his head, smiled. "Damn, you never cease to amaze."

"What?"

"Nothing."

Jessica gave him a withering smirk. "What the hell are you still doing in town, anyway?"

The bartender tossed a couple of coasters on the counter. "What can I get you?"

"I'll have a tonic water," Jessica said. "And a Heineken for him."

"You having anything to eat?"

"We are."

The bartender handed them a pair of menus and went to fetch their drinks.

"I won't lie," Chaucer said. "I got my business out of the way, and now... Well, I'm worried about you, so I'm sticking around."

"There's a lot of people might consider that strange."

"It's not unusual for an older person to mentor a young, promising individual."

"You going to teach me the ways of the restaurant manager?"

"Got to be something I can teach you... I'm not saying Al Holder ain't been a big help to you. Man's been around, but journalism is changing."

"The _business_ is changing. The truth will always be the truth."

"Ah," Chaucer lit a cigarette. "So that's what you're after."

"Nothing but."

"So journalism is just another way to follow that pursuit."

"You got it."

Chaucer sighed. "Well, if you won't accept a mentor... would you settle for worthy adversary?"

"Much better."

"All right."

Their drinks arrived, and the bartender left them to make their choice.

"Well, the food here don't actually look half bad," Chaucer commented. "Black-bean sliders with avocado slices? Garlic herb French fries? Stuffed mushrooms?"

"Long as there's a university around, ain't no such thing as a dive anymore."

As if to prove her point, Eli's friends hopped off of their barstools.

Their conversation tickled Jessica's ears.

"So tonight at eight?"

"Tonight's good, yeah."

"Should be a lot of action."

"Glad to be a part of it."

Jessica averted her eyes as the two of them began to head for the exit. They called back, double-checking on their tab: "You sure you got us, bro?"

She saw Eli raise his scotch, "All good."

"A'ight!" They sent one last wave in his direction. "See you in a few, dawg!"

Eli kept his grin smelted to his face, watching them through the windows as they headed down the sidewalk and out of sight. With noticeable relief, he let the Zoloft drain from his face and shook his head. "What a bunch of fucking idiots."

"Sup, E-lie," Jessica taunted.

"Yeah, sorry about that..." Eli signaled the bartender, and slid on towards them. "Chaucer, Jessica."

Chaucer raised his beer. "Never figured you for the country club type."

"All part of the game. Been trying to get into it for a bit now. These guys run it out of one of the new lofts downtown. Hundred dollar buy in, sometimes as many as four tables going at once."

"So you do actually play poker," Jessica said.

"You should stop on by if you get the chance..." Eli took out a slip of paper, reached over to set it in front of her. "Here's the place. You ain't seen the game played till you've seen me play it."

"Love a man with some strut."

The barkeep dropped off Eli's tab. "Thirty-five even, buddy."

"Got to love bar math," Eli said, squinting at the total and pulling out a wad of cash. "No pesky decimals or nothing."

"Twenty percent of thirty-five is seven dollars," Chaucer said. "Case you were wondering."

"I don't tip percentage at the bar, old man."

"I'm a dollar per drink man myself."

"Raise you two dollars," Eli shot back, dropping two twenties and a ten.

"Two bucks a drink..."Jessica whistled. "No wonder Dinah likes you."

Eli pretended not to hear. Pocketed his money and straightened his tie. "Got to go rest up before the game. Chaucer, why don't you sit in? These squares don't stand a chance against you."

"Got an appointment I can't miss. Next time."

"Your loss..." Eli made for the door with a spring in his step. "Peace out!"

Through the windows, Jessica saw him head off into the evening.

She bit her lip, feeling the shadows shift. When she turned back to the menu, all she could see were the prices. Numbers without decimal places. Hardly aware that the bartender had returned, fielding Chaucer's questions about the Italian sandwich. Something about prosciutto. Something about numbers without decimal places...

"Yo, birthday girl." Chaucer leaned in. "You ready?"

Jessica reached into her pocket, pulled out Dinah's credit card statement. Irrational fingers ripping through the paper as she unfolded it. Her eyes shot down to the bottom of the page.

June twenty-seventh, at two-thirty in the morning.

Totaling two hundred, forty-seven dollars.

And eighty cents.

"We have to go," Jessica said, jumping out of her seat. "Quick."

"What's wrong?"

"What time does The Cardinal open?" she asked the bartender.

"It opens at six," the bartender replied amiably enough.

"Thanks." Jessica threw a ten-spot on the bar, tugged at Chaucer's arm. "We have to go _now_."

Chaucer knew better than to argue, picked his coat off the chair.

Still trying to slip into it as they tore across the streets, cars screeching to a halt for the amusement of all those sitting outside, relaxing after a hard day's work.

# **Chapter 30:** **The Cardinal Rule.**

Two steps through the door, Jessica understood why Dinah had instantly fallen in love with the place.

The owners had gone that extra mile to give them something good.

Fresh-lit candles rested on wrought iron tables, flames flickering along glass. Black leather couches and plush armchairs. Dark, red-oak walls soaked up the music of Billy Holiday. Spotless bar, soft-lit from above. An armada of bottles lined up along three glass shelves. On either side, fancy wooden cabinets housed premium blends and single malts, shots fetching anywhere from thirty dollars on up.

It was pure class, all Dinah ever wanted.

The thought was absolutely heartbreaking.

Jessica and Chaucer took an unassuming stroll to greet the bartender. He was a tall, imposing figure; arms bulging beneath a crisp, white tux-shirt. Shaved head, thick lips complimenting a pugilist nose. Along the pale hillside of his cheek, a faded scar suggested that trouble best find itself another place to drink.

His eyes lit on them with dark courtesy.

"Can I help you two?" he asked with a thick New Zealand accent, already making it clear that Jessica was two questions shy of being asked to leave.

"Yes, thank you," Chaucer said, ever amiable. "This is a little embarrassing but I was here a couple of nights ago and... well, I'm sorry, but I might have left without paying?"

The bartender smiled, momentarily entertained. "Without paying, you say?"

"Yeah. I opened up a tab with my Visa card, and I guess I must have had a few too many – "

"Think someone's got their wire's crossed, fella. We don't hold credit cards."

"You don't hold credit cards."

"We'd swipe yours right from the get-go." The barkeep pantomimed the action along the touch screen situated in the middle of the bar. "Got all your information right in here, you get to keep your card... But you don't get to walk out without paying. Believe that."

Jessica picked up the drink menu and began to leaf through it. Slowly, then frantically. Every drink, every beer, every glass of wine, bottle of champagne told the same story.

Nice, whole numbers. All dollars, no cents.

She looked up from the menu, face to face with a bronze plaque embossed with black letters.

AN EIGHTEEN PERCENT GRATUITY WILL BE ADDED TO ALL CHECKS NOT SETTLED BY THE END OF THE NIGHT.

Jessica grew dizzy, trying to imagine Dinah at closing time. Forcing herself to imagine Dinah's pen hovering above the tip line, struggling with basic math. Basic math. Tip two dollars for each drink. And with each drink on the menu being a nice whole number, the total would've come to another nice whole number.

Never two hundred, forty-seven dollars and eighty cents.

"You're not the first to come asking about it," the giant behind the bar said. "Got a couple of gents in here last night. Wanted to see some records."

"Last night?" Chaucer asked.

"Didn't have what they needed on hand. So they came back here tonight..." He checked his watch. "Oh, I'd say maybe an hour ago."

"Who were they asking about?" Jessica asked.

The barkeep crossed his arms. "Now what makes you think I would tell you, young lady?"

"Don't matter. I've got a pretty good idea."

"See you in four years, then."

Jessica and Chaucer bolted towards the door. Didn't need to look up to know the sky had finally begun to fall.

Because if Dinah hadn't been around to settle her tab, then she could've been damn near anywhere.

And as far as the cops were concerned, that anywhere was good as in Davenport's living room.

# ***

Chaucer swerved around the outer rim of the Pantheon-Prescott parking lot, gunning for the back entrance.

Jessica strained to see through the windshield, dismayed to find two police cruisers parked by the dumpsters. She yanked at the door handle, leaping out before the car could come to a complete stop. She stumbled with wild inertia. Managed to find her balance, and ran for the entrance.

A pair of uniformed officers were stationed at the beige, metal door.

They moved in, grabbed hold of Jessica and pushed her back.

"You can't go in there, miss."

"Step back, miss."

"You're going to have to wait out here."

Jessica was seized with the urge to rush them. Positive that, with a running start and favorable wind velocity, she could easily bust right past them. Lucky for her, Chaucer had already caught up. Took hold of her shoulders, holding in check.

"What's going on, officers?" he asked, with an experienced courtesy.

"Please step back."

"I'm back, officers. We're both back, that's a promise. Please, what's going on?"

"Sir, if you and the young lady could just wait –"

Jessica was reconsidering her plan to rush them, when the back door opened.

Donahue and a uniformed stepped out, flanking Dinah on either side. Tie askew, head bowed. She tilted her head to the side, a single blue eye pleading through a curtain of blond curls.

Jessica called out to her, shuffling along with the procession, held at a distance by the officers. Not getting any response, she turned to the detective. "Donahue, what the fuck are you doing?"

Donahue opened the door to one of the cruisers. "I didn't want to do this in front of the staff, Jessica." He asked Dinah to please turn around, reaching for his handcuffs. "Dinah Titus, you are under arrest for the assault on Clarence Davenport. You have the right to remain silent..."

Jessica was only partially aware that Chaucer was holding her back. What she hoped to gain from her struggle was anyone's guess. There was nothing to be done, just stand by ineffectually as Donahue manacled Dinah's hands. "Do you understand these rights as they have been told?"

Dinah nodded weakly.

"I'm sorry, I'm going to need you to answer yes or no."

"Yes."

Donahue placed a hand on Dinah's head.

Jessica watched as her aunt seemed to fold in half, disappear into the cruiser's back seat.

"You can follow us to the station," Donahue told Jessica. "We're going to book your aunt, then see about a bail hearing."

"Where's detective Randal?" Chaucer asked.

"He's searching their apartment," Donahue replied flatly. He rounded the car and stepped in, as one of the officers got into the driver's side and started the engine.

The remaining uniforms held out their arms once more, asking Jessica to make room.

"I'm _doing_ it!" she yelled, taking ten giant steps back, arms outstretched. "All right?"

"Easy, Jessica," Chaucer said.

"Shit!"

"Jessica –"

"Fuck! What am I supposed to do now?" Jessica asked, glancing around to find that night had fallen on Verona. The cruiser's lights flashed in a dizzying, red dirge. She watched it round the parking lot and disappear out the driveway. "What am I supposed to do?"

The hotel lights shone down on Chaucer's face as he waited for the remaining cruiser to clear the scene. Finally, he put a hand on Jessica's shoulder. "We should stop by your place. See what Randal's up to, if he's found anything."

"I can't leave Dinah alone."

"You're probably going to have to. I think it's a pretty good sign that they're still searching your place. It means that no matter what they had on Dinah to get the warrant served, this case is far from shut."

Jessica kicked at a pebble, sent it skipping against the dumpster with a low thud.

"Look, I doubt she's going to be getting a bail hearing within the next hour... Let me drop you off at your place. I'll head down to the station and see what I can find out. The minute anything happens, I'll come pick you up. All right?"

Jessica closed her eyes, nodded. "Too early to tell, right?"

"Too early to tell?"

"If she's going to be all right."

"Too early," Chaucer replied, on the level.

"OK. Then take me home.."

Jessica watched the Prescott-Pantheon fade in the side mirror as they drove away. Picturing how it must have looked to have the police take Dinah away. With or without a public arrest, handcuffed or not, Jessica would have to gear up for a crash course in public relations.

Another line in her runaway résumé.

# **Chapter 31:** **Key Information.**

By the time she arrived, the authorities were almost done violating Jessica's apartment. She plowed into a pair of officers on the second-floor landing, each carrying a stack of white cardboard boxes. Through one of the handholds, Jessica spied the fluffy tail of Dinah's slutty cat costume.

She rushed up the remaining steps.

A single policeman was stationed at the open door. The sight of Jessica seemed to startle him, as though he had forgotten why he had been stationed there. He promptly blocked the entrance, held out his hand.

"I live here," Jessica snapped. "You can't keep me out of my own place, I don't give a shit if you're not done sniffing my underwear."

"Miss, please –"

"Is Randal in there? Get Randal for me."

The officer cleared his throat and called out over his shoulder: "Detective!"

Randal's voice came floating from deep within. "Yeah, yeah..."

Jessica peeked around the guard and saw the detective making his way down the hallway, forearm wiping his brow.

"Ms. Kincaid..." He motioned with a vinyl-gloved hand. "Come on in, we're almost done here."

Jessica walked into the living room. "See anything you like?"

"I'm real sorry about all this," Randal said. His face carried its usual flush, blue eyes exhibiting a juvenile embarrassment. "We'll be giving you a receipt for anything seized. You're free to walk around and have a look as we wrap things up –"

"Thanks, I think I will."

Randal followed her down the hallway. "Don't be sore, Jessica... Actually, never mind. That's stupid, of course you're sore."

"Get this man his MacArthur Genius Grant." Jessica peeked into her room. Squinting, unaccustomed to the overhead light. Spotted a couple of books missing from her milk-crate shelves. Her laundry basket had been searched, along with the closet and her book bag.

"Please hold your search until we're done with ours, Jessica."

"I _know_ that. I also know you owe me a search warrant, and you owe it now."

Randal pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket.

"And you'd better hope it adds up," Jessica added, snatching the document from him. "If I find you've been sneaking in Dinah's makeup kit looking for a handgun –"

"I'm aware how much more you know about this than I do."

"Yeah, I'll bet you are..." The books taken from her room had been _Forensics For Dummies_ and the _NOLO Guide to Criminal Law_. The warrant had made no mention of literature or anything similar, but they remained legal seizure. The noted items – lock-pick kit, pocket knives, pills, vinyl gloves, bottles suspected to contain dangerous chemicals, ranging from 20mls to a half-liter – were small enough to allow the police to search almost anywhere and confiscate anything in plain view.

Including any books that might prove Dinah had sufficient knowledge to pull off a pair of complex crimes.

Jessica headed for the kitchen, search warrant held before her like a shopping list.

Bumped into yet another officer, this one leaving Dinah's room.

"We found another wine key!" he announced, holding up an evidence bag.

_Another one_ , Jessica noted, along with the officer's choice of paper over plastic. _Blood, DNA?_

"That's great," she bitched, casting her line. "You've taken all of our wine keys with you."

Randal bit, motioned briskly for the officer to move on: "Just get it packed, and make sure you sign off."

The officer's apologetic look was all the conformation Jessica needed. "Really, Detective... Now how am I supposed to open wine bottles? With my mind?"

"I didn't think you drank."

"My tables do. They drink a lot."

Randal began to make his way down the hall. "You'll be getting a receipt for everything seized. If you want, I can give you a lift to the station. I don't know if you're aunt's been processed yet –"

"I've got my own ride, thanks."

"Then I guess our time is up."

"You know you're both wrong about Dinah, right?" Jessica took Randal by the arm, stopped him halfway through the living room. "You and Donahue. Arresting her before a complete search of her apartment? Even an unseasoned observer might think you were grasping at straws."

" _Only_ an unseasoned observer would think we're grasping at straws." Randal signaled the officer at the door to take off. Turned his full attention on Jessica, with a compassionate sigh. "You didn't ask for any of this. And don't tell Donahue I said anything, but I am rooting against us on this one. All the way."

"For such a good cop, you really are a lousy detective."

"I'm better at this than you could possibly imagine."

With that, Randal removed his gloves with a pair of resounding, elastic snaps.

Didn't bother closing the door as he disappeared down the steps.

Jessica took care of that for him, then went on a little tour.

The cops had been exasperatingly efficient. Without prior knowledge, she might never have guessed anyone had even been there. Along with her books, Jessica found two of her white dress shirts missing. A search of the kitchen verified her earlier hunch: all their wine keys were gone.

She rushed back to her room.

Picked up her journal from the desk.

The red, spiral-ringed notebook was just as she had left it, Folded open to a blank, college-ruled page.

Jessica closed her eyes. If she hadn't left it open... Had she simply closed the journal after her last entry... Face up, with the words ANGRY JONNY written on the cover for all to see...

Every insignificant move she made, another possible nail in her coffin.

Jessica stuffed the journal into her book bag and carried it into the living room.

Dialed Al Holder's cell.

From the sound of it, he was still at the office... "Jessica, it's your damn _birthday_ , already –"

"I think I know the weapon the police are looking for."

She heard Al's muffled voice talking to someone else, before returning: "I'm sorry, what?"

"The weapon..." Jessica repeated. "Tool, I think, is the technicality, I don't know. Whatever it is Angry Jonny's been using to slice them up. I think I know what it is."

"Really."

"They're looking for a wine key."

"You mean those little Swiss-army-type things waiters use to open wine?"

"Not enough like a Swiss army knife..." Jessica went to the window, searched the streets. Didn't see any signs of police activity, nobody monitoring her. "The police report mentioned light abrasions around the eye sockets."

"Sure, but –"

"Look, maybe these bruises were made by the hilt of whatever he used. That means that the blade Angry Jonny used was small. With a longer knife, going hilt deep, he would have punctured the brain. Probably killed Jason Castle, Davenport, and Dr, Lazenby. The smallest blade on a Swiss army knife folds out towards the end that has a knob on it. A small, metallic ring you can use to attach to a key chain."

"Jessica –"

"That would leave a very specific mark. A wine key doesn't have that, its blade folds out towards the smooth end of the handle. A completely different abrasion. Angry Jonny's using a wine key to cut out their eyes. A solid, high-end one. The cheaper ones have longer blades."

"Jessica, please, how do you know all this?"

She reached into her back pocket, search warrant crumpling between her fingers. Unwilling to reveal her tricks. Come tomorrow, it would be all over the news. Nobody's scoop, all things equal. But it wasn't easy. Al had elevated her from a common intern to sit at his right hand.

Jessica was no journalist.

For the moment, she was just a girl looking to score some petty revenge.

Bring the police department down a peg with her inside track.

"I know because I know..." Her phone beeped; Chaucer trying to get through. "Trust me. Get the police to cop to this one. Don't let Ethan let them off the mat. Angry Jonny is using the blade of a wine key."

"Could you just hold on, damn it –"

"I have to go." Jessica switched calls. "Yeah, Chaucer. What's up?"

"Dinah's got a bail hearing," Chaucer said, voice rasping in Jessica's ear. "And we may have gotten lucky."

"Lucky how?"

"Casper Noel's on for magistrate tonight. I'm coming over to get you."

"I'll be out front."

"Jessica, be warned. This is just a bail hearing. This does _not_ mean that Dinah's going to walk tonight."

Jessica scooped up her bag, already heading for the door. "I'll take whatever good news I can get."

"Good to –"

The phone went dead.

Jessica didn't bother with finding her charger. She was already halfway down the stairs, racing outside to meet her ride. One step at a time. Measured breaths, readying herself for another set of circus hoops.

# **Chapter 32:** **Bond Ambition.**

The offices of the criminal magistrate for Verona's seventeenth district had an independent visitor's entrance. Hand-carved signs skirted the police department, arrows burning a bright yellow trail.

Jessica and Chaucer waded grimly through the humidity.

He was the first to break the silence, holding Jessica back as she reached for the door. "You remember what I said on the phone?"

"Yeah..." She wiped her brow. Back of her neck. "Keep it cool, right?"

"Better know it."

"I know you're just dying to spell it out for me."

"That's because I know Casper's dying to take it easy on Dinah. But he's got to make it look good. The support of well-behaved friends and family can only help. And what do well-behaved friends and family do?"

"Speak only when spoken to?"

"Or not at all. You just remember: this ain't On The Rail, and that ain't Casper Noel in there. That man's the man, all right? He is _Your Honor_ , and you will address him as such."

"We done here?"

"Just keep your mouth shut."

With that, the situation finally became real. She brushed the chip off her shoulder, as Chaucer held the door open. They stepped into a narrow antechamber. Went through the metal detector. Her belt set off the alarm, prompting a request to raise her arms for the wand.

Jessica complied, throwing Chaucer an apologetic look.

There was probably a time when the office of the magistrate had been an actual office. Jessica's single brush with the law had landed her in a similar place, long way back in Louisville. Thanks to a technicality, she had been shuttled to another district, where the bail hearing had taken place before a stately-looking desk, in a room of ornate decorations that screamed tradition.

The room she found herself in now was a stark reminder of Verona's struggle with overcrowded courts. No pictures on the walls. Basic furniture. Even the American and State flags had casually slipped away, unwilling to be associated with such a desolate environment. It was as though someone had stripped a typical classroom bare, leaving behind nothing but a pair of foldout chairs near the front.

Fluorescent lights set on migraine.

The desk was situated on a raised platform surrounded by bulletproof glass. All it needed was a rack of cigarettes, some dirty magazines, and it could have passed for any shady gas station on Verona's east side.

Night clerk played by Casper Noel.

Jessica barely recognized him. A bartender, he would often regale the regulars with tales from the bench; stories of lowlifes, lunatics, and audacious losers who believed they could talk their way out of anything. His mischievous eyes would gleam as he spoke. Unable to hold his grin in check, as though he couldn't believe this was where his law degree had landed him.

And now Jessica was finally on his turf, other side of the story. Casper the magistrate was all business. Eyes focused intently on an outdated monitor, his elevated position and black robe giving shape to the abstraction.

A pair of officers on either side of his glass cage brought the contradictions crashing down.

Chaucer motioned for Jessica to stand with him against the back wall.

A door near the front of the room opened.

Detective Donahue walked in, escorting Dinah to the chairs before the magistrate. Her arms were still cuffed behind her back. She stood with her head bowed, not one glance over her shoulder, reassuring or otherwise.

Jessica bit her lip. Swallowed her words, proceedings underway before she realized it. There was no grand announcement, no theatrics or inspired traditions. Donahue led Dinah to the magistrate's desk and slipped a few documents through a slit at the bottom of the window.

With an almost casual air, Casper asked: "Do you swear that what you are submitting to me is the truth to the best of your knowledge?"

"Yes, your honor."

Casper motioned for him to continue.

"This is Dinah Titus. We're asking for the following charges..." He pointed to the papers in Casper's hand, speaking at a fast, rehearsed clip... "On this particular date the aforementioned broke into the private residence of Clarence Davenport..."

Jessica had to strain her ears, half the detectives words lost in their journey across the room. Between dials on the radio; even through the static it was clear that the offences were manifold. Casper didn't appear to be convinced about any of them one way or the other.

"– We believe she is also involved with two other incidents with the same MO, but all we are asking for tonight are the charges presented."

Casper nodded, turned to Dinah. Not as her friend, bartender or confidant. It was as though he had only just noticed her. "Ms. Titus, do you have anything to say for yourself?"

Dinah shook her head.

"I'm sorry Ms. Titus, I'm going to need you to answer out loud."

Jessica couldn't hear her reply.

Casper nodded, turned to Donahue. "Is the police department asking for a particular bond?"

"The police requests no bond, Your Honor, based on the nature of the crimes."

Jessica clenched her jaw, positive this was destined to become yet another story Casper would be using to entertain the drunks at the pool hall. She saw him turn to his computer. The clatter of the keyboard resounded with a pure, crisp clarity.

She glanced at Chaucer, trying to gain some insight.

He motioned for her to keep quiet. Keep watching.

During this brief interlude, Randal quietly entered and took a seat.

Casper turned to Donahue. "I am not seeing sufficient evidence of a weapon specifically connected to Ms. Titus. Possession of the use of an intoxicating or impairing substance is at the moment purely speculative. There is nothing to sustain _either_ count of assault with a deadly weapon with intent to kill. I am therefore only charging Ms. Titus with breaking and entering, a class A-1 misdemeanor in the state of North Carolina."

Jessica broke into a grin that threatened to wind its way clear around her head.

Never mind the robes, the real Casper Noel had arrived.

He threw a quick look across the room.

Jessica expected a wink, a sly grin. Some sign that they were all in this together.

Nothing of the sort. He gathered himself and imposed the bond. "Based on the evidence presented before me with the arrest warrants issued, pretrial release conditions are set at ten thousand dollars secure bond... in cash, or ten thousand dollars collateral in assets if you have any –"

" _What?_ " Jessica stepped away from the wall. "Ten thousand dollars? She didn't even _do_ anything, you know she didn't!"

Casper didn't budge. "Miss Kincaid, please calm down."

" _Miss Kincaid?_ "

"Yes, calm down, please. Right now."

If not for the knife in her back, Jessica might have noticed Randal and Donahue displaying similar expressions of dismay. As it was, she didn't even notice Chaucer's fingers digging into her arm.

"Ten grand in assets, thanks a lot! You know we don't have anything – "

Chaucer's grip tightened. "Jessica –"

The court officers began to move towards her.

Chaucer held out his free hand, sending the magistrate a coded message.

Casper motioned for the guards to step down. "Mr. Braswell, please escort Miss. Kincaid outside. I will inform Dinah Titus of the schedule for her first appearance upon your return, _alone_."

"Thank you, your honor," Chaucer said, practically carrying Jessica away. "Please accept my apologies."

Jessica didn't get a chance to see Casper's response. She was brusquely led back to the anteroom, past the metal detectors and out into the parking lot.

Chaucer let go of her arm, practically threw her against his car. "Shake it off," he ordered.

"Don't _tell_ me what to do –"

" _Shake it off!_ " he repeated, emphasizing each word.

"You're not my daddy, Chaucer."

"That's right. But your aunt is in jail, they're holding her for a ten-thousand-dollar bond, and that's just the way _that one went_."

He stalked back to the side entrance and left her alone.

"Damn it!" Jessica knew she couldn't have handled it worse. She slammed her hand down on the hood of the car and walked to the edge of the parking lot. Stood on the corner, awash in the glow of gas station signs across the street. Just beyond that, an endless procession of headlights rushed beneath the overpass.

She shoved her hands into her pockets and stalked back to the El Dorado.

"Ten thousand dollars," she whispered.

Wishing for once that numbers did lie.

# ***

Ten minutes later, Chaucer joined her in the parking lot.

He leaned against the car, every bit the Zen master, and put a cigarette to his lips. "First appearance is set for tomorrow afternoon at three... Don't think the Detectives were expecting that one either. Think they were hoping to hold Dinah for the whole ninety-six hours."

Jessica had made a nest of her arms on the Cadillac roof.

She raised her head and nodded.

"You OK, Jessica?"

"Yeah..." She blew a dampened coil of hair from her forehead with mixed results. "I'm sorry I blew up back there."

"It's cool."

"Going to have to be, right?"

"The way that one went."

Jessica sighed, replaced her request for a cigarette with a more pressing point. "Ten thousand dollars is a lot of money."

"Casper's got a job to do. If it's ten thousand he set, then you've got to believe it could've been worse in the hands of another man."

"It's still a one with four zeroes."

"Look..." Chaucer closed his eyes for a micro-nap, then blinked a few times. "I'm happy to get the money for you. More than happy."

"Shit, Chaucer, you don't owe me that –"

"Save it. I can get the money. Just don't have it handy."

"Whatever favors you got lined up, I can't let you cash them in for this."

"It's collateral. I'll get it back once this is all over." Chaucer dropped his cigarette to the ground, crushed it beneath his shoe. "It's round about nine-fifty. Got my meeting in a few minutes. After that I'll head on over to Wilmington. If I can pull the right strings, I shouldn't be back later than one, tomorrow. With the money."

"And what if you're not?"

"I will be."

Jessica nodded, not the least bit satisfied. "All right, get on over to your meeting."

"Let me drop you off."

"I've actually got another destination in mind."

"Please don't say _bail bondsman_."

"Nothing like that..." Jessica knocked on the hood of the car. Chaucer reached in, popped the lock, and let her slide on in. "I don't want to be stuck at home. Not with Dinah in jail, not after the cops ransacked my home. Eli's got a card game going on down town... take me to it."

"Jessica, if I come back tomorrow and find I need to bail _you_ out..."

"I'm solid, Easy Rawlins," Jessica said. "You're late, and I just want to get out of here."

"Fine."

Chaucer started the car.

He pulled out into traffic, signaling his intent all the way.

Jessica kept her own motives to herself, knowing full well there was no chance she was going to leave Dinah behind for even one night.

# **Chapter 33:** **House of** Cards.

Jessica was led across the finished concrete floor by Bob, one of Eli's drinking buddies. She tried to take in as much as she could without appearing out of her element. The building was one of many defunct tobacco warehouses turned into fully refurbished high-end lofts. The crisscross of iron struts along the ceiling and thick, opaque windows embedded firmly into towering brick walls were the only remnants of that particular chapter in Verona's history.

Pallets of bundled tobacco leaves replaced with Corinthian leather couches lining the perimeter of a sunken living room. Hi-definition, flat screen on the wall, racks of DVDs in place of time cards. Instead of workmen, calloused hands and aching backs, young professionals and local bartenders gathered in small pockets along the exposed kitchen or ad hoc bar, shooting the shit over single malts and microbrews.

Ghosts floating in the cigarette smoke, concentrated in a gray raincloud over a collection of red-felt card tables. Four ovals arranged like dots on a die. Two of them empty, nineteen players split between the remaining pair.

Bob pointed towards Eli's table. "Looks like you're just in time for a real hand."

Jessica rounded the game's perimeter. A collection of absorbed spectators had gathered to watch the action. Hardly a soul took notice of her, including Eli, eyes trained on the only player left in the hand.

Eli's opponent, an overweight redhead sporting a Nets jersey, reached for his chips. "Re-raising you; I'm all in." With a single, aggressive shove, he bulldozed his entire stack into the center. The clay discs came tumbling down in a multicolored cascade. He crossed his arms and stared Eli down.

A low murmur swept the table.

Eli returned the redheaded stranger's push with his own level gaze. Not amused in the least. Blank, unsympathetic eyes of a masked executioner.

"I call," Eli said, gently moving his own stack an inch or so forward.

As though he expected to be getting them back, real soon.

"Ah, _shit_." The redhead turned over his cards. "There. Pair of threes."

Eli flipped over his own cards. "Pair of fours."

The crowd exploded into a hailstorm of Monday morning quarterbacking. Amid the laughter and stunned swearing, Eli leaned over and corralled the mess of chips into his stable.

Jessica caught his eye, motioned for him to join her.

Eli nodded. "Sitting this next one out, gentlemen."

They met by the bar. Eli poured himself a hefty dose of Black Label. "Not a bad hand, there. Up two hundred and change, by my count. Could be three times that, come morning –"

"Dinah's been arrested."

His cheeks bulged, and he had to force the scotch down. "Arrested for what?"

"Davenport."

"But she couldn't have –"

"Don't matter right now." Jessica said. "The bail's been set at ten grand. I don't have time to do a whole panhandler speech, so here it is... Do you have it or not?"

Eli hesitated.

"I'm going to take that as a _yes, but_..."

"Jessica..." Eli took his drink, led her to a more secluded area. "I can't get involved in this."

"How are you not already involved?"

"I mean I can't be responsible for bailing her out. That's the kind of information that makes the papers. And if the national media starts paying attention to this again... Remember when I told you that I got into some trouble up in New York?"

"Yeah."

"With some serious customers... people who seem to think I owe them money."

Jessica crossed her arms. "How much?"

"Enough that they haven't stopped looking for me."

"Fine, then give _me_ the money. I'll bail her out."

" _And where exactly did you get ten grand from, Jessica?_ That's what they're going to ask."

"And I'll tell them it's none of their damn business."

Eli sighed. Hung his head, thinking.

Without another word, he returned to the table and threw on his jacket. The abrupt departure didn't win him any friends. Jessica watched him make with the sweet talk, profuse apologies as he counted out his chips. Her eyes went to Eli's drink. The scotch glowed with sandy temptations.

Eli returned, still playing politics with the host. "It's not like I'm afraid of losing what I've won, Bob."

"That's what it looks like to them," Bob said, circling behind the bar. He ducked down and popped back up with a heavy gauge, steel cashbox. "These guys don't mind losing every now and then. But they came to play cards, not get mugged."

"I swear, I will be back tomorrow, and the next night and the next –"

"Cashing out three fifty-five!" Bob announced.

" – You tell old red over there –"

"Charlie."

"You tell Charlie he'll get his shot at me."

"Well, he lives here," Bob said, handing Eli a stack of twenties. "So as they say in the movies, _any time, buddy_."

Eli took the cash with another humble apology, practically bowing as he led Jessica out of the loft, and down a flight of concrete steps. They exited into a spacious brick courtyard with grassy trim that ran between the East and West buildings of the New Historic Verona Complex.

"How'd you get here?" Eli asked.

"Got dropped off. The cops impounded the Mustang."

"We'll deal with the details later. Time being, let's get Dinah bailed out."

Jessica checked her phone. Battery still dead, leaving her to guess the time. Erring on the cautious side, she figured Dinah would be out of jail and back home by eleven at the latest. She settled on eleven-thirty, just in case there were unforeseen difficulties lurking around the corner.

Midnight, at the very latest.

# ***

Jessica sat at the kitchen table of the cramped, two-bedroom house, as Eli lay flat on his stomach, shoulder deep in what appeared to be an empty air duct. This was the second spot to have come up empty. The first, a hollowed out hardback of _The Count of Monte Cristo_ , lay gutted on the linoleum floor.

"Shit, shit, shit!" Eli leaped to his feet. He grabbed hold of a chair and dragged it into the living room.

Jessica tilted her head, watched through the doorway as Eli placed the chair below a motionless ceiling fan. He stepped up, reaching between the blades. Eyes closed, breath held as he felt his way around. Finally, he let out a shuddery sigh. With a feeble yank, he freed a taped envelope from its hiding place and stepped from the chair with a heavy thump.

When he returned to the kitchen, his eyes were moist. Shoulders slumped, as though the player from a half hour ago had loaned his suit to a dispirited and broken twin. "Silver lining don't much change the cloud, does it?"

He tossed the envelope onto the table, and took a beer out of the fridge.

Cracked it open and leaned back against the door.

"So what's that put you at?" Jessica asked.

"Little over ten grand."

"I'm sorry."

Eli drank down half his beer, wiped his lips against his shoulder.

"Any sign of forced entry?"

Eli shook his head.

"Doesn't look like the place was exactly ransacked."

Eli nodded, sniffed.

"Whose house is this Eli? Who's this friend of yours?"

"Eric Teasdale. Know him from New York. I crashed at his place for around a year."

"He know your hiding places, your little spots?"

"All under the mattress back then."

"Is your friend smart?"

"What do you mean?"

"Does your friend have a brain?" Jessica clarified flatly. "Your hiding spots may work against a random crackhead who ain't looking for your bankroll. But someone who knows you've got that kind of loot stashed around, all it would take is a little creativity and some educated guesses."

"Someone like you or your aunt?"

Eli laid it down so casually, it didn't immediately stick.

Jessica couldn't even entertain the possibility that he had actually gone there. "What?"

"Nothing, just thinking out loud."

She'd heard right, all right. "Take me home."

Eli groaned, banged his head against the freezer door. "Jessica, I'm sorry –"

"Take me home now." She picked up the envelope and hurled it across the room. It bounced off his thigh, fell to the floor. "I'll wait outside so you can find a new spot. Never know who might come looking, right?"

"Jessica –"

She made sure to slam the door on her way out.

# **Chapter 34:** **Fight Club.**

Jessica emptied her book bag onto the floor of Eli's car. The lights outside Camelot didn't help, left her operating on pure touch. She began to rummage around through magazines, notebooks, spare shirts and miscellaneous bills.

Eli pulled the parking break.

Tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. "Maybe you left them back at the station."

Jessica ignored him. She ducked down, reaching beneath the seat. Fingers pierced by sharp, metal angles. She smacked Eli's knee, implicitly ordering him to make room.

He obediently shifted his legs.

Jessica threw herself across the floor, keeping her abdominals tight against the plastic paneling. Searched along the driver's side, tearing at the floor matt. Came up empty. She felt a tap on her shoulder. Twisted around, got a gnome's view of Eli looking down at her. He pointed to the passenger's side.

Jessica struggled to her knees.

The tip of her key ring was poking out from the crevice of her seat.

With a disgusted sigh, she pulled them out, began stuffing her book bag.

"You really never going to talk to me again?" Eli asked.

Jessica zipped up, let the silence speak for itself.

"I'm sorry if you think I implied..." Eli stopped. Tried a different approach. "It was a stupid thing to say."

"And yet you keep saying stupid things."

"Jessica –"

His door flew open, seemingly of its own volition.

Jessica watched with detached wonder as Eli was yanked, lifted from the car like an astronaut through an air lock. Sent rolling down the hill, limbs entangled with his shadowy assailant.

Taking hold of her book bag, Jessica leapt from the car. Ran to the top of the incline and stared down.

Eli and Malik were lodged against a cement parking block. Writhing in a bed of dried pine needles, each looking to get the upper hand. Fists swinging wildly, few punches finding their place.

With a couple of clumsy grunts, they managed to split apart.

Got to their feet and began swinging.

Hurling a hundred obscenities for every roundhouse and haymaker.

"What the hell is wrong with you two?" she yelled.

They froze, breathing heavily, each in their own uniquely inept fighter's stance. Only a few pathetic scrapes and cuts to show for their brazen display.

"What the hell is wrong with _you_?" Malik cried out, squinting without the aid of his glasses. "I been sitting at the pool hall for two hours, like a goddamn fool, waiting for you!"

On any other night, he might have had a point. "Well, you're handling it real well."

"What do you expect? You tell me you're going to meet me at eight, and now I find you blowing this white motherfucker in his car –"

" _Excuse me?_ Get your prescription updated, you idiot! And while you're at it, stay the fuck out of my business!"

"All I have done is try to make it up to you –"

"Stop trying, Malik. To do _anything_."

Eli wiped his mouth. "Give the kid a break, Jessica."

It was more honor than Malik was ready to handle. "When I need your help, I'll whistle for you, bitch."

"Bitch?"

"You heard me."

"Hey!" Before the bell could sound, Jessica laid it all out. "Please, go ahead. Dinah's in jail and here you two go wilin' out like a couple of goddamn punks! You can beat each other's brains out for all I care!

Malik burped out a confused _Huh?_

Jessica replied with a similar, sarcastic grunt. "Like either of you really care."

She shouldered her book bag and marched into the back stairwell.

Jessica stomped to her room, forcing her footsteps to make up for the empty apartment. She violently shook out the contents of her bag onto the floor. Looking to reorganize. Fending off the day's calamities in a bout of obsessive compulsiveness.

She threw her shirts into the laundry basket. Tossed the red notebook onto her desk. Stuffed the electric and cable bills into her filing cabinet. Grabbing hold of the periodicals, she marched into the bathroom. Set them down with the rest of the magazines.

Noticed that one of these things was not like the others.

Poking out between the stack was a copy of _Player_ , one of Eli's many gambling publications. Jessica figured she must have scooped it off the floor of his car. All set to toss it, when she caught sight of a book mark filed halfway towards the back.

A small ticket; paid parking stub.

Jessica recognized the location. Pantheon's central campus; parking deck around the corner from the Timber Bowl and the Center for Human Genetics.

Dating back just a few days, July Fourth.

Time stamped at three-fifteen pm.

Jessica threw the magazine aside and sat on edge of the toilet. If the bail hearing was any indication, Donahue was looking to pin all three of Angry Jonny's attacks on Dinah. And if Eli had been there as early as three-fifteen, maybe he had seen something.

Anything, that was the watchword.

Anything that might derail the prosecution of her aunt.

Jessica stopped right there, ticket stub folding over in her fist.

For all she knew, Eli was still duking it out with her ex-boyfriend in the parking lot. Even if they had managed to settle their differences like men, their actions that evening had been anything but. A pair of burned bridges Jessica had no interest in rebuilding.

She rubbed her eyes, leaned back.

Her elbow inadvertently pressed down on the handle, giving the toilet a good flush.

"Happy birthday to me," she mumbled.

Jessica stumbled to her bedroom, doubting she would be putting her lids to any use in the hours to come.

# **Chapter 35:** **Meet the New Boss.**

The loud whine of machinery lifted Jessica's head from the desk. Drenched with sweat from the morning glare. She rubbed her eyes, peeling away a piece of scrap paper stuck to her face. From outside, the incessant wail was joined by the sound of percussive hammering.

Jessica rolled her chair back and looked through the window. Down on the front lawn, a bucket truck ambled past, growling under the weight of a folded hydra ladder. Further along the complex, another basket crane was parked at building M. Its long neck stretched up to third-story windows, where a pair of hardhats bashed away at metal casements.

Camelot apartments had become a nature reserve for industrial wildlife.

Jessica dressed herself and made for the front office.

The door was open. Jessica knocked on the threshold and leaned in.

She was greeted by a pair of rosy cheeks, connected end to end by a friendly smile.

The new manager stood from her seat and rounded the desk. She was somewhere in her mid-twenties, wore a business-casual jacket over a light-blue shirt. Jeans and open toe sandals. Her long, perfectly conditioned hair was dyed a soothing amber. She could have easily passed for a graduate student.

Then again, maybe that was the idea.

"Hi, I'm Katherine Trace," she beamed, holding out her hand. "You can call me Kate."

"Jessica Kincaid. Apartment K3A."

"Oh, building K," Kate replied knowingly. "We won't be getting around to renovating your unit for a while. Come in, please. Glad you stopped by."

"Thanks." Jessica took a few cautious steps as Kate rounded the desk and began stacking envelopes into a wire basket. "I was under the impression you would be here a week ago."

"Yeah, I was. In and out, sorry about that. There was a delay with the construction, as you can see. I hope there weren't any problems that –"

"I was just hoping to ask you a few questions."

"That's a happy coincidence. I was just about to distribute our letters of introduction." Kate's nimble fingers flipped through a few envelopes. She unsheathed one and handed it to Jessica. "Here you are. K3A. If you'd like, you can join me while I distribute these. Have a look at the notice, let me know if you have any concerns."

Jessica was relatively sure that had originally been her own idea. A few quick turns of the phrase, and Kate had made herself the accommodating one.

They set out across the grounds, as Jessica read through the letter.

Along the way, Kate pulled a worker aside, pointing to several spots where she wanted construction tape put up. Once they were back on course, Jessica pointed to the pricing chart for the new apartments.

"Says here you're bumping up our unit from six hundred and thirty to an even thousand."

"For the two bedroom, yes. But that won't happen until your lease is up. When is your lease up?"

"We just renewed last month."

"Oh, good for you, then. You've got a whole year to get to know us. In fact, there's a decent chance you'll be spending half that time benefiting from the renovations to your unit. Washer/dryer, central air; this is going to work out better than I thought."

There was a messy, back-door logic to Kate's arguments. "But what we're worried about is –"

"I'm sorry to interrupt, Jessica. You keep saying _we_ , and here I forgot to ask who your roomie is."

"My aunt, Dinah – " Jessica's steps slowed, stopped. Out of fuel. She padded herself down, realizing she'd left her phone back in the apartment. "What time is it?"

"Almost ten..." Kate put on a concerned look. "Uh-oh. You late for work?"

"Something like that," Jessica said. "I'll see you later."

"OK, Jessica!" Kate called out after her. "Stop by anytime, all right?"

Jessica waited until she was safely in her building, then vaulted up the steps.

# ***

From across the apartment, Jessica could hear the phone ringing.

She sprinted down the hallway, leaped onto her futon and scooped up her cell.

Practically yanking the charger from the wall, Jessica answered with a breathless cry.

"Jess?" Dinah sounded close enough to touch. "You OK?"

"Yeah..." Jessica laughed, relieved. Caught her breath, looking to lighten the mood. "Better n' you."

"You sound weird."

"Thought I was going to miss your call."

"No big deal..." Dinah's voice told a different story. The jail's landline gave away every tremor, every frightened note in her breath. "Got my first appearance this afternoon. You can catch me then."

"What's the word?"

"Took a culture for DNA testing this morning." Dinah hesitated, sniffed. "I got a feeling, though, there's something else you want to ask?"

"Dinah, why the hell did you lie about when you left the bar?"

"Because I don't remember anything about that evening."

"You could've told the detectives, right from the go."

"Look, I honestly thought that's how it went down. I knew I had a tab going. I knew I still had my card on me the next day. It's not like I'm a lightweight when it comes to drinking, so I just figured I closed the place down. My statement backed me up."

Jessica shook her head. "That's going to be a problem."

"No shit."

"No, that's not what I mean... How's a solid drinker like you going to get the entire evening wiped from their memory?"

"I think I might have been drugged."

"Drugged?"

"Roofied, something slipped into my drink. This was not like any blackout I've ever experienced."

"Jesus, Dinah... Do you think... You don't think it was Eli, do you?"

"God, no. Eli's got the talk, he don't need date-rape pills. Besides, same thing happened to him. Memory one large blank. Someone got both of us."

Jessica wasn't sure whether or not their conversation was being taped: "You mean _him_?"

"If he ain't in here, then he's still out there."

"And has been the whole time." Jessica stood up, nervous energy taking her for a walk around the apartment. "What have they got on you?"

"Don't know. I can request a public defender this afternoon. Once I meet with him, I should get the bigger picture."

"Anything I can do for you?"

"You got a shift at the Prescott tonight. Don't miss it. Even if I get bailed out, I'm going to be lucky to still have that job."

"Bullshit. You haven't been found guilty of anything, and besides -"

"All the more reason to get your ass over there. Smooth this over however you can. Now, look... I've got to wrap this up, so just promise me you'll take care of this one thing?"

Jessica wrinkled her nose. "Fine. Don't matter anyway. I got your bail money coming."

"Don't do anything stupid."

Jessica thought she heard Dinah choke back a sob. She clenched her teeth, tried to keep it together. "And you don't do anything else stupid."

"Love you, Jess."

"Love you, too."

Dinah hung up.

Jessica wiped her face with her shirt.

She shuffled over to the living room window. Caught sight of Katherine, making her way to another building. Crate full of pleasantly worded rent hikes. Her hair burned brightly in the sun, satisfied smile shining on.

Jessica took a seat on the windowsill. Drew her legs up to her chest and watched as the construction crew dug in with their tools and hungry machines, slowly remaking the entire landscape.

# **Chapter 36:** **The Cult of Angry Jonny.**

The call came at one-thirty that afternoon.

Chaucer was back in town, with a suitcase full of cash.

Jessica was still sweating it out on the windowsill. She cradled the phone against her shoulder and brought Chaucer up to speed. He offered to pick her up at two-thirty. After the first appearance, they would post Dinah's bail together.

_We're bringing her home, Chaucer said_.

Jessica sat at the window for a while longer. Even with Chaucer back in town, even with her aunt's impending release, she hadn't felt this alone since her mother had vanished from the face of the earth. Eighteen going on fifteen, flashbacks of a world turned upside down.

She showered, prepped the coffee. The radio in her room was tuned to NPR, national headlines reminding her of the thousands turning out for Michael Jackson's funeral. As the local coverage turned to news of Dinah's arrest, Jessica dressed herself in the suit her aunt had bought for her one month ago to the day.

Jessica was already out on the corner when the blue, 1976 Eldorado pulled up. She hopped in, took a quick gander at Chaucer's threads; a solid black-tie affair.

"You got the money?" Jessica asked.

Chaucer reached into his jacket and pulled out a stack of bound hundred-dollar bills no thicker than one-fifth of a paper ream. He handed it over without a word.

"What happened to a suitcase full of cash?" Jessica asked.

"I wanted to sound cool," Chaucer admitted, unable to summon his usual playfulness.

"Oh, you're cool, Mr. Braswell. Cooler than a polar bear's toenails..." Jessica returned the money, uncomfortable with all that green. "Thank you."

"My pleasure."

It was a five-minute drive to the courthouse. Not a word spoken, pulling into the parking garage with the resigned silence of an office carpool.

Jessica had expected to find local crews and cable affiliates parked out front. Wasn't prepared for what appeared to be, at first glance, a small gathering of protesters. As she and Chaucer neared the courthouse steps, their makeshift signs came into focus.

JONNY = JUSTICE

ANGRY AT THE GOVERNMENT

FREE ANGRY JONNY!!

WE ARE ALL ANGRY!

GOUGE THE INSURANCE COMPANIES!

ANGRY JONNY IS GOD

Jessica felt herself becoming sick. It wasn't just the banners and placards, the mad worship of a dangerous, anonymous individual. It was the variety. All colors, genders, walks of life, all united. Parading their innermost revulsions with no apparent ringleader or manifesto. Their individual grievances were incidental. Whether the accused was innocent or guilty didn't matter.

Angry Jonny was on their side.

With each camera crew they passed, interviews faded in and out.

"...of course I ain't in favor of what he's done. But he is representing us. Angry Jonny is representing us when no one else up in that courthouse, or out in Washington will..."

"... Jason Castle was using our money, tax payer dollars, to buy whatever he wanted. And if you think he's the only one, he's not. You think Angry Jonny doesn't know that? You think we're not wise to what's going on...?"

"...Criminal? What's criminal? Leaving us without jobs, while those Wall Street pigs treat us like their slaves, taking our money and giving us _nothing_..."

"Angry Jonny is _stopping_ the criminals. You think any of these sick, greedy, perverted animals would have ever found their way to this building behind us...?"

Jessica glanced up at Chaucer. His lips pursed so tight they had turned to thin, milky scars.

They made their way up the steps, sunlight glaring off monolithic windows. A lengthy walkway stretched across the front of the building, cool in the shadow of the building's overhang.

Jessica's phone began to ring; Al Holder, calling from his cell.

She answered her phone, pausing by one of the concrete pier columns. "Afternoon, sir."

"Afternoon to you, too."

"Where are you calling me from?"

"Other side of the steps..."

Jessica threw a measured glance to her left.

Al was standing several feet away. One thick arm resting against a pillar, pillowing his head as he leaned against it, staring at the floor.

"Don't start," he said, still talking into the phone. "I know what I must look like. It's boiling out here."

Jessica motioned for Chaucer to hang back. "Any reason we're doing this with tin cans and a thread?"

"You're a person of interest, Jessica. Didn't want the press seeing us together."

"Uh-huh."

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry how things ended up."

"Sounds like that's not all you want to say."

"We can talk later."

"Might be easier like this."

Al leaned back against the column, hung his head.

"Thanks for the tip on the weapon," he said.

"But..."

"But, yeah... I'm going to have to ask you to stop bringing any more information to us."

Jessica closed her eyes, did a little leaning of her own. Smooth, concrete cold to the touch. "Yeah."

"I don't care that you didn't tell us about Dinah. I get it. Don't think this is the first time something like this has happened around the Observer. But it proves the bigger picture. I want to protect you, and I can't do that when you're working Angry Jonny with us..."

"I understand."

"In the interest of full disclosure, we would have to mention you practically every article. It's just the way things work. Eventually the media would make you the story. Never mind that Angry Jonny's got a thing for you, if anyone found out about that first letter, anyone –"

"I said I understand, sir."

"Stop by my office tomorrow..." Al said, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and index finger. "We can figure out how this is going to work... Oh, and I don't know what the deal is between you two, but Malik came to me today and said that he only wants to work on days when you aren't. It's his problem, so I won't let it affect your schedule –"

"Sir?"

"Yeah."

"I honestly have bigger problems right now." Jessica tried to signal a hearty, insincere thumbs up. "We'll figure this out."

"Good luck."

"See you at the office."

She hung up.

Chaucer approached her with a sympathetic smile. As usual, there was no need to explain what was staring him right in the face. "We'd better get moving."

"Yeah..." She kept her phone out, ready to send it through security. "Let's go."

And just like that, Jessica was off the beat.

# ***

They were detained outside the courtroom by an elderly guard with a snowy cap of hair receding from his brown, jowly face. Maximum occupancy had already been reached. As if to prove his point, he motioned to the dozens of people gathered outside, awaiting their own, unglamorous day in court.

"I'm the defendant's niece," Jessica said. "There's got to be a place saved for family –"

"You're her niece?" His thick eyebrows doing an amused dance. "I'd believe I'm _your_ niece before I believe that."

"Could you just step into the courtroom right quick?" Chaucer requested. "Get the arresting officer, Detective Donahue. He'll clear us."

"I suppose you're her niece, too." The guard shook his head as he disappeared through the doors.

A minute later, he was back with Donahue.

The detective motioned them inside.

Jessica didn't need a headcount to see the court was bulging at the seams. A cross-section of Verona's citizens were crammed on either side of the aisle, conversations set on low, respectful murmurs. Members of the press were lined against the back. Farther down, along the left and right wall, opposing cameras were set up. Ready to catch every angle of a proceeding that promised to take less than two minutes.

Donahue motioned towards an empty row at the front.

Dinah was seated by herself at a large table. A hunched, lonely flower dressed in an orange jumpsuit. Restaurant digs filed along with her belongings in a box in some quiet room downtown.

Donahue leaned in close. "She doesn't want the press to know who you are. They find out, and you're going to need an armed guard to get you out of here in one piece. Come sit with Randal and me."

She and Chaucer slid in to the front row, right. Seated before them was the assistant DA; a mere child who had somehow managed to grow a trim, dandelion-yellow beard.

From that angle, Jessica could just catch her aunt's profile. She stared, furiously willing Dinah to look her way, even for a moment. Dinah glanced over her shoulder. Without the slightest hint of recognition, she turned away, surreptitiously scratching her ear with an extended middle finger.

Jessica smiled weakly. _Love you too, Blondie_...

"All rise!" The bailiff's booming voice sent Jessica leaping to her feet along with the rest of the spectators. "The honorable Judge Mitchell returning to the bench!"

The honorable Judge Mitchell ascended to his perch, a diminutive five-foot-three that grew with every step. He took his seat, allowed for the rest to follow his example. Called the court to order, and donned a pair of spectacles. Took a moment to leaf through a file before motioning for Dinah to rise.

Caught up in the decorum, Jessica came close to standing up herself.

"Titus, Dinah..." He leaned forward, fingers intertwined. "The state of North Carolina has charged you with breaking and entering, felony count. If you do not have counsel, counsel will be appointed for you. If you cannot afford counsel, bailiff will hand you the forms requesting the same..." He turned to the assistant DA. "Does the state have anything it wishes to add?"

Jessica didn't care for the callous speed of the proceedings.

Still sorting through the Judge's declaration as the infant prosecutor rose to his feet.

When he spoke, his authoritative voice wiped the wet clean from behind his ears. "Your honor, the state has also obtained indictments from a grand jury on the following charges... Two counts of assault with a deadly weapon, inflicting serious injury with intent to kill; injury to real property; and common law false imprisonment."

Jessica began to fill in the blanks from yesterday's bail hearing.

Hardly able to decode the legal jargon as the assistant DA marched ahead.

"The investigators have also brought evidence to us that are related to two similar crimes that also contain the same MO... Based on these charges, the state respectfully requests that bond be denied for the defendant as she poses threat of injury to herself and others, or that she poses a threat to suborn perjury, or intimidate witnesses, or destroy evidence."

Jessica shot Chaucer a panicked look _: what the hell?_

Without so much as a second thought, Judge Mitchell deferred to the prosecution's request. "Based on the evidence presented before me by the state, bond will be denied to you. There will be another opportunity for review on the next bond date set seven days from now."

He brought down his gavel, sparking an instant wave of murmurs from the spectators.

A scant two minutes in the life of the Verona criminal justice system, and it was over.

Jessica lapsed into a paraplegic state. Unable to move, even as Randal and Donahue quickly made their way past her, avoiding all eye contact. An officer took Dinah by the arm, led her away as the press snapped pictures, took notes, ordered the cameras to catch every step in.

Chaucer was saying something.

Soothing words a flat dial tone.

Jessica closed her eyes and sent her thoughts chasing after Dinah.

# **Chapter 37:** **Taking Sides.**

For a moment, Jessica was sure she was going to be fired.

The conversation with Nora and Evan Stern had not gone well. They had sat her down in Nora's office, a cramped ten-by-ten clerical jungle. Dumping ground for paperwork, budget, inventory, and payroll files. Even the PC monitor served as an improvised shelf, folders sticking out above the screen like thick, manila eyebrows. An improvised rack of freshly pressed housekeeping uniforms gobbled up what little space was left, temporary residents while their usual storage area underwent renovations.

Evan's presence had sent Jessica on the defensive from the jump. Hotel brass didn't mix with wait staff.

"I guess you know what this is about," Nora had said, voice calm.

As always, Jessica's reaction to the management was instant aggression. The more they tried to reason, the angrier she grew. Back at Spiro's she'd always been able to keep her superiors guessing. Expertly walking the line between veiled dissent and outright insubordination.

This time around, Jessica had gently shifted the weight from one side of the scale to the other, then kicked the whole contraption over. Almost shouting by the time Nora suggested that Evan give them a moment alone.

He closed the door behind him.

"OK, Nora..." Jessica took a deep breath. "I suppose you got a job to do, right?"

Nora rested her weight against a filing cabinet. Arms crossed beneath her pink blouse, green eyes unmoved by Jessica's backhanded apology. She carefully moved a strand of strawberry blond from her forehead.

"So I think you know that Dinah's been on the news."

"This morning I met the woman who's tearing down my home. Went to Dinah's first court appearance, watched the judge revoke her bail, then hightailed it here to start my shift."

"If you can remain calm for the rest of this conversation, yes. You will be starting your shift shortly."

"Dinah hasn't done anything wrong."

"I know that."

"You're firing her for something she didn't do."

"She is being _temporarily suspended_ ," Nora clarified. "For something she didn't do, yes, that part's right."

"Well?"

"Well, then I think you're going to appreciate what I have to say... Our guests are roughly as narrow-minded and ignorant as anybody you'll find outside these walls."

Jessica cleared her throat. "I didn't know management was allowed to talk like that."

"I can say it because I don't hate them for it. On any other day, I wouldn't care. They're just people, and all they want is good service, good food. A good time. How are they supposed to do that if they find out an alleged psychopath is serving them their porterhouse?"

"But they don't know that she did it –"

"They don't _care_ ," Nora explained, sounding every bit as displeased as Jessica. "I'm dealing with dinner guests. I'm not selecting a jury."

"Please don't tell me you're on her side. It insults my intelligence. You're not on anyone's side."

"You know, Guy warned me that you had an attitude. He also said you were a great server, especially for someone your age..." Nora crouched down, eye to eye with Jessica. "You know, most of the staff at Spiro's like working there. And most of the staff here feel the same way. Maybe they don't like the fact that they have to work, but they know they have a pretty good deal. As do you. My job is to keep the machine chugging along. For my guests and for you. But that does not include making life any more bearable for anyone. We clear?"

Jessica stared back. "Where does that leave Dinah?"

Nora straightened, back to business. "We will review our decision as the situation develops."

"Now you're sounding like a manager."

"Then let's not stop there; you want the day off, go ahead and take it."

"No thanks." Jessica rose from her seat, took her book bag with her. "Looks like I'm working for two."

"Yes it does... If I were you, I'd work on your upsell."

"I suppose I have to apologize to Mr. Stern?"

Nora opened the door with a shrug. "You don't _have_ to do anything."

Truer words never rang so false.

Jessica went to go change into a tan vest and welded smile.

# **Chapter 38:** **On Her Magistrate's Secret Service.**

Jessica was back in her civilian clothes by eleven-thirty that evening.

She cut across Pantheon's campus with every intention of heading home. Her feet had other plans, dress shoes leading her north through the misty streets. A helicopter soared overhead, sweeping the area with a blinding spotlight. The insect chatter accompanied her as far as the railroad tracks, then took its business elsewhere.

When she arrived at On The Rail, the regulars were kind enough to greet her without a single question regarding Dinah and the arrest. Even the basic _how's it going_ was deemed too intrusive.

Casper caught her eye from across the room.

With a quick nod he rounded the bar, arms full of empty beer bottles. Placing his back against the door, he called out to the barflies, "When Tom gets back from the bathroom, ask him to cover for just a minute."

Jessica followed him out. They rounded the corner, where three large recycling bins looked out over a lot littered with broken glass, and stubborn weeds sprouting from massive cracks.

"Please do not hate me," he said, dumping the bottles. It didn't sound like an apology. His candor was almost too much, another authority figure ready with another tough shit speech. "I'm sorry about what happened yesterday."

Jessica leaned back against the wall. "I don't hate you."

"This situation's all kinds of fucked up." Casper popped an American Spirit in his mouth, lit up. Exhaling upwards, a massive smoke stack with a law degree. "If I had been on duty just a few hours earlier, I wouldn't have even signed the arrest warrant. But when I'm on the bench, I can't be your lawyer. There was no way I could have let Dinah go on her own recognizance. Wasn't going to happen."

"Shit, I know that. I guess I just... didn't think it would be ten-thousand."

"It's standard for breaking and entering. What happened in court today was what ordinarily would have happened last night. I set bare minimum, they wanted more... And nobody walked away happy."

"Well, thanks for giving her an early first hearing, anyway."

Casper leaned up beside her. "They're padding it out. Looking to put the lean on her, delay the arraignment. And when she pleads not guilty, they're going to do all they can to push back the prelim."

"I thought delaying tactics were supposed to work in favor of the defendant."

"With a solid case, sure. Evidence gets lost. Witnesses disappear, change their minds. With what the cops got on Dinah, at this point? They're buying all the time they can to gather more evidence. It's when they start rushing her to trial that you got to start worrying."

"Yeah, _then_ I'm gonna start worrying."

Casper laughed, rubbed her curls.

Jessica wrapped her arms around his massive torso and squeezed as hard as she could.

"What's this I got on me?" Casper asked, straining for breath. "Some kind of bug? One of them little Paris Hilton dogs, what?"

Jessica gave him a shove, sending her back a couple of steps. "Whatever, Casper."

"You know who the public defender is yet?"

"No idea."

"Look, here's the facts..." Casper flicked his cigarette out into the parking lot. "The arraignment's open and shut. Not guilty, bam. When it comes to the prelim, a dismissal is just as unlikely. You stay with the public defender until the actual trial is set. Then we'll see about getting your aunt some real guns."

"Until then...?"

"What?"

"Can you help me out?" Jessica looked up at him, choking on her pride. "Help me sort through all the shit the public defender's got no time for? See what we can figure out?"

Casper watched a police cruiser barrel past. "On the DL, though. All right?"

"Nobody has to know."

"Nobody better... Now let me buy you an orange soda."

Jessica walked him to the door. "I'd rather not."

"You sure?"

"I'm tired. And those guys inside are sweet as hell putting on a show for me but..."

"Yeah, bunch of wags..." Casper stretched, grunting. "You walked here, didn't you?"

Jessica nodded.

Casper reached into his pocket and handed her a ten-spot. "Stay here. I'm going inside to call you a cab."

"Casper, I can't –"

"You absolutely can..." He glanced up and down the street, large brown eyes displaying a near imperceptible fear of what might be waiting for her. "There's a killer on the road."

He ducked in long enough to get the house phone, then joined her beneath the awning and dialed for a ride.

# **Chapter 39:** **At The End Of The Day.**

Eli was sitting on the top step before her apartment.

Tie hanging down between his legs.

A single daisy in his hand.

Jessica shook her head. Propped her shoulder against the wall, unable to summon any heartfelt contempt. "You honestly think flowers were going to work on me?"

Eli smiled timidly. "Who said this is for you?"

"If it's for Dinah, she ain't available right this moment."

"I heard about what happened at the courthouse..."

"Imagine if you'd been there."

"You know I wanted to be," Eli said. "You know I have to keep a low profile. You know all of this, Jessica. So, just give me break, OK?"

A couple of moths fluttered in through the stairway window, began to beat their heads against the dirty, overhead light. Jessica watched their epic struggle. If they didn't wise up, sooner or later, they were going to crawl through the cracks in the cover. Taking their fight to a seventy-watt bulb. Tap, tap, tap, till all that was left were two brittle, singed carcasses.

"You want to come in?" Jessica asked. "Got a bottle of Jack with your name on it."

Eli nodded, extended the flower.

"Don't point that thing at me," she said. "Come on. Let's get you liquored up."

Jessica hopped past Eli, and let him back into her home.

# ***

Eli lit a cigarette, took a prim sip of Jack.

Jessica sat across from him, annoyed with her threadbare tonic on ice.

Clifford Brown on the radio.

"Look..." Eli ruffled his hair, sighed. "This would be a lot easier if you could just admit that, at the end of the day, it's no fun having no friends."

"Dinah and I do fine."

Eli leaned back in his seat, quietly counted the purple Christmas lights. "Fine, here's what..."

Jessica didn't let him trap her into speaking.

Let the silence linger in the smoke until Eli had no other recourse.

"I don't have any friends," Eli told her. For all the effort he had put into postponing the admission, it came out with his typical forthrightness. "Never had one really. Had a girlfriend when I was seventeen. Didn't end well. When I moved to New York, I couldn't stay still for very long. My circumstances demanded constant shuffling. Sound familiar?"

"Everything except the girlfriend part."

"If you don't want to admit that it's lonely at the bottom, that's fine..." Eli refilled his glass, tapped on his cigarette, missing the ashtray by a mile. "And maybe, when you've doing this long as I have, you'll start to feel it."

"Feel what?"

"That something has to change."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that Dinah's in jail, and I want her out. You're on your own for God knows how long, and I want to be here for you. Sound stupid? You bet it is. But that's the triple truth, Ruth. I like who I've found, and I don't want to let either of you go."

Jessica yawned. "I'm still not sure about you."

"Even if you're not my friend, I suppose all you need to know is that I'm yours."

"I'm going to bed," she said. Picked up her glass and stood from the table. "You stay for as long as you like, Eli Messner. Got plenty of ice, plenty of Jack. You can stay in Dinah's room. You know where everything is."

Eli nodded, a little worn out by all the honesty.

Jessica traced a thumb across her lower lip. "Did you see anything out of the ordinary on the Fourth?"

"I only saw out of the ordinary."

There wasn't much arguing with that.

"Doesn't look good for Dinah, does it?" Eli asked.

Jessica eyed Eli's drink, then headed for the hallway. "Going to have to wait and see..."

But that really wasn't the case at all.

Not for Jessica.

Half a cup of tea later, she was at her computer. Bare knees bouncing urgently beneath her desk. Checking her email. Didn't need a whole lot of words to make her case. The situation was as simple as it was stark.

I don't know who you are.

But you seem to know a lot.

June 27. The night Davenport got it in both eyes.

Any police reports involving GHB?

She left the subject line blank, then sent if off to Mr. Disney Owens.

Jessica took a deep breath. Listened to the sounds of Eli trekking to the kitchen for another couple of cubes. A little pleased to be free from the numbing silence of an empty apartment. Far more than a little afraid by how high the stakes had just been raised.

It didn't matter how badly Eli wanted to step up and prove himself worthy of her trust.

At the end of the day, Jessica was alone.

Only one way to get Dinah back home.

She picked up her red notebook. Stared at the words ANGRY JONNY with cold determination.

"Looks like it's up to me," she said, opening the notebook and getting to work.

# PART FIVE

# July 21 - July 25

# **Chapter 40:** **Dirty Laundry.**

Tuesdays at the Orion Laundromat tended to be the slowest. It was one of the first things Dinah had taught her in the early days of their new life together. Neither of them were ever able to figure out what it was about that particular day of the week. After years of looking for a satisfactory explanation, it had finally occurred to Jessica she would never know the answer until she took the effort to come in on some other day when the place was packed.

On that particular Tuesday, July twenty-first, Jessica couldn't have cared less.

Dinah's preliminary trial was scheduled for Friday, and Jessica had run out of ideas.

She opened the drier and checked the results. A month's worth of dirty laundry didn't dry as fast as her standard load, and she grudgingly shoved a few more quarters in. Set the whole thing spinning.

Four days earlier, a small window of hope had been pried open by two separate acts of homicide. The regional manager of a software company had been found in his own back yard, stabbed in the neck and both eyes. The killer had carved the words _Angry Jonny_ into his arm. Even as the news spread, another victim was discovered in East Verona. Front door busted open, shot twice through the chest. _Angry Jonny_ spray painted on the wall.

The gunshot killer was easily traced through ballistics. Turned out to be the victim's next door neighbor and best friend, an unfortunate case of love thy neighbor's wife. As far as the first victim, police were conducting an investigation of some five hundred laid-off employees.

In both cases, the authorities had ruled out any connection to the first three Angry Jonny attacks.

Jessica didn't have the time or emotional reserves to feel anything for the victims or their families. Too worn out to even chastise herself for her complete lack of empathy. Their deaths should have been the silver bullet. A pair of random sacrifices meant to free Dinah from the indifferent hands of the state.

And Jessica was growing more angry by the day.

Picking up her coffee, she marched outside and sat on the bench next to Casper. "OK, one more time?"

"Fifty more times if you like." Casper took a sip of his Red Bull. "I'm just saying –"

"Just do your thing. Make me _see_ it."

Casper rubbed his hands and leaned back. "Second verse, same as the first. Dinah Titus left The Cardinal at an unknown hour with Eli Messner. She dropped him off at his home, changed into the clothes she had been wearing to work earlier. She drove to her apartment to get the chloroform, before driving to Trinity Park, where she entered through the back door –"

"The only footprints were Davenport's, muddy tracks that led from his car to the front door, then from the front door to the back door. His shoes were found in the kitchen, right next to the back door."

"No footprints," Casper agreed. "Dinah then approached the victim, who was asleep on the couch, and covered his mouth and nose with a chloroformed rag."

"No chloroform found in either her apartment, or her car."

"Her ex-boyfriend, Carlton Walsh, whose address she used to redistrict you to Brookside High, works at the Center for Human Genetics at Pantheon. He says he keeps chloroform handy for putting injured animals to sleep – squirrels, rabbits. Says one time he even euthanized a deer someone had hit with their car. In an interview, he told the police that Dinah was very touched by this. She'd asked him for her own bottle so that she could also –"

"That was almost two years ago. The shelf life for chloroform is anywhere from six months to a year," Jessica pointed out.

"For the safest use. For Dinah's purposes, I doubt she had the safety of her victims in mind."

"Where's the evidence?"

"On Davenport's couch, where skin samples were found with Dinah's DNA."

"I can testify, along with numerous witnesses, that Dinah had physical contact with Davenport just a few hours before he was attacked."

"Which nobody at the scene reported until the next day, including you."

Immaterial as that was, Jessica found herself glaring at the sky, looking for someone to blame for her own mistakes. "Davenport could've easily gotten some of her skin under his fingernails, wiped it off on the couch."

"The police didn't find any traces of DNA on Davenport's person."

"They found skin samples under his fingernails."

"With no complete chromosomal chain to match the couch. It could be anybody's skin."

"Reasonable doubt?"

Casper shook his head. "Doubtful..."

"What about the DNA found on the third victim? The skin samples found on Dr. Lazenby's clothes doesn't match with Dinah's."

"The mystery DNA doesn't match with anybody's on record either... want to know how far the one-armed man defense will take you in court? Dinah's not even being charged with that offense."

"But if it can be proven that the same person was responsible for all three crimes, couldn't that –"

"Exactly the opposite," Casper interrupted. "The more all three crimes are related, the more likely that at some point, they're going to pin those crimes on Dinah. They may never be able to prosecute, but if Dinah is found guilty, they could easily pin the other ones on her. Might never make it to court, but that don't count for much."

Jessica felt herself slipping under. "But she was drugged, she says she can't remember and –"

"Can't prove it, Jessica. You just can't prove it. The police pulled over two business students who had just left The Cardinal. They were driving erratically, brought in on DUI. Their drug-screening tested positive for GHB, fine. Not too bad. It proves that someone was spiking drinks that evening, but Dinah didn't get tested soon enough to catch it."

Jessica wiped her palms on her sweatpants. "So it's hopeless?"

"I told you from the beginning... This is going to see trial. It never wasn't." Casper turned in his seat, faced Jessica. "You've known it for a while now. Why don't you just tell me what you were really hoping to find?"

"Shit!" Jessica stood up, took five livid steps into the parking lot. "Shit, shit!"

She scanned the cars, an abandoned restaurant across the street. Stared hopelessly at a family of four seated on a nearby wall, children sticky with red and purple popsicles. Traffic lights, gutters, she sent her eyes back to the skies, silently begging for information that simply wasn't there.

"Jessica?"

With sneakers scraping against the ground, she returned to the bench.

Casper raised his eyebrows.

"I was looking for _him_ ," Jessica admitted.

"I figured as much."

"I wanted to see if I could figure out..." After so many dead ends, it sounded foolish. "I've been sitting. Night after night, writing in this red, college-ruled notebook. Every detail, every idea, every angle."

"And the less success, the more you started banking on this. On proving Dinah's innocence?"

Jessica nodded.

"There's nothing in these reports that's going to help...The cops stopped looking for Angry Jonny the second they figured Dinah was their man."

"It was stupid of me to think I could."

"You're going to have to try harder." Casper stood up. "I don't know what you've written in that book of yours. You say every angle, every idea... how about every possible suspect?"

Jessica shifted her weight from foot to foot. "Every suspect?"

"Let this be my only warning. If you really want to know who's behind all this, it's going to take you some ugly places. Angry Jonny is someone who knows you. And if that's the case, you need to take a good look at everyone you know."

"So what's the play? What's my first step in that direction?"

"Don't trust nobody..." Casper smiled, reached for his Red Bull and took a sip. "Right after you get your laundry and I give you a ride home. Starting then, of course."

Jessica smiled unevenly.

Returned to her dryer. Watched the clothes tumble, zippers and buttons clattering against the steel interior. Hypnotic thoughts repeating Casper's question over and over.

How about every possible suspect?

She opened the door, batted at socks trying to escape as the dryer came to a halt. Threw her clothes into the basket, and took one last look around. There were a few recognizable faces by the washers, force-feeding wrinkled bills into the change machine. She absently wondered if they were wise to the magic that came with Tuesdays at the Orion Laundromat. Without asking, there was no way to tell if any of them knew something the rest did not.

"Looks like I'm going to start coming here on Wednesdays," Jessica said out loud.

She hoisted the basket and went to catch her ride home.

# **Chapter 41:** **In Through The Out Door.**

Jessica had just finished sweeping up a family of dead wasps off the floor when Chaucer called.

"I'm outside. On my way to visit Dinah. You want to come with?"

"It's the weekday, Chaucer. No visitors allowed."

"I'm meeting her lawyer down there. Meter's running, in or out?"

Two minutes later, Jessica was out the front door, greeted by the screech of power tools. Construction was moving along at a steady clip. Buildings M and J were littered with debris, the twisted remains of casement windows, and in some cases, even the kitchen sink. The past two weeks had seen a mass exodus. Not a day gone by that didn't find at least one U-Haul parked outside, as tenants trudged back and forth, ants dismantling their hill.

Chaucer reached across the passenger seat and opened the door for her. "Goddamn!" he yelled over the scream of a buzz saw. "Don't this let up even for a minute?"

"Nope," Jessica said, strapping herself in.

"How are you sleeping?"

"Like shit."

"Not your most clever reply." Chaucer swung out into the street. "Any more problems with management?"

"I've got a nest of wasps outside my goddamn window. Called the new maintenance guy twice, hasn't stopped by once. If I were allergic, I swear I'd get my ass stung and risk dying to sue those assholes... What's the score, Chaucer? Why are we going to see Dinah?"

"I've just been visiting with Dinah's ex."

"Carlton Walsh?"

"That's the one... Guess what I managed to boost from his fridge?"

"Bottle of chloroform?"

Chaucer smiled. "I like a good gut, Jessica. Been growing one myself, but how did you know –"

"It was all in the police reports. Why are you so surprised?"

"Well, that's not all... Seems like he's got more to say than the police managed to get out of him."

"Such as?"

"Such as Dinah went to visit him the same night Angry Jonny went to visit Jason Castle."

"Say that again?"

"Claims she came over at around two-fifteen in the morning. She was upset about something, but Carlton wouldn't say what it was. He says she stayed there until three in the morning."

"And how does that help us?"

"If we can narrow down the time that Jason Castle's home was broken into, it might give Dinah an alibi."

"So what?" Jessica asked. "She ain't on the hook for what happened to Castle."

"Anything that can prove that she wasn't involved in the other two assaults can only help us. If this goes to trial, and the defense can prove every Angry Jonny attack is the work of one person... it might help sway the jury."

"I just spent two hours with Casper, told me that kind of information is useless. Who cares who visited Carlton before or after any of the attacks?"

"Even if it was Eli Messner?"

"You've got my attention."

"I showed Carlton a picture of Eli, asked if he'd ever seen him. He said no at first, but I could tell he was dancing around the truth."

"So what, you rough him up? Make him talk?"

"Got beaten to the punch on that one..." Chaucer slowed for a red light, came to a stop. "Forgive my wordplay. Carlton had bruises on his face, a mother of a cut on his nose. When I asked him again – and again, and again – if he had ever seen Eli, Carlton finally admitted that Eli had stopped by the day after Angry Jonny attacked Davenport..."

Jessica kept it to herself. Eli had basically moved in with her since the arraignment. He had slept in Dinah's bed. He had made coffee for both of them, driven her to work. He had even helped with the added expenses that came with single income. The progression had been so natural, Jessica had almost forgotten to keep on her toes.

"What did Carlton have to say about Eli?" she asked.

"Touchy subject. Seems as though Eli has some kind of issue with the men in Dinah's past. Carlton tried to keep it vague as he could, but let me tell you... whole time he was talking, that bruised face of his kept looking any which way but mine."

"Here's something else," Jessica said flatly, putting an uneasy two and two together. "Carlton works at the Center for Human Genetics. Which is where Dr. Lazenby's been working since leaving Generation Insurance. I didn't think much about the connection because Carlton's just a lab tech, and Lazenby's a suit. There just wasn't enough. But the center's right around the corner from the stadium, where now we also have – "

"Eli Messner. The police probably haven't connected Eli or Carlton with Dr. Lazenby –"

"Because they don't give a shit about anything other than getting Dinah thrown in prison."

Chaucer nodded. "So I figure you might want in on what's about to go down."

"Green light."

Chaucer took a right and began driving parallel with the railroad tracks.

Dinah had been moved to the Verona County Detention Center, just a couple of blocks away from the Police department. The seven-story building was a white, concrete horseshoe. Its flat, rectangular wings were connected at one end by a perfectly square building, something a child would throw together with a set of wooden blocks. A passing motorist might wonder why the majority of the windows were mere slits, lengthy dashes across each floor of the featureless exterior. But _prison_ would probably rank towards the bottom of any word association. Its immediate proximity to the ball park, performing arts center, and newly renovated offices only served to cloak its true purpose. Hidden in plain sight.

They parked around the corner and walked up to the front gate.

The cult of Angry Jonny had staked their signs of solidarity all along the grass strip by the sidewalk.

Jessica and Chaucer signed in at the gate and received two visitors passes. The lobby was painted several hues of soothing greens. Another checkpoint led to another security station, and another sign-in sheet.

"We're here to see Dinah Titus," Chaucer informed the guard. "Her lawyer said he'd be meeting us down here. His name –"

"Uh... The guard shook his head. "Dinah Titus?"

"Yes, sir."

"Says here she's being released."

Chaucer and Jessica exchanged a look. So accustomed to setbacks that they weren't sure how to respond.

"Being released?" Jessica asked.

The guard gave his thick neck a couple of scratches. "That's right. Orders came straight from the DA."

"Released."

"If you'd like to sit and wait." He pointed with his pen to a metal bench welded to the floor. "She ought to be coming through here soon enough."

Jessica sleepwalked her way to the bench and sat down with her hands folded obediently in her lap. Chaucer joined her. All set to speak, when Jessica cut him off:

"Let's not jinx this."

"Right, right."

Five minutes passed.

Ten minutes.

At twenty, a buzzer sounded above the metal door to the left of the security desk.

And there was Dinah, fully processed. Orange jumpsuit replaced with her work digs, as though she'd just wrapped a particularly long shift at the prison bar. In her arms were the socks and underwear Jessica had brought her the day after her arraignment.

The spell was broken.

Jessica ran across the room and hurled herself against Dinah. The two of them lurched back a few steps, undergarments falling to the ground as they embraced. Rocked back and forth in the frigid air.

"What the hell, Blondie?" Jessica mumbled against her neck. "I got to find out from the security guard?"

"Only found out around an hour ago." Dinah pulled back, took a good look at her niece. "Figured you must have pulled off some kind of miracle."

"Didn't pull off dick... It's been one long nightmare on the outside."

"Inside's not much different." Dinah sniffed, bent down to collect her clothes. "What I really need right now is a drink."

"Whatever you want. Beer, wine. A pint of gin for Miss Dinah Titus."

"Let's get the hell out of here."

Chaucer stayed several steps behind as they walked outside. The guard opened the gate for them. Dinah stretched her neck out like a turtle, pale face grinning at the sunshine. Took the threshold in one large, exaggerated stride, and stepped onto the sidewalk.

"What the hell's all this?" she asked, motioning to the signs.

"Hallmark's new line of Angry Jonny cards."

Chaucer placed a hand on Jessica's shoulder.

Jessica turned to follow his somber gaze back towards the prison.

Leaning against the wall were Detectives Randal and Donahue.

"What are you two doing here?" Jessica asked.

Randal approached Dinah and gently relieved her of the clothes she was carrying.

Donahue followed suit, removing the handcuffs from his belt.

"What's going on?" Jessica asked, instinctively blocking his path.

"I'm sorry, Jessica." Donahue removed the cuffs from his belt. "Clarence Davenport died in the hospital this morning... I'm going to need you to step aside, please."

Chaucer took Jessica by the shoulders, gently moved her into a slow retreat.

Her sneakers dragged against the ground, knees ready to buckle.

Donahue brought Dina's arms around back, cuffed her. "Dinah Titus, you are under arrest for the murder Clarence Davenport. You have the right to remain silent. If you choose to waive this right –"

Randal handed Jessica the pile of clothes. "We're going to have to take Dinah back to the station, book her all over again. Murder charge doesn't come with bail, but as soon as we process her, you can go and visit. We'll let you know about the arraignment as soon as we can."

Jessica could see his lips moving, slight signs of life behind the police-issued sunglasses. Words distorted. She caught sight of Dinah's face before it disappeared into the back of a blue Chevy parked down the block. Eyes robbed of light, no fight left. One minute of freedom now replaced with the prospect of life in prison.

They hit a wrinkle in time, and Randal was stepping into the driver's side.

Jessica took a few wounded steps forward, straining to catch one more glimpse of her aunt.

The tinted windows calmly informed her that there was nothing left to see as the car sped away.

# **Chapter 42:** **Liar's Poker.**

Jessica had a plan: Eli would walk in and find her sitting at the living room table. Lights low. A hefty pour of Jack Daniel's waiting for him. Jessica would gently kick back one of the chairs out from under the table. Motion for him to sit. Give him the eye, let him sweat it out. Tick-tock, then asking him what he had been doing at Carlton Walsh's house the day after Davenport had been found bound and mutilated.

After an hour or so of waiting, Jessica had to use the bathroom. Lost herself in the Newsweek, Oprah Winfrey on the cover. She returned to find Eli waving cheerfully from what should have been her seat.

"Hey, you!" He raised the glass of Jack, eyes glinting. "Dinner for me? Honey, you really shouldn't have."

"It's not dinner, Goddammit."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Jessica stormed over and dropped into the defunct hot seat. "Except your timing and Dinah getting charged with murder now."

"Who the hell do they think she killed?"

"Davenport died in the hospital today."

"Oh, shit..." Eli took a hit of whiskey, scrunched his face. "Hang on, if she never meant to kill him, isn't that just manslaughter?"

"Don't know how you do it up in NYC, but North Carolina's all about the FMR."

"Which is?"

"A Felony Murder Rule. You kill somebody while committing a felony, you're on the hook for murder in the first. You could be breaking and entering, give some old lady a heart attack, and you're looking at life..." Jessica sighed. "Or death, she could also... If they find her guilty, yeah, they could do a little killing of their own."

Eli polished off his drink. Went to the row of liquor bottles to top himself off.

"Eli, I know you went to see Carlton Walsh."

"Hm." Eli calmly capped the Jack and sat back down. "You checking up on me?"

"Oh, I'm about to start. You can bet on that."

"I haven't done anything wrong."

"You haven't done anything, I haven't done anything. Nobody's done anything, so what the fuck is Dinah doing in jail?"

"You think I don't know what you're trying to do?" Eli returned her gaze, untouchable. "What you've been writing in that notebook of yours?"

"I _know_ you haven't been snooping in my business, or you'd be picking your teeth of the floor – "

"Didn't have to read it. I read you, Jessica. That's what I do."

"So go ahead on. Tell me what I'm thinking. Let me in on me."

"You're thinking _what if Mr. Eli Messner had something to do with this?_ " His eyes broke away from her gaze, darting. Nothing nervous about it. Systematically landing on each part of her body; hands, shoulders, mouth. "You're thinking I've been here ever since that first night when Jason Castle got it in both eyes. You're thinking Dinah was passed out that night after The Cardinal, who's to say Eli wasn't wide awake?"

"I'm thinking the time of attack on Dr. Lazenby is still up in the air," Jessica said. "But the window coincides with a time-stamped ticket I found in your car. Parking garage for the Washington Center on Pantheon's campus. Now I know that people like to arrive early for an event with no assigned seating, but really, Eli: three-fifteen in the afternoon for a show that don't start 'til eight?"

"And what I'm thinking is you have no idea why I would do something like that."

"And there's our problem, Eli...I don't know why you do anything."

Eli pulled out his poker chips. He shuffled them with his fingers. The clay made tiny, scraping sounds. "Dinah's been sleeping with Carlton since about the end of January. Had been, anyway –"

"What's this now, you trying hypnotism on me?"

"Davenport wasn't the only person trying to blackmail you girls." Eli slapped the chips down on the table with enough force to make his glass jump. "Carlton let Dinah keep using his address in exchange for sexual favors. At first it was once or twice a month, then more frequently... Jessica?"

Jessica followed his eye-line down to the table. She gazed in mute wonder at the sight of her fingernails buried deep in the wood. Hands busy making plans of their own.

"Jessica, if you'd rather I didn't tell you –"

"Keep talking."

Eli sighed. "After that night at Spiro's, the night we all met... She got a call from Carlton. Drove to his house, and told her it was over. I guess she'd finally had enough. Now, I didn't know about this until the night we went to The Cardinal. She told me on the way; my memory didn't start going funny till after we hit the Scotch."

"So?"

"So the next day, I paid him a visit."

"And you kicked the shit out of him?"

"No."

"Stop."

"Stop what?"

"Stop lying."

"About _what?_ "

Jessica felt her eyelid twitch. "Chaucer said the guy had a split nose, black eye, and yellow bruises all over his face. Don't act like you don't know."

"He was like that when I got there," Eli insisted.

"I don't believe you."

"What don't you believe?"

"Any of it. I think you're full of shit. I think Carlton's a punk who would gladly swipe some chloroform from the lab if he thought the price was right. I think that lab is just a casual stroll from the stadium. And I think you're topping it all off with some bullshit story about Dinah fucking Carlton because you think it's so damn believable that she'd do something like that. My drunk-ass, slut of a roommate. Sorry, Eli, but that last part, that's something only _you_ think."

Eli shrugged. "You can ask Dinah if you like."

"Visiting hours are over," Jessica said, getting up and snatching the keys off the coffee table. "And I'm not waiting another second."

"You going somewhere?"

"We are both going to pay Carlton a visit."

Eli pocketed his poker chips and polished off his drink. "I can dig it."

"I'll bet."

So her scheme to catch Eli unawares hadn't panned out. Secondary worries, at this point. Jessica locked up and led him down the stairs, already working on a whole new plan of attack.

# **Chapter 43:** **Home Invasion.**

The instant she saw his face in the doorway, she knew it was all true.

It was only afterwards that she was able to put a name to it. They had parked outside Carlton's two-bedroom in Reservoir Park, marched up the stairs and knocked on the door. Just the flicker of a television set shuddering in the darkened windows. Carlton answered the door right along with her worst fears. His confused expression morphed into something resembling pleasure. Patchy, hipster beard rippling with a smile that veered a little too close to excited. It was his eyes that ultimately clashed with the rest of it; the rehearsed innocence of someone who stops by unexpectedly for _just one drink_ or a cheating boyfriend who swears _that's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard_.

... _Who me?_

If Carlton wasn't just an inch or so taller than Jessica, that first punch might have spared him a trip to the emergency room. As it was, her fist smashed into his nose with a sharp thunderclap. His hands flew to his face, drawing in a hiccup of air as he stumbled back from the doorway.

Jessica floated into the living room, truly weightless.

From behind her, she heard Eli mutter _shit_ , as he closed the door.

Carlton snagged his foot on a woven floor mat, pitched against the couch. He bounced off the armrest and landed flat before the television screen. Drew in a deep, rattling breath, ready for a real scream.

Jessica made him swallow it with another punch to the face.

She crouched down, nails digging into his skin through a fistful of his plaid shirt. Brought him to a full and upright position. Blood gushed from his nose, the color of chocolate syrup beneath the watery glow of the television.

Jessica's head throbbed with hateful glee. Her body never more alive, thoughts so lucid she could see clear across time to the day she had been born. Someone buried deep within the darkest corners of her origins began to whisper, cracked lips suggesting that she start looking for a nice, wide open spot on the wall to spell out a couple of familiar words.

Carlton's face contorted, blood drooling from trembling lips. "Please, stop. Please. I won't tell, I won't tell anyone if you please stop, now. Please."

"Oh, I know you won't," Jessica told him, shoving him back to the floor. Brought her face in close to hover over his. "You know another word for sexual blackmail? It's called rape, you punk bitch. And if you don't know what that word means, prison's a good _fucking_ place to learn."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Carlton squealed, crying now. Shattered nose modulating his words. "I won't do it – I already did this, I already went through – your boyfriend took care of this, I promise!"

"This asshole ain't my boyfriend, but thanks for clearing that up."

"What?" Carlton raised his head. Bloodshot eyes straining to get a better look at Eli, who had taken up a post by the windows. "What? No. No, he's white."

"What?"

"I'm talking about the black guy."

"Chaucer did this to you?"

"You know _him_ too?" Carlton's voice cracked, beginning to sob. "Christ, how many people have you sent after me, you bitch!"

Jessica raised another fist, but found her adrenalin fading. Curiosity peeking out from the storm cellar, gently reminding her that men without teeth told significantly fewer tales.

She remained in strike mode, bluffing her way into his head. "Who you talking about, Carlton?"

"Oh, like you don't know!"

Jessica pressed her thumb against his nose, prompting a gurgling screech.

"I'm talking about your boyfriend, Malik! That fucking kid from my lab!"

Satisfied that nobody would be coming to Carlton's rescue, Eli moved away from the window. "Malik came to see you?"

"Never mind that, what's he doing working at your lab?" Jessica asked.

"Doesn't _work_ at my lab. He _worked_ at my lab, was an intern. Like a year ago, last summer, or something. They thought he was swiping supplies, so they got rid of him. _I_ got rid of him, the little fucking klepto. Didn't see him again until a few weeks ago."

"Was this before or after you sold Dinah out?"

"Your boyfriend found out, like, two days later!" He grimaced, brought his hands up as though expecting another sucker punch. "Two days after I told your vice-principal about the fake address. I don't know how Malik found out. He came here, and just fucking started wailing on me. He told me if I didn't... if I didn't fix things, that he'd kill me. You two fucking deserve each other!"

_Malik certainly seems to believe as much_ , Jessica thought. Running out of steam. Information overload, television speakers blasting away at her eardrums as the room pulsed with strobe light flashes. She grabbed a handful of Carlton's hair, slippery with some sort of sculpting wax. "You're not going to tell anyone about what happened here, right?"

"Please don't hit me anymore."

"Well?"

Carlton squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.

Jessica slammed his head against the floor and stood up. Fought off a brief dizzy spell before regaining her balance. She spotted a dishrag on the coffee table, lying next to a half-eaten TV dinner. She heard Carlton begin to throw up the rest of it as she wiped her hands clean.

"Let's get out of here."

Eli and Jessica went down the front steps and across the street, stealing casual glances into the dark. The eight o'clock freighter thundered in the distance, train whistle howling at the moon.

They peeled out, waiting for the first stoplight to fasten their safety belts.

"You all right?" Eli asked, hitting the turn signal.

Jessica wasn't sure. Disregarding the bloody dishrag wrapped around aching knuckles, her mind was already whispering, velvet reassurances that none of it had really happened.

She was never even there.

Carlton must've taken a bad fall down those front steps.

Eli cleared his throat. "Is sexual blackmail really considered rape in North Carolina?"

"What do _you_ think?"

"Well, props for a powerhouse bluff, anyway."

"This don't let you off the hook. All you are right now is a liar who lucked his way into the truth."

Eli pushed in the Volvo's cigarette lighter. "If that's the case, then you're going to need some lessons."

"What kind of lessons?"

"Of what a liar really looks like."

"And where do we go to find this liar?"

"A little card game you might be familiar with." He helped himself to a cigarette. "Starts in around half an hour, but I don't mind stopping by the house. Give you a chance to change."

"Change in to what?" Jessica asked.

"Something without Carlton Walsh's blood on it."

Jessica checked her tank top, now a red-splattered canvas. She rolled down the window and let the humid wind blow against her face. She thought about what Casper had told her that afternoon.

If you really want to know who's behind all this, it's going to take you some ugly places.

Jessica couldn't say she hadn't been warned.

The lighter popped out of its socket.

Eli wrenched it free and lit his cigarette against its red, burning eye.

# **Chapter 44:** **Held Up.**

They were playing tournament-style that night. Four tables, eleven players at each one. Hundred dollars a head, bringing the bank to forty-four hundred dollars. First place, winner take all. Second place, the joke had gone, was a set of steak knives.

Eli sat with his arms crossed. Shoulders relaxed. Awash in ruthless serenity. Watching him navigate the felt, hand after hand, was an open invitation into his soul. Playing the players. Psychologically nudging opponents to bet against him when he had the best of it, or muck their pair against an ace-king high.

Or so Jessica had to assume. Almost every time Eli induced a fold, he would dump his own cards. With just one or two exceptions to keep people guessing, he only turned over winning hands. Ultimately the only thing Jessica learned was that there wasn't much chance she would learn anything.

Jessica spent over two hours observing, before drifting away to grab a tonic on ice. She tried to keep conversations short. Shot down anyone looking to score her a drink. Wasn't long before she had to claim Eli as her new boyfriend. With every major hand, she would rush to join the spectators. After the inevitable win, she'd plant a quick kiss on his cheek, then melt back into the walls.

There was plenty of time to think.

Malik had been at Spiro's the night she met Jason Castle. Celebrating with his parents. On the Fourth of July, he had dropped her at the Center for Human Genetics, roughly an hour and a half before they had discovered Dr. Lazenby. Some twelve hours before Davenport's body was found, she had seen Malik at the Prescott. He admitted to knowing what their vice-principal had done to terminate her internship.

_I don't care what you think_ , he had said. _I'm going to fix this_.

Jessica called Chaucer, asked if he could look into Malik's own internship at the lab. Maybe get an inventory manifest, see if any supplies might have gone missing during his tenure.

Such as chloroform, perhaps.

Then again, was Malik really capable of something so brutal?

As far as who was capable of what, her only answer was the throbbing pain in her bruised knuckles.

# ***

It was two in the morning when the game finally wrapped. The final showdown had Eli going heads up with Charlie, the resident redhead. After so many slow eliminations, it was a mere half hour before the final death knell; a house of kings over Charlie's house of jacks.

Eli's crushing victory hadn't earned him too many friends. While most were fine blowing a hundred dollars on an evening's entertainment, the regulars were done losing their money to this scrawny ringer. Charlie had practically kicked the legs from under the table, taking a full lap around the loft before cooling down to shake Eli's hand.

Bob downplayed the room's sour mood, doling forty-four hundred worth of twenties as the crowd thinned. "Want to count it?"

"No need." Eli pocketed his money. "Feel like I might have pissed off some of the natives, though."

"They'll get over it." Bob smiled diplomatically. "Though maybe do us both a favor. Stay away for a bit, would you? Maybe buy your girl something nice with what you made tonight. Let these poor suckers get their groove back. No disrespect, of course."

"None taken."

"Once again, congratulations." Bob locked the cashbox and returned to his duties as host.

Jessica glanced across the room. Caught Charlie giving them the eye, furiously texting his frustrations. He turned away, phone eclipsed by his significant heft.

"Do you see what I see?" Eli asked, polishing off his drink.

"I see a fat bastard in a pink polo shirt, tweeting his pathetic story."

"Mm. I'm going to hit the bathroom. Wait for me by the front door."

Jessica did as she was told, checking her phone. Still no word from Chaucer.

When Eli returned, he led her out of the loft and down the steps. "Remember where we parked?"

"Yeah."

"When we get outside, go right across the courtyard. I'm cutting left. Meet me by car."

"Why, what's going on?"

Eli paused by the front door. He handed Jessica the car keys, checked the courtyard though the glass panes. "Don't worry about it. Just give me a hug, like we're calling it a night."

Her arms slipped easily around his bony torso. She gave it one last shot, whispering in his ear: "Eli, please tell me _something_."

"I think I'm about to get rolled. Just do what I told you."

He slipped away and opened the door, looking to break left.

Jessica obediently turned right.

A man wearing a ski mask and dark jumpsuit emerged from beneath the overhang, born from the black. Gun at his hip, pointed directly at Jessica. She threw her hands up. Imagining the gunshot, tensing her abdominals in the ludicrous hope that a hundred crunches a day would be enough to stop the slug.

"Don't move," he ordered. Voice a rattling rasp, lips wet beneath his mask. He called out to Eli, who had already frozen fast, hands in the air. "You. Get the fuck over here."

Eli ambled over, inexplicably rolling his eyes. "You got brass, son. Pulling a gun right here, in front –"

"Shut up!" the gunman ordered. "Give me the money, _now_."

"What's Charlie offering you? Ten percent? Five? Please tell me he didn't just spot you a fifty."

The gunman hesitated, beady eyes shining like freshly minted dimes.

Jessica's throat tightened, as Eli began to taunt their attacker. "Yeah, you think I was going to walk out of here with all that scratch? You're wasting your time, I got nothing on me."

"Fuck you, hand it over."

"I don't have it."

The gunman drew close, tucking his gun between Eli's ribs. " _Where is it?_ "

"Girl walks, I talk. Otherwise, you don't get shit."

The gunman pistol-whipped Eli across his temple, sent him to the ground. Trained the gun on Jessica, no more whispering. "That's right. Now you get me my money, or I will shoot this bitch right where she stands."

Eli propped himself up on his elbows, groaning. Blood trickling down his face. "It's in my shoe. Fuck, take it, just let her go."

The man motioned for Eli to take his shoe off.

As Eli moved to untie his laces, the sound of footfalls came echoing from the shadows. For one bizarre moment, Jessica and the gunman shared a confused look. He turned towards the source with far too much curiosity and not enough reflex.

All Jessica caught was a glimmering arc connecting squarely with the masked man's skull. His gun went flying, cushioned by the grass bordering the walkway. A half second cracking apart, hemorrhaging cause and effect.

When the pieces came together, her attacker was flat on his face.

Eli was struggling to his feet.

And there was Malik, hovering over the gunman, chest heaving.

She checked the grass, just to make sure she'd gotten it wrong. That perhaps Malik had miraculously scooped the gun from the ground, and there was no chance her ex was standing there with his very own piece.

Eli groaned, stumbling against Jessica for support. "We have to go."

Malik keeled down, flipped over his catch and tore the ski mask away. The eyes of their mystery guest were rolled back, two eggshells set against a face molded from watery clay.

"Wake up," Malik snarled, spit flying from his lips. He pressed the barrel against the gunman's cheek. "Point a gun at my girl, bitch? That's what it looked like to me."

"Malik!" Jessica hissed, wrapping an arm around Eli's waist. "Are you out of your fucking mind?"

"We have to go," Eli repeated, knees wobbling.

"Uh-uh." Malik moved the gun up to his prisoner's right eye. "Not just yet."

Eli began to drag Jessica away. "We get nailed, we're all fucked, now let's _move_!"

Jessica began to shuffle backwards. She saw Malik lower his mouth to the gunman's ear. Then, raising his arm above his head, Malik brought the gun down to clock him one last time.

With a farewell kick to the ribs, Malik tucked the gun into the back of his jeans. "Yeah, he's out."

"What the fuck?" Jessica was now half carrying Eli towards the gate. "What are you doing with a _gun_?"

"Saving your ass."

"Are you following me? Have you been _following_ me?"

"Someone's got to be looking after you. Who's going to do it? This fucking guy? He almost got you _shot_."

" _Children!_ " Eli stumbled against the ten-foot gate, swung it open. "You realize how this looks?"

"Yeah, not good," Jessica agreed, peering down Main. Bimbos and cantankerous drunks cackling beneath the bright barroom lights. "Eli, think you can walk on your own?"

"Yeah."

"My car's right across the street," Malik said.

"No!" Jessica spun around, moonwalking her way to safety. "I'm not going anywhere with you."

Malik was rooted to the spot, trembling from a dirty cocktail of adrenaline and disgrace. "What?"

"You really have lost your goddamn mind!"

" _Oh, so that's it? After all I've done for you?_ "

"Go home, Malik!"

Eli took hold of Jessica's arm, got her to round a corner. "That's enough. Car. Now."

"You're a lot of fun to be around, you know that?" Jessica tore off Eli's tie and began to wipe the blood from his face. "Think there might be some stitches in your future."

"Poker don't come with a health plan. Let's just get home."

"What makes you think I still want you there?"

"Because I have four grand, and you don't."

Jessica stuffed his tie into her bag. "Point goes to Eli."

She glanced over her shoulder. Waiting to hear Malik's car roar to life, listening for the scream of rubber banshees. Gunshots. The pull of a trigger Malik was clearly so desperate to squeeze off.

Jessica never stopped waiting for it, even as they gunned the engine, Eli's tires making some noise of their own.

# **Chapter 45:** **Glory Box.**

Eli removed the baggie from his swollen forehead.

Cracked the Ziploc and transferred two cubes of ice to his glass of Jack Daniel's.

"You're missing the point," Jessica said, laying the first aid kit out on the coffee table. "Now sit back and let me operate."

Eli took a hit of his drink and gingerly stretched out on the couch. He had stripped down to his undershirt, Rorschach blots of sweat seeping through the white cotton. Black pants covered with red brick dust.

Jessica smacked his hip, made him scoot over. She sat down alongside him. Reached for the hand towel floating in a bowl of warm water, and set about wiping the remaining blood from his face.

Eli closed his eyes.

The CD player hopped to the next track, trip hop melodies from one of Dinah's personal mixes.

Jessica dabbed, wiped. She rinsed the towel, kept at it. Moved down to his neck, waiting for one of them to say something. Putting a finger alongside his chin, she gently moved his face towards the cushions. She cleaned along his nape, collar bone.

"Guess I made a real mess of things," Eli murmured.

"It's funny, when you think about it. Malik saved the day, and I'm still so... Angry at him."

"Let it go. He's just trying to be a man."

"A man who's stalking me. A man with a gun."

Eli opened his eyes. "You holding out for a perfect one?"

"A perfect what?" Jessica set the towel back into the water. She opened the hydrogen peroxide, and soaked the end of a Q-tip. "You think I'm some cold fish, don't you?"

"I never said you were."

"Yeah, you were thinking it..." Jessica leaned over, brushed Eli's hair away from his forehead. She planted her left elbow alongside his face, looking to steady her hand as she dabbed his cut. "You're thinking here's an eighteen-year-old in her prime, and where are the boys?"

"I already know the answer to that."

"Which is?"

"You've replaced them all with men..."

"Why did you invite me to the game tonight? What were you looking to prove?"

"I wanted to show you what a liar really looks like."

Jessica blew softly on Eli's cuts. "I didn't learn a damn thing from watching you."

"A real liar doesn't look like anything. So take comfort. Long as you keep wondering what's in my head, then the man you're looking at can't be much of a liar. But there are no absolutes, sweetheart. You will never know all there is to know. About anyone. You will never, never know everything I'm thinking..." His nose twitched. "Your hair is tickling me."

"Got my hands full, here. Move it aside."

Eli slid his arm from beneath them. Reached up, fingers pulling back on Jessica's dark curls. Held them tight against the back of her head. A fresh dose of antiseptic began to bubble along his wound. He drew in a breath through clenched teeth, green eyes flashing.

"Don't be such a baby," Jessica murmured, kissing him softly.

"Stop treating me like one," Eli whispered.

"Mm." She kissed him again, felt his lips burning with traces of liquor. Tasting autumn on the tip of his tongue. "It's been too long since I've had any of that."

"You're talking bourbon, aren't –"

There was no telling which one of them swallowed those remaining words as their mouths pressed together, opened wider. Jessica grabbed a handful of his shirt, pulling herself onto of him. She felt his hands on her neck, soft fingertips against an overloaded pulse. Her foot kicked against the table as she struggled to stay on the couch. She swung her left leg over his hips, drew him close. Giving up. Giving in, tired of wrestling what little control she could from the people and events conspiring to dominate her life.

Falling back into her old self again.

Eli lifted himself up, bringing them both upright. Gripped her hips and pulled her in close.

Jessica reached down to undo his belt, laughed savagely into his mouth. "Tell me again I'll never know everything you're thinking, I dare you."

Eli drew in a breath. "Wait, stop..." He pulled away, kept her at arm's length. "We can't do this."

Jessica made some kind of noise ending in a question mark.

"We need to stop..." His chest was heaving. Face flushed, desperate. "We need to stop."

"Oh, shit..." Jessica gasped, horrified to find she couldn't agree less. "You're right. You're so right."

"It's OK."

"No, it's not..." Jessica dismounted, slid to a seat on the floor. "Should've been me, being you, what you said –"

"Don't." Eli readjusted himself. "You know you were just seconds from stopping –"

"I don't know what I know."

"If it makes you feel any better, my reasons are far less noble than yours."

Jessica was still trying to catch her breath, send blood back to her brain. "Huh?"

"No lie. First thing made me stop was that I'm, like, a million times older than you."

"You're algebra is about as shady as my loyalty."

"Jessica."

"Pulling out that age bullshit."

"It ain't bullshit when I _am_ older."

"You mean I'm younger."

"If it makes you feel any better."

"Feeling better is not what needs to happen right now..." Jessica picked up a Band-Aid and his glass of sour mash, held them out for him. "Here, take these."

"Thanks." He drained the glass clean, grimacing.

"Think you can give me a ride to the Prescott tomorrow?"

"Yeah, sure. I mean, of course."

"OK..." Jessica stood up. She glanced down, found her blouse magically unbuttoned all the way down to her waist. "I'm going to bed."

"See you tomorrow."

With a spastic wave, she shuffled to her room and slammed the door. Reached up through the darkness to touch her lips. Slow steps nudging her across the floor. Her stomach throbbed with a full, reprehensible ache.

Before her eyes could adjust to the dark, she dove into the futon. Didn't even remove her socks, more naked than she cared to be. Pillows and the tangled comforter sharing a joke, unwilling to let the unworthy rest.

Through the walls, she could hear Eli getting ready for bed.

Jessica closed her eyes. Chased after her dreams, unsuccessfully trying to force her thoughts into a corner.

Grinding her teeth against the secret hope that he would come knocking on her door.

# **Chapter 46:** **Another One Bites The Dust.**

It was two-thirty in the afternoon when Eli showed up at the Prescott.

Jessica's section had been the first to be cut, already done with her paperwork. Bucking for home, a bed, some blessed sleep. All set for the dreaded walk home, when she found him at the bar, chewing on a celery stick. The cut on his forehead a crusty, superfluous third eyebrow.

Despite their awkward fallout, the sight of him brought nothing but relief.

Jessica tossed her book bag on the seat beside him. "I don't know why you're here, but long as you are, how about a ride home?"

"Yeah, happy to." Eli dropped the celery into his bloody Mary. "Just got to finish my drink, here."

"Something wrong?"

"I'm not sure. Yet."

"Hey." Jessica lowered her voice. "If this is about last night –"

"Someone shot Charlie Savage."

At first, Jessica didn't know who he was talking about. Went through a rolodex of faces before fingering the card player. Big red. The one who had set them up. "Is he dead?"

Eli nodded.

"When'd it happen?"

"I just heard about it myself... News says the police found him at around four in the morning. In an alley, around the corner from his place."

"They know who did it?" Jessica asked.

"Angry Jonny."

"Don't play."

"If not him then another one of his goddamn clones." Eli gulped down half the Bloody Mary and began to fish around for the rest of his celery. "Cops say they found the tag written in blood. Angry Jonny. Whoever it was used Charlie's own hand to spell it out on a cardboard box."

Jessica was already dialing the Observer.

Ethan Prince picked up the extension. "What do you want?"

"I need to talk to Malik."

"Didn't come in today."

Jessica had feared as much. "Any idea what happened?"

"Don't know. Don't care. Now, if you don't mind, I'm real busy –"

"Tell Al that Charlie Savage was running a poker game out of his loft."

"What?"

"See, I'm just better at this than you are." Jessica rattled off the late Charlie's address and hung up. Shouldered her book bag and gave Eli a smack on the shoulder. "Plan's changed. Pay up and let's go."

"What the hell was that?" Eli asked. "You ratted out the game?"

"Payback's a bitch."

"Payback? Charlie got _shot_. Shot dead. You think shutting down the game's going to bother him?"

"Charlie might have sent the text, but I'm not ruling out his boy Bob as the brains behind it."

"So where are we going?"

"1704 Maplewood Drive."

Eli frowned, threw some money on the bar and reached for his drink. "What's at 1704 Maplewood Drive?"

"A boy with a gun," she replied. "I'll be outside."

# ***

The whole ride was spent arguing about Bob and the card game. From where Eli sat, Jessica had killed the golden goose at a time when he needed the eggs more than ever.

"When _we_ need the eggs more than ever," he had insisted.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Is _we_ married now?"

"Money is money. Revenge don't pay the bills."

But Jessica was running a longer game. Someone at the Observer would have to question the police about rumors of an illegal card room. The police would start sniffing around Bob. Maybe look into Charlie's phone records, his text messages from that evening. Cross-reference those with Bob's phone. And who would be the missing piece of the puzzle?

"Even money says Bob would pay handsomely, hands down, for us to keep quiet about our dead gunman," Jessica told Eli, holding onto her seat as he took them full speed around a tight corner.

"I'm a player, not an extortionist."

"Everybody's got two jobs nowadays."

But the financial angle was neither guaranteed nor Jessica's primary concern. She wanted the police focused entirely on Bob's side of the equation. As long as they were busying themselves there, elsewhere might go unnoticed long enough for Jessica to see what her ex had to say for himself.

A little exercise in misdirection; Angry Jonny was proving to be quite the mentor.

They pulled up to Malik's house.

Jessica told Eli to wait by the car, and went to ring the doorbell.

She tapped her foot for a few beats. Gave the doorbell another go.

Turned to look across the street. The Castle residence stared back through shuttered windows.

Malik's mother answered the door. Quite the homebody, sporting jeans and a Pantheon sweater. Hair pulled back with a plastic, amber headband. She narrowed the opening, blocking the gap. "Hello, Jessica."

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Council. I came by to check up on Malik."

"Check up on Malik?"

"He didn't show up at the Observer. Just wanted to make sure he's OK."

"My son has been through a lot," she said, stepping outside and closing the door behind her. "And he doesn't need you sticking your face in his business. Malik's a good boy in tough times. You just leave him be."

"Mrs. Council – "

"I'm not going to tell you again..." Malik's mother looked past Jessica, eyes narrowing. "Who's that?"

Jessica looked over her shoulder. Caught Eli turning his back to lean against the car. "That's Eli."

" _That's_ your new boyfriend?" She shook her head. "Small world."

"What do you mean?"

"Malik mentioned you'd taken up with some white boy. Trading up, I see."

"Don't see how that makes it a small world."

"I've seen him around."

"When?"

"Couple of months ago..." Malik's mother opened the door, took a nimble step back through the frame. "He was walking the neighborhood with a leash. Going door to door. Looking for his dog, he said."

"Didn't know he had a dog."

"Maybe it's him you need to be checking up on..." She smiled blandly. "I can make things very bad for you, Jessica. Don't come around here anymore."

The door slammed, echoed across the lawn.

Jessica stared at the weatherized wood for a few more seconds. Thinking back, Eli had driven them over without once asking for direction. Maplewood Drive was a little known residential back road. Would a single visit to Malik's house have etched the address in Eli's memory?

Or maybe Eli was just a little more familiar with the house across the street.

Jessica put her game face on and returned to the car.

Eli was still leaning against the driver's side, arms crossed.

Jessica joined him with an exasperated sigh. "That was a waste of time."

"What'd she have to say?"

"That I was a real class act, bringing my new boyfriend around."

"The things mothers do for their children."

Jessica stuck her chin out towards the Castle residence. "Know whose home that is?"

"Mr. Table Thirteen."

"Where it all began."

"Mm."

Jessica walked around to the passenger's side. "Let's saddle up then."

"Where we headed?"

"Back to the apartment." They buckled up, pulled a three-point turn. "The new management is holding a meeting so she can get to know all us pesky tenants and our petty little problems."

"Home it is."

"Need any special assistance getting back?"

"I think I got it."

_Of course_ , Jessica thought, watching Castle's house grow small in the mirror. _Not like you needed any help getting here, did you?_

# **Chapter 47:** **Taking Stock.**

Jessica only caught the last five minutes. The meeting was held at the future site of the new swimming pool. Spread out over a single picnic table were the snacks promised by the flyer. Judging from the untouched spread of donuts, Oreos, and cola, the crowd of twenty or so tenants weren't in the mood to swallow much.

Though Jessica had to hand it to Katherine Trace. That woman's destiny had press secretary written all over it. Her every reply, every question, was a linguist's wet dream. She had no use for yes or no, relying instead on phrases that somehow encompassed all possible outcomes.

What happened to the clothes line?

"We are a short time away from starting construction on the pool, and needed to remove the posts to help with the surveying. For those of you who need to dry your clothes, I have begun the process of requisitioning an extra dryer for the laundry room."

_I've tried paging maintenance five times about our ceiling fan_.

"Our maintenance crew is working around the clock with the contractors to fix Camelot's infrastructure. If there is an emergency, you can call me at the office, anytime. If I'm not there, I'll leave a request log hanging outside my door. For any repairs that can't wait, I'll also post a list of businesses in the area that can offer immediate assistance. Pass the receipts over to me, which I will send to our board for reimbursement... Or just page maintenance."

A lot of us have night shifts. How are we supposed to get any sleep with all that construction going on?

Angry murmurs erupted into a massive round of applause.

"You don't have to tell me twice," Katherine replied. "I'm in that office all day long with those machines going at it. Getting the noise volume down to an acceptable level will be my first priority."

Next morning, Jessica was awakened by the unrelenting buzz of a chainsaw that seemed to be coming from directly outside her window. With dry, tortoise shell eyes, Jessica squinted out onto the front lawn, where severed tree limbs lay scattered about.

She struggled into whatever clothes were closest. Stopped by her aunt's room to see if Eli wanted to join her. Relieved to find the room empty, no sign of him in the entire apartment.

Three flights down, she paused at the bottom of the stairway.

A pink flier had been taped to the front door, cheerfully boasting a loophole dressed as a solution: THIS IS ALL WITHIN THE LEGAL NOISE LIMIT ALLOWED BY LAW.

Jessica was all set to tear it down, when a second notice caught her eye.

Bold print on bright blue: IN ORDER TO SERVICE CAMELOT'S PLUMBING SYSTEM, THE WATER WILL BE TEMPORARILY SHUT OFF FROM 7:00 AM – 3:00 PM, 7/23/2009. SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE...

Below that, a familiar emoticon that deserved its own place in the Angry Jonny hall of fame.

#

"Unbelievable," Jessica muttered, and ran back up the stairs.

# ***

The water pressure in room 214 was so divine, so hypnotic, that Jessica considered taking residency right there in the spotless, marble bathtub. Each time she told herself it was time to get moving, there was another setting to play with. She got as far as pulse. High-caliber rounds roughly massaging her shoulders, when, with great resignation, she shut the water off.

Jessica wrapped herself in an oversized bathrobe woven from pure, white clouds. Guest amenities were spread out over the bathroom counter like pastel chess pieces. She made good use of the blow dryer, moisturizer and hand creams. Didn't figure Chaucer would be using them anytime soon.

By the time Jessica had finished tightening her double-Windsor, he still had not returned from the gym. She put the bathroom in order. Considered extending the favor to Chaucer's bedroom. He wasn't much of a housekeeper. Bed unmade, undershirts strewn over Victorian chairs, a couple of Heineken bottles gathered on the night table.

She moved to the double doors leading out to the balcony.

Drew back the white lace curtains, and stared out across the golf course.

She heard the sound of a keycard sliding into the lock. The door opened just a crack.

"You decent in there?" Chaucer called out.

"Yeah, why not?"

He came bearing gifts: a Styrofoam cup in one hand – "coffee fresh from the lobby" – a manila folder in the other – "and a complete manifest from the few months Malik interned at the Center for Human Genetics."

Jessica relieved him of the folder. "They got this in the lobby along with the French roast?"

"Yeah." Chaucer set his coffee down and hovered over Jessica's shoulder as she perused list. "See, right there. May through July of 2008. Here's the receiving list for the second week in June..."

Jessica clenched her toes, pinching carpet fibers. "Two bottles of chloroform missing. Two vials of _morphine_?"

"Take a look at the following week."

"One more vial of chloroform. Two vials of something called benzodiazepine – "

"Mm-hm... now take a look at the first two weeks in July."

Jessica ran down the list. Instead of the handwritten negative numbers, she found a _plus one_ for the first week and a _plus two_ for the second. "There's a _surplus_ of morphine and benzodiazepine."

"And no discrepancies for the rest of the month," Chaucer concluded. "So what do you think?"

"Whoever took those items, it looks like they panicked and started slipping them back in."

"All that's missing –"

"One vial of benzodiazepine... and three bottles of chloroform."

"That's right."

"Chaucer, you're really sweaty."

He sat down on the bed with a tired grunt, and began to remove his sneakers. "Looks like our booster never had the chance to return the goods."

"Maybe because he was fired..." Jessica tossed the folder next to Chaucer. "The kind of thing that might not get you arrested if your father happens to be a tenured Pantheon professor."

"Goddamn." He eyed her cautiously as she sipped her coffee. "Hell of a cold call, there, Jessica."

"Dinah's on the hook for murder. It's game time."

"What happened to your knuckles?"

Jessica turned her hand over. In doing so, she dumped the contents of her cup onto the beige carpet. "Shit!"

Chaucer smiled. "In my day it was a wristwatch and a pint of beer."

"I'll go get a towel –"

"Saw your aunt's ex-boyfriend at the lab," he interrupted. Smile fading into a soft, inquisitive stare. "Carlton Walsh. Saw him at the lab. Looked like he'd gone twelve rounds with Lennox Lewis. Left eye swollen shut. Nose broke. Lips split to hell... what've you been getting yourself into, Jessica?"

Jessica forgot to smile. "Nothing I can't handle, Chaucer."

"Don't lose your head over this, now."

"Don't plan to."

"This is probably going to get a lot worse before it gets better."

"And I'm saying, I'm ready," Jessica said, utterly impassive. "It's everyone else better watch out."

Chaucer continued to stare her down, icicles forming between them. Realizing they weren't going to melt without leaving a mess, he simply nodded. "Can't say I don't understand."

"Thank you."

"You need anything else?"

"I'm late for work. Gonna just get my clothes and head down."

Chaucer pulled his laptop from under the bed. Wandered over to a small, cherry-wood table and took a seat. All discussion done with.

Jessica scooped her clothes off the bathroom floor. Slid them into her book bag. Gave herself a once over in the mirror, grudgingly slipping into work mode. She smiled and mouthed a few pleasantries. Had some problems getting her eyes to comply.

"Welcome to the Prescott," she recited, softly. "My name is Jessica. I'll be your server. Want to hear the specials? Which one of you really deserves to be here? Deserves this special treatment? And what have you done, in your lifetime, sir, to end up here? Who have you stepped on, whose good graces have you talked your way into? What lies have you told? What horrible things have you done to people you will never meet, for just a taste of what I'm about to serve up. Sit tight... I'll be right back with your drinks... I can promise you, I'll be right back..."

She drew close to the looking glass, nose to nose with herself. Large brown eyes casting their own reflections, something different in those depths.

Though not entirely unrecognizable.

"Jessica!"

She drew back from the mirror, shouldering her bag. Walked into the bedroom to find Chaucer peering at the screen. "What's up?"

"Angry Jonny."

Jessica shrugged. "That's, what, four in the past two weeks? These Jonny wannabes ain't exactly Dinah's ticket out of jail."

"I don't think that's what this is."

"Don't get my hopes up," she said, opening the door. "Can't handle hope. Not before work."

"No, for real..." Chaucer turned in his chair, gears turning in his head. "Man had his house broken into. Chloroformed in his sleep. Tied down, eyes and tongue. The whole nine."

"Has our victim got a name?"

Chaucer raised his eyebrows. "Terence Woods?"

"Never heard of him, not my problem."

"Jessica –"

"Angry Jonny and I have something going on. For better or for worse I'm the tie that binds. I'm his muse. I'm the one who determines what he does and who he does it to."

Chaucer crossed his arms. "And when do I get to meet the nice young man?"

"Angry Jonny wouldn't make a move without letting me know."

"How do you know he hasn't?"

Out in the hallway, a housekeeping cart rolled by. Wheels in need of oiling.

"I've got to put in some time at the paper after work anyway." Jessica managed. "Then we'll see what's what."

"Want a ride?"

Jessica nodded. Stepped out into the hallway, and closed the door.

She buried her face in her hands, palms growing hot with her breath.

"Everything OK, miss?" asked the maid, crouched down beside her cart.

"Yeah, fine," Jessica said, slightly startled. Hadn't even seen the woman, uniform filled in with a short, rotund body. Jessica gathered herself and strode towards the elevators. "This guy's room is just a real mess."

_A real big mess_ , she added, pressing the button and waiting for the elevator to take her down.

# **Chapter 48:** **A Face In The Crowd.**

Since Dinah's initial arrest, the Observer had become just another grind. Jessica, just another intern. Coffee, lunch orders, office supplies, fetch as fetch can.

Her relationship to the staff had undergone its own sad metamorphosis. At first, Jessica had simply been treated as a relative of the deceased. Sympathetic nods, requests measured with an excess of _please_ and _thank yous_. When discussing the Angry Jonny case, the word _alleged_ had been perfunctory.

But the longer Dinah remained in jail, the easier it had been for them to ignore the elephant in the room. Without Jessica contributing, she faded into the background. Standing on the sidelines as the staff grew more confident with the suspect the authorities had fed them.

Jessica hadn't complained once. High school was boot camp for groupthink, and she had soldiered through far worse. More importantly, Al had been keeping close watch over her. If perseverance served no moral purpose, then it was at the very least an unspoken form of capital.

And it was time for Jessica to cash in.

She caught Al between meetings and told him she wanted to do a story on the sale and renovation of Camelot Apartments. Her pitch was an unrehearsed, succinct overview of collected grievances from those who now found themselves at the mercy of Daedalus Incorporated.

"Christ, I'm sorry, Jessica..." Al popped into the break room and poured a coffee. "We did a piece about this a couple of weeks ago. It hadn't occurred to me that you –"

"I don't like to complain."

"It hasn't escaped my attention."

"So it should be fairly obvious I'm calling in a favor."

Al dumped some cream into his cup. Too much, hands clumsier than usual. "When did you get this idea?"

"It came to me this morning, when I woke up to find myself impaled on a wasp."

"My, my..." He drank his coffee, dabbed his mustache with a paper towel. "You know, Jessica, an article's going to have to be more than just a list of things that suck."

"How about interviews with residents? A letter from the Historical Preservation Association of Verona? Every written document sent to the tenants?"

"Well..."

"There's even word that they've been meeting with Pantheon officials. Gathering financial information on their more privileged students. For a company that insists they want to keep their present tenants, they sure seem to be sniffing up some interesting trees."

"Can you prove it?"

"I know where I can start."

Al began to stir the coffee with his little finger. "I notice you haven't asked about the latest on Angry Jonny."

"It was my understanding that wasn't my business anymore."

"What if I told you they've got someone new in custody, even as we speak?"

Jessica kept it to herself.

Knowing from experience that, any second, Al would motion for her to join him in his office.

# ***

His name was Scott Stoppard. Thirty-eight years old, African-American, married fifteen years. Ten years straight working for a private security outfit; all hours spent patrolling banks, government buildings, corporate strongholds on the outskirts of Verona County. Two priors on his record; one for possession, another for disturbing the peace. Both before turning twenty, nothing since.

He was found at one in the afternoon in a motel outside of Charlotte. With the help of the Mecklenburg county police department, the VPD had brought him in for questioning. His alleged victim, Terence Woods, ran a small real estate company specializing in adjustable rate mortgages. Four years ago, Woods had sold Scott Stoppard and his wife a house at a monthly rate somewhere in the neighborhood of too-good-to-be-true. When the slowdown became a full blown recession in 2008, the Stoppards went bust along with the entire United States.

Only difference was, as most Americans continued to frantically point fingers in all directions, Scott Stoppard had apparently found his own particular place to lay the blame.

"So what?" Jessica rubbed her forehead, hand still damp with the musty scent of the Prescott's kitchen. "So what? Even if he did do it, there's not much a chance he was involved with the other three."

"Why's that?" Al hoisted himself from his seat with great effort. "Between all four assaults, what's the difference?"

"He got caught. For the cops to have found him so fast, Mr. Scott Stoppard must have made mistakes Angry Jonny never would have."

"Cops had nothing to do with it. Wife turned him in..."

"His own wife?"

"He left her a letter before heading for work last night..." Al picked up a sheet of paper and handed it to her. "Here's the transcript."

Jessica ran her eyes over the words, reading out loud. " _Dear Josephine. Tonight, I finish what I started. There is no justice in this world. Not even the kind I have tried to provide for you, for the memory of our precious daughter, and for the whole human race. I can't lead this double life any more. I was always your husband, and I will always love you. But now, there is only Angry Jonny left. I do not know how to be anyone else. Do not try to find me... Scott._ "

Jessica glanced up. "It's hardly four-thirty. How do you already have this?"

"The wife contacted us."

"She turned him in _and_ went to the press?"

"Called in the tip and came to _us_. It's called an exclusive." Al paused. "And as you haven't made the connection yet, I guess I finally have the dubious pleasure of telling _you_ what's what."

"What _is_ what?"

"Notice anything different about the security desk today?"

Jessica didn't need to think too hard. She must have walk past that warm, smiling face almost every day since her first time signing in. All the way back in early June...

" _Our_ Scott?" Jessica's voice cracked like a teenage boy. "From downstairs, our own security –"

"Yeah. Yeah, and that's not one bit _alleged_. It's a fact."

Jessica shook her head, sorting through what felt like pieces from five different puzzles. "How could he _possibly_ be Angry Jonny?"

"Well, that much has yet to be determined... But check this out."

Al turned on the television. Scrolled through a series of digitally recorded news programs, landing on one dated 5/7/2009. He hit play, rolled footage from the morning after Angry Jonny's first hit. There were the sunlit streets outside Jason Castle's home, teeming with press and pedestrian voyeurs as policemen worked the parameter. A couple of familiar faces milling about. Detectives Randal and Donahue examining the front door. And back at the furthest edges of the crowd, Malik and his mother kept watch, side by side with somber faces.

Jessica leaned forward, focusing.

"And _there_..." Al froze the image. Waddled up to the television and tapped the remote against the screen. Stuck in the lower right-hand corner was their man. Dressed in a light-blue uniform. Carefully maintained beard going gray against dark-brown skin. Paused in the act of ushering a group of photographers back from the curb. "That right there is Mr. Scott Stoppard."

Jessica sat back in her seat, shedding all signs of interest. "Mm."

" _At the scene of the first crime_ ," Al reminded her, regret turning to regrettable excitement. "How's that taste?"

"Not my department anymore."

Al was crushed. Expecting Disneyworld and ending up in a parking lot. "Jessica."

"Al."

"Excuse me?"

"Mr. Holder."

"I know these past few weeks have been hard on you. But it looks like we're coming in on the home stretch here."

"I've kind of gotten used to working alone."

"Yeah." Al sighed. "I figured you were going rogue on us."

"My first priority is clearing my aunt's name. You've got to understand that."

"What makes you think this isn't the guy?"

"I don't know yet," Jessica said, eyes flickering towards the screen. "But in the meantime... Please let me have this."

"Jessica..." Al rounded his desk and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. "I can't in good conscience allow you to write an article about Daedalus. You're just too close to it. I wouldn't trust the best I had to remain unbiased."

Jessica nodded, throat tightening. "OK."

"I can offer you a full column and a half on the editorial page."

"Say that again?"

"A full column and a half _if_ you can deliver something outstanding. Anything less, and it's the Internet for you. Write me an editorial that even comes close to mediocre, and you're just going to have to chain yourself to a tree when the bulldozers come."

"Yes, sir," Jessica said, rising from her seat. "Won't disappoint. You can take that to the bank."

"If there are any left I trust. Time being, find Celia and see about where Stoppard was working his nights."

"I'm on it."

Before Jessica could make a graceful exit, Al took hold of her arm. "One last thing... How did you know about that ring game? Charlie Savage?"

"Trust me..." Jessica threw one last look at the television screen. From the uniformed figure of Scott Stoppard, to the concerned faces of Malik and his mother. And then, a little to the left. Zeroing in on a pale, gangly young man. Half obscured by the crowd. Out for a pleasant walk with what appeared to be a small, eager beagle. Baseball cap and sunglasses covering features that appeared to belong to none other than Mr. Eli Messner. "There's any number of things I wish I didn't know right now."

She left Al to his prerecorded crime scene, closing the door tightly behind her.

# **Chapter 49:** **Teenagers From Outer Space.**

How many serial killers can I name off the top of my head?

Jessica scribbled the question atop a fresh page. She glanced at the TV to check the time. Remembered she had dumped the cable to cut down on expenses. The clock on the stereo flashed 10:35, her cramped wrist verifying that she had been at it for a good three hours. Shoulders hunched, empty glass by her side long overdue for a refill.

As though worried her journal might catch her cheating, Jessica began scrawling names: _David Berkowitz, AKA Son of Sam. Charles Albright, AKA the Texas Eyeball Killer. Dennis Rader, AKA the BTK Killer. John Wayne Gacy, Albert Desalvo, Ted Bundy_...

Jessica realized this was all pretend. For days now, her entries had radically departed from careful analysis to free association. Tonight, it was a feeble attempt at profiling. The arrest of Scott Stoppard had rattled her more than she had anticipated. Face to face with the difficulty of interchangeable suspects, the most minor characters capable of inflicting the greatest harm.

Angry Jonny was not a typical serial killer. Wasn't even a killer, save the death of Clarence Davenport. Angry Jonny was something far worse, somehow. Far worse, and far more familiar. Blurring the lines. Trashing schematics while tapping into something very real.

But reality hadn't given Jessica an inch, and she continued to write...

_Angry Jonny is mission oriented. Appears to be mission oriented. Fine, that is what most, both within and without the Cult of Angry Jonny, believe him to be. No doubt Angry Jonny is categorically an Organized/Nonsocial offender. He is methodical, aware of his crime scenes. Adaptable. Smart. The general mean IQ for such killers is 123_...

Jessica paused, stared into space. Momentarily mesmerized by the sequential order of those numbers.

She shook it off, went back to her notebook.

_And the general rule is that Organized/Nonsocial offenders are reflections of the everyday. They do not wear their demons on their sleeve. There are no telltale signs. They do not appear to us in the form of loathsome perverts in stained trench coats or hungry trolls beneath the bridge. Some have wives. Children. Good jobs, solid references. Ted Bundy was a law student. John Wayne Gacy, a business graduate. A married man, started his own construction business at one point. They called him the Killer Clown because of his legendary block parties... These people are not the nice, quiet guy who lived next door. The one nobody really knew. They are social creatures. Friendly. Accessible. Charming, even. The nice, accommodating guy who lives in your aunt's bedroom_...

There was a knock at the threshold.

Jessica jumped, scarring the page with a bolt of blue ink.

Eli smiled from where he stood, brown bag cradled in his arm. "So what are you writing about me in your Angry Jonny book?"

"Tell me about the beagle and maybe there won't be anything to write about."

"Mega Weapon."

Jessica scratched her nose. "Can't say I was expecting those exact words."

"That's the dog's name. The beagle. Its name is Mega Weapon."

"Mega Weapon the beagle?"

"My neighbors are hipsters."

"Neighbors?"

"Jake and Sandy. They asked me to take care of him while they were on vacation." Eli moved to the couch, placed the paper bag on the coffee table. "Making sure he was fed, taking him for walks. Matter of fact, they're going camping in August, so Mega Weapon and me –"

"Taking him for walks all the way out in Forrest Hills, some fifteen minutes across town?"

"Jake and Sandy told me there was quite a park over there."

"And you never felt like mentioning that you were in Jason Castle's neck of the woods, less than a week prior to first blood?"

"No..." Eli cracked a pack of smokes and lit one. "Did Malik ever tell you that he lived across from Mr. Table Thirteen, or did you have to glean that particular fact the same way you caught him cheating?"

"You think that proves anything?"

"All it proves is that you are smarter than both of us. Malik is a scholastic dynamo. I talk a mean game, count cards and read people like large print. But neither one of us has your gift for putting the pieces together. Figuring it out... Truth be told, when it comes to sheer intelligence, you're closer to a serial killer than anyone you've probably mentioned in your notebook."

Jessica kicked the chair across from her, sent it tipping back. It clattered to the floor, two of its splints shattering. "Me. This whole time. That's your play? That's all you got?"

Eli gave the chair an indifferent glance. Set his cigarette in the ashtray. He calmly leaned forward. "I think Scott Stoppard is Angry Jonny. I think you've been writing away in that notebook, desperately trying to track down Angry Jonny, put an end to all of this. You haven't slept, you've been working nonstop to cover for Dinah. You've hardly eaten. You are slowly killing yourself, is what I think..."

Jessica stared down at the notebook, scribbled words making up the bulk of Eli's evidence.

"I think you've invested every last fiber of yourself into this. And now that it's finally winding down... Well, maybe you simply can't accept that it was all just... Meaningless. As all things tend to be. The random acts of one random person. Topped by the only victim who ever meant anything to Scott Stoppard."

"What I can't accept," Jessica replied evenly, "are last-minute miracles."

"Then can you at least accept a truce?" Eli snubbed out his cigarette. "Scott Stoppard is in jail. Definitely for the assault on Terence Woods. Whether he's going down for the rest of Angry Jonny's dirty work, that's going to have to wait. But just for tonight, if only for the sake of your own sanity... can you let it lie? Can we please, please be friends again?"

Jessica's lips twitched from side to side. "A truce, huh?"

"Just for tonight."

"What do I get out of this?"

Eli hoisted the brown bag onto his lap. "Seeing as how I thought you'd be wanting to celebrate Mr. Stoppard's arrest... I brought a bottle of kiddy champagne for you, and a fifth of Black Label for me."

"Nobody can accuse you of trying to get me drunk."

"Also got us raspberries and ice cream."

"Now you're starting to get a little creepy."

"Plus..." He reached into the bag and presented a shrink wrapped DVD case. "A classic episode of _Mystery Science Theater 3000_."

"Dinah's collection is fairly impressive as it is."

"But does she have _Teenagers From Outer Space_?"

"She's spent the last three years raising one."

"Truce..." Eli systematically removed the rest of the items. "Just one night. How about it?"

"I want so badly to make an evening of fake champagne, ice cream and raspberries."

"Do you want to sign something, somewhere?"

"Al holder's going to let me write an editorial. About Daedalus, the sale, everything."

"Why don't you go grab us a pair of spoons and a couple of glasses," Eli suggested. "You can sit down and tell me all about it."

Jessica got to her feet, legs like a newborn fawn. With tentative steps she made it halfway across the room before turning back and taking her notebook with her. She caught Eli sending a sly smile her way. She smiled back, tired but willing to play both sides of the board.

Even a truce came with certain rules.

# ***

The two of them melted into the couch, bathed in the flicker of preposterous, 1950's science fiction. Jessica sipped cherry-flavored, fake champagne. Eli happily devoured his pint of Johnnie Walker Black. The television weaved an almost touching tale of a space-teen named Derek and his quest to save humanity from his own conquering kindred. The pack of raspberries vanished in the first fifteen minutes. Jessica and Eli stole tired, automatic kisses between bouts of laughter as giant, lobster-shaped Gargons grew to enormous heights and stormed the sleepy, California town of who-gives-a-damn.

Kisses mixed with the taste of raspberry, cigarettes and twelve-year-old scotch.

Jessica didn't know whether it meant anything. Didn't know whether the world would look the same when she awoke to the violating sounds of power tools. Didn't know if this was all a celebration, or finally an authentic truce. A ceasefire before heavy artillery was rolled in to do some real damage.

As Jessica slowly fell asleep, cradled in Eli's arms, there was only one thing she was certain of.

And that was that Jessica didn't know much of anything anymore.

# **Chapter 50:** **Sprung.**

It could have been that Jessica was finally getting used to the intrusive sound of construction. After so many mornings ruined by mechanical beasts, the crack of ballpeen hammers against brick walls, maybe it was about time for her shattered nerves to make peace.

That morning, it was the strike of a single match that did the trick.

She arose from her groggy belly flop; struggling under the weight of Eli's arm, slung over her back. Propped herself up. Blurred vision taking in the bottle of Black Label, pint of untouched vanilla now a carton of creamy soup.

The smell of a burning Camel drifted just beneath her nostrils.

Eli remained snoring, face buried against the cushions.

Someone in that room was smoking a cigarette, and the math wasn't adding up.

Eyesight stumbling, Jessica made out a silhouetted figure sitting at the table. Legs crossed. Celestial eyes staring beneath a tangle of blond curls.

Jessica's voice croaked on the first go-around, Dinah's name stuck like paste to her vocal chords.

With her second try, Jessica's eyes finally adjusted. "Blondie?"

Dinah took a deep drag, exhaled: "Tell me this isn't totally the coolest thing I've ever done."

Jessica threw herself off the couch. Across the room in two ungainly leaps, sliding to her knees, arms wrapped around Dinah's midsection. Brown buttons scrapped against her teeth, mouth that wouldn't stop grinning. She rocked back and forth, unable to stop.

"Easy, there..." Dinah advised, gently extracting herself from her niece's death grip. "Got some bruised ribs going on down there."

"Shit, sorry..." Jessica sat back on her haunches, sunlight streaming in from behind Dinah's body. "Didn't rough you up too badly in there, did they?"

"We need to talk."

"Huh?"

Dinah pointed across the room, where Eli continued to saw logs.

Jessica grimaced as she went for a little walk in Dinah's shoes. It wasn't as though Eli and she had been caught in the throes of violent ecstasy. But to find them curled up on the couch, surrounded with all the implements of a romantic evening at home...

"I know this ain't exactly a hero's welcome."

Dinah gave her shoulder a pat, and headed for the door.

They stepped out onto a boilerplate morning. Jessica was greeted by a flurry of bright pastel colors scrawled along the redbrick pathway. Frustrated proclamations from Camelot tenants tattooed in chalk:

Daedalus, go away!

Our Home, Not Yours!

Keep Pantheon OUT!

Not without a fight!

"Looks like things ain't going too well with the new management," Dinah commented.

"You got that right."

"Be cool, baby. Be cool, this can't have been easy on you."

"I wasn't the one stuck in jail, getting their ribs cracked."

"Just bruised..." Dinah smiled through a fresh cigarette. "You should see the other chick."

"About Eli –"

"I'm not mad."

"You're not?"

"Do I have anything to be mad about?"

"No..." Jessica began to talk fast, looking to rip the bandages. "We made out a couple of nights ago. Less than two minutes, if that. I was tired, the two of us had almost been shot –"

"Shot?"

"Yeah, there's also a dead guy involved."

"Doesn't matter..." Dinah motioned for Jessica to stroll with her, footsteps taking them over the bitter glare of graffiti. "But you have to promise me it's over now."

"Over and done. He's all yours."

"It's not about that, Jessica."

"Then I'm confused."

"I just don't know how much I trust him."

Jessica frowned. "That's a bit of a switch."

"I found myself with unscheduled free time on my hands. Got to thinking."

"You and me both..."

The ice cream truck crept by like lion on the Serengeti. From across the street, apartments buildings opened their doors to a flock of round little robins clutching dollar bills. Jessica summarized what her investigation had uncovered. From Carlton Walsh, to the possible theft of dangerous chemicals from the Center for Human Genetics, to the footage of Eli and his canine companion, Mega Weapon.

All of it ending with a necessary addendum. "But seeing as they released you, maybe none of this even matters anymore. You must have heard they got someone new in custody. Man by the name of –"

"Scott Stoppard, yeah. Heard a lot more than that on the inside."

"Such as?"

"Such as he wants to confess. To everything..." Dinah watched as the ice cream truck rolled away, in search of greener pastures. "Every last one of Angry Jonny's victims. My guess is they didn't want to go through another public court appearance with Mr. Stoppard in jail. Maybe the DA's found himself a better fall guy."

"Fall guy?" Jessica was tired of postponing the celebration. "Blondie, if you're free, then the prosecution's got to be looking at a slam dunk."

"Could be..." Dinah dropped her cigarette on the ground, crushing it underfoot. "Time being, let's just both keep an eye on Eli."

"You don't think this is over?"

Dinah gazed fixedly at the ground.

Jessica did the same. Bright-yellow words staring back up at her.

ANGRY JONNY.

"Yeah," Dinah said, wiping her face. "Something tells me we're going to have to wait and see."

The pair of them walked back towards their building. Dinah quietly slipped an arm around her niece. Jessica laid her head to rest on her aunt's shoulder. An uncertain future happily offset by a reunion that carried with it some hope of for this tiny, patchwork family.

Or at the very least, a chance at finally sleeping through the night.

# **Chapter 51:** **The More Things Change.**

One day later, the honeymoon was already turning sour.

Another lunch shift rife with miserable patrons was made worse by the management's continued refusal to rehire Dinah. This second meeting with Nora and Evan had stung worse than the first. Without realizing it, Jessica had let herself believe that Dinah's release was a sign of turning tides. The crack in the wall that would send all her troubles crashing down to the ground.

Instead, Jessica found that twenty-four little hours didn't make the slightest difference.

She ground her teeth, maintained. Laying the groundwork for future meetings that she sensed would result in the same old story. Push to shove, she simply had no other choice.

Jessica drove Eli's car over to Tenth Street, careening through dubiously yellow stoplights.

Daedalus had finally restored running water to their apartment. Always sticking to the letter of the law, they had failed to mention the mineral deposits in the muddy liquid belching from the sinks and showerhead, or the sulfuric stench of rotten eggs.

Another proud day for Camelot apartments.

So it went; first to the gas station to stock up on bottled water. Then to the bank to get a summary of her checking account.

Numbers didn't lie; her savings would be receiving a visit from her real soon.

Jessica made a final pit stop at _The Coffee Mill_.

She stood in line amongst the hipsters and Pantheon undergrads. Beneath the counter, a tapestry of multicolored flyers advertised rock shows and personal services. Learn Spanish, learn classical guitar. Learn to tango in twelve easy lessons. Everyone out to make that extra buck.

Jessica ordered three large coffees. She carried the cardboard holder over to the nearby cream and sugar station. Fixing each cup to Dinah and Eli's liking. Casually stuffing her pockets with packets of raw sugar and artificial sweeteners.

"You shoplifting now?" Donahue asked, materializing beside her with his own twenty-ounce Joe.

Jessica gave him the once over. "You must be hot in that suit, Detective."

"It's not the suit, it's the humidity." He nestled in beside Jessica and began to prep his coffee. "You like that present we sent you yesterday? Blond curls and all?"

"I hear you've got yourself a new toy down at the station."

"Scott Stoppard. Yeah, there's a wild card for you."

"And a godsend for you."

"I'd be just as comfortable keeping God out of this."

"Amen to that." Jessica carefully picked up her order and made for the exit.

Donahue quickly stepped in to help with the door. "You seem pretty confident he's the guy."

"I imagine he's got a pretty accurate story to tell, otherwise the DA wouldn't have released Dinah."

"The DA's got his fingers crossed same as you." Donahue stood with her at the curb, waiting for a break in traffic. "The only ones looking for accuracy right now are myself and Randal."

"How's that working out?"

"Not bad... doesn't mean Scott Stoppard is Angry Jonny."

"Why wouldn't it?"

"Because, thanks to the suspiciously precise reporting of the Verona Observer, there isn't much left for him to know about. The hobo signs, the use of whatever's available at the scene to perpetrate the crimes. Wine key as the weapon of choice. The removal of the thermostat from Davenport's Mr. Coffee..." He laughed, shook his head. "We were really hoping to keep that one under our hats."

"The people have a right to know."

"You don't work for the Gray Lady, Jessica. You're an intern. An intern at the reanimated corpse of a rag that was bought out by Century Media years ago. It's a piece of garbage. In all my time at the department, they've never been so much as a child tugging at my tailcoats. How is it the Observer suddenly stepped up with such fine investigative reporting?"

The bottom of the carry carton was beginning to burn her hands. "You got something to say?"

"Late last night, someone tossed a brick through the window of the Islamic Learning Center downtown. Two Mexican-American construction workers were found beaten within an inch of their lives outside their home. We found the Angry Jonny tag at both scenes. As of this afternoon, the VPD is going to officially declare this situation a crime wave."

"So?"

"So it's bad enough we've got everyone looking to outdo our vigilante. But now, thanks to you, just about anyone in all of Verona could be Angry Jonny."

With the next lull, she hastened across the street. Coffee burped up through the plastic lids, dripping down her hands.

"Don't feel too bad." Donahue trotted briskly alongside her as they entered the parking lot. "We're already reopening the original crime scenes, looking for anything that might support Mr. Stoppard's story. When we don't find it, we're going to skip square one and come right back to your aunt."

Jessica reached Eli's car, slammed the coffee carrier on the trunk. "Well, that's just ducky, Donahue... I guess you and your undercover boys will be staying right outside my window in your little Pontiac G6."

"Don't know what you're talking about."

"Of course you don't."

"As long as we're clearing the air, yes. We got two cruisers stationed up and down the block, keeping an eye out for you and your aunt. But as far as any undercover vehicles..." Donahue brandished his keys and mashed the black, plastic remote. The blue Chevy next to Eli's car flashed its lights, beeping twice. "Me and my boys roll in Impalas. If you've got a Pontiac hanging around your building, maybe it's not us you should be worried about."

The smirk on his face suggested that Jessica hadn't done a very good job of hiding the dumb surprise on hers.

"I don't get you," she said. "We're supposed to be on the same side."

"Not as long as Angry Jonny is on yours." Donahue opened his door, stepped in. "Never forget, he is watching you. Maybe it's time to point that paranoia somewhere else."

The Chevy's engine started up, smooth as silk. As it backed out, Jessica got a good look at herself in the tinted windows. Greeted by the frightened eyes of a cornered lunatic. Stray curls wildly jutting out from her head like the springs of a broken timepiece.

Just a single day since Dinah had gotten out of jail free.

With the honeymoon over, Jessica had no choice but to reset the clock.

# PART SIX

# August 2 – August 7

# **Chapter 52:** **Plates.**

The kitchen faucet coughed up a stream of brown liquid, sputtered and died.

"Shit, again?" Jessica ran into the hallway, pounded on the bathroom door. "Don't get your hands too dirty in there, Eli! Water's out again!"

"Shit!" came the muffled cry. "Again?"

"No, for the first time," Jessica mumbled, heading for the living room. "What the hell kind of question?"

Dinah was lying on the couch. Beige sports bra peeking out from beneath an unbuttoned, flannel shirt. Boxers askew, left foot missing a sock. She stared listlessly at the television. Cable replaced with rabbit ears. Fuzzy images from local sources. Bureau of Labor Statistics reporting 247,000 jobs lost in July.

"Man, oh man..." Dinah took a sip of her breakfast beer. "The media just can't stop talking about me."

"Chin up, Blondie."

"Good idea." She did just that, draining the rest of her Bud Light.

Jessica couldn't say she blamed her. In the week since her release, Dinah had been unable to find a job bartending anywhere. The upscales had no place for a suspected murderer. The university bars didn't want her to become a sideshow attraction. And the shadier dives had enough problems with police surveillance as it was.

Outside of food service, the employment line dead-ended with two different stories.

Not hiring, or not enough experience.

And Dinah, always the grasshopper, had saved nothing for the long dark winter.

She dropped her bottle onto the floor and picked up an envelope. Waved it in the air. "Someone slid a letter for you under the door... unless there's another Jessica living here with only one _S_ in her name."

"Give it." Jessica took the envelope, ripped it open. Removed a small piece of scrap paper. Stunted block letters spelling out DSF-7531. She grinned viciously. "Now that's what I'm talking about."

"What's what you're talking about?" Eli asked, popping his head in.

"None of your business."

"You ready to go?"

Jessica nodded, shouldering her book bag.

"Where you going?" Dinah asked.

"I've got the afternoon at the Observer..." Jessica bent down and kissed Dinah's forehead. "I'll be back sometime early evening."

"You know what they said on TV?" Dinah asked. Her eyes followed the rotating ceiling blades in a monotonous game of tag. "They said, the police said... The police said they're done reexamining the crime scenes. At least Castle and Davenport... You think they found anything?"

"I'll see what I get for you, Blondie."

Eli tapped her on the shoulder, and pointed at his wrist.

Jessica nodded, and folded the letter into her book bag.

# ***

Al Holder logged onto _PlateFinder_. He snapped his fingers three times. Jessica handed him the scrap of paper and stood behind him as he did his search.

His back rose and fell with labored breathing, keystrokes slow. "Make and model?"

"Pontiac G6... don't have the year. No VIN."

"Survey says..." Al clicked on the search button and reached for his coffee. "How'd you get your hands on this without the driver seeing you?"

"Guy who lives across from me. Seen him walking his dog late at night, paid him twenty bucks to get me the tags. Slid the info under my door this morning."

"The old dog-walking routine. Genius."

"Yeah, Genius. Couldn't pay the guy enough to take a good look at the driver."

"Nobody likes to be shot," Al reasoned. He leaned in close to the monitor. "This can't be right."

"What can't be right?" Jessica leaned in as well, read the name out loud. "Anita Montero..."

"You sure this is the car that's been parked outside your place?"

"Why?"

"She used to work for us..." Al swiveled in his chair, too pale for such a simple comedy of errors. "Started in personals, worked her way up to metro. When Century Media bought the Observer back in twenty-aught-two, she was one of the billion or so who got laid off..." he shook his head, lips motor-boarding. "I fought hard for her, I really did."

"Sounds like you're vouching, sir."

"There is no way this woman is stalking you."

"I could really use a reverse look-up."

"Jessica –"

"I believe you," Jessica insisted, tongue bitter with the taste of her own bullshit. "But if it ain't her, it's someone she knows. Someone who knows me, and that's something _she_ needs to know."

Al sighed, wheezing like an old accordion. Fingers doing a little jig along the keyboard. Scribbled the address on a Post-it and handed it to her. "You treat that with respect, missy."

"Thank you." Jessica pocketed the address and smiled. "Now, what can I do for _you_?"

Al reached for a folder and held it up next to his face. "You can tell me exactly from whom you plagiarized this magnificent piece of writing."

"Sir?"

"Seriously, I am impressed. This is going to be our featured editorial, young lady."

"For real?"

"I love it." Al chuckled, coughing a little. He opened the file and began to peruse. "Love the interviews. Love the pictures. Especially the writing outside the building, the chalk. Going to print that sucker in full color."

"Sir, it's been a shit summer. Please don't be pulling a bait and switch."

"You just get your sources clear on the meeting between Daedalus and these Pantheon officials –"

"It's my next stop right after this."

"What do you mean after _this_?" Al continued to cough through his laughter. "You're my gal Friday till three this afternoon."

Jessica felt the sunlight drain from the room. "Sir?"

" _His Girl Friday_. It's a movie," he wheezed, clutching at his chest. "Cary Grant and Rosalind Rus – Rosalind Rus... Russell. Shit, Jessica, I'm having a heart attack..."

Al convulsed. His entire body rose, lifted from the seat, back arched as though an invisible fist had taken hold of his lungs and _yanked_. His eyes bulged with a hideous awareness Jessica had seen only in her nightmares.

Unlike the misshapen world of her unconscious, when Jessica drew in her breath to scream, she made damn sure to follow through. Felt the very walls shake. Swore the windows were contemplating suicide as she cried out for someone to call for an ambulance.

Al collapsed over his desk, massive body covering half the mesa before sliding to the floor. Loose-leaf sheets and office supplies rained down on him. Eyes closed, lids dark-red like cockroach wings. Gray lips stretched out across an unhinged mouth.

Jessica threw his chair aside, fell to her knees.

Bowed down in a Salah prayer. She pinched his nose, fingers too damp with sweat, unable to get a real hold. She blindly reached for a scrap of paper and used it to fasten her grip. Hardly time to think of how absurd it must have looked. Grabbing Al by the neck, she tilted his head back, opening the airways. Took a deep breath. Locked her lips around his, catching the taste of plaque and old coffee grounds.

She breathed into his mouth.

Brought her ear to his lips, listening, then breathed in again.

Brought her hands together and pressed against a ribcage buried beneath a thick layer of fat. She pressed down, grunting out the count to an even thirty. Trapped in a vacuum, hardly aware of the crowd that had gathered around her, cries and panicked babble one thousand miles away as she brought her ear to his chest. Searching for a heartbeat that never came.

She breathed into his mouth once more, then twice.

Pressed down against his chest, horrified to find she was losing count.

Losing her hold on Al for good because in Verona, there was always more than one way to die.

# ***

The EMT wheeled him into the ambulance and shut the doors.

Makings of a faint heartbeat, that was all the staff had to hang onto as the siren wailed its way out of the parking lot, gunning for the highway. As though waking from a dream, Jessica found herself cradling Celia in her arms. Oversized head leaking tears, unseasonable wool sweater creating pure static.

"All right, everyone, listen up!"

Jessica and Celia split. Ethan Prince had taken his place atop the smoker's bench. Arms waving invisible semaphore flags. Face serious, if the saying was to be believed, as a heart attack.

"Let's get it together!" He called out once more, bald head shimmering in the afternoon sun. "We've still got a paper to run! I'm going to get on the phone with the board, get our marching orders. Fifteen minutes, I want all senior staff in the conference room. We're going to need an editorial for tomorrow's edition, so Paul, Derrick; go on to the hospital and keep an eye on our boss."

The chosen pair rushed into the parking lot, leaving the rest of them staring blankly into space.

"Senior staff, fifteen minutes... Let's go everyone!"

He clapped three times, watching from his perch as everyone began to file back into the building.

Jessica remained where she was, waiting for the crowd to disperse.

Ethan leaped down from the bench. "That means you too, Jessica."

"I'd like to go along with Paul and Frank."

"We're about to have a hell of a day," Ethan told her, one hundred and ten percent on the level. "I need you here. I know it sucks, but this is what it's all about."

Jessica sensed a certain glee crawling behind those eyes. "So you're the new boss, then?"

"I will be in the next fifteen minutes."

"Right."

"Take a break if you like. Pull yourself together. Meanwhile, the rest of us will be doing our jobs."

Like a child who had never once encountered sarcasm, irony, or insolence, Jessica followed his advice. She took a seat on the bench and gave herself five minutes. Sweating it out by herself. Taking as long as she needed before she felt the building begin to lean on her.

No chance in hell anything good could come of this.

# **Chapter 53:** **Password Protected.**

Eli picked her up at three on the dot.

She secured his car for the rest of the afternoon, promising to be back by sundown.

Gunning the accelerator all the way to Malik's house.

Al Holder's horrified eyes chasing her in the rearview.

Malik's car wasn't in the driveway. As Jessica pulled up, she caught two cruisers parked across the street. Saw the front door of the Castle residence open. A uniformed officer stepped out. Squatted alongside the doorframe, inspecting the lock.

Jessica jogged up the steps to Malik's house and rang the doorbell.

Malik's father answered the door, modest paunch filling out a pair of khaki shorts and a Pantheon basketball jersey. Grass clippings and shiny beads of water decorated his sandals. "Hey, Jessica. Glad you could make it."

"Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Council."

"Got nothing better to do with Patty and Malik gone..." He walked her into the kitchen, where he helped himself to a beer. "You need anything?"

"I'm good, thank you. Any word on Malik?"

"The time away seems to be doing him some good. Nobody was renting our beach house this summer anyhow. Economy being how it is." He laughed nervously, eyes distant as he drank his beer. "Want to grab a seat in the living room?"

They settled on the couch. Jessica took a notepad out from her book bag and readied her pen.

"Before we begin, Jessica... Do I have your word on anonymity?"

"Even if it means my editorial never sees the light of day."

"Well, I certainly hope it does..." Malik's father tapped his finger against his notebook. "So get ready. Here's what I know."

For the next half hour, Jessica took extensive notes on what was looking more and more like a silent partnership between Pantheon and Daedalus Incorporated. The rumors were true: months earlier, Daedalus had met with the dean and head of student housing to discuss the financial standings of their more elite students.

A recent study had shown that as tuition for private universities had increased over the past decade, off-campus housing had boomed. The trend hadn't escaped Pantheon's attention. Not only were they seeking to increase the availability of student-friendly housing, but a new measure was going to be passed allowing sophomores to join upperclassmen in seeking off-campus alternatives.

A tentative oral agreement had been reached. If Daedalus could pack the renovated apartments with Pantheon students, then the university would step in after two years and purchase the property themselves – at a bargain no other buyers would be offered.

"It's like laundering property," Malik's father explained. "Relationships between the university and the town have always been love-hate. A marriage of dependence. Pantheon wants to extend its reach without rocking the boat. With this deal, Daedalus is assured a decent flip, while the university gets to keep its hands clean."

Jessica circled a few names, and shook her head. "My, my. Quite a little shell game they got going on."

"Well, all above board. But that don't make it right." He sighed. "I'm supposed to represent the most noble pursuit. The quest for knowledge. To improve the minds of our children, and instead... I don't know, somewhere along the line, we all became business men and accountants. PR monkeys. Real estate agents."

Jessica offered him a warm smile. "Thank you so much for helping me."

"Least I could do..." He turned his orange Crocs inward, face turned askance. "I'm sorry you had to leave so early last time you were here. Offering you a drink and a plate of barbeque..."

"Oh." Jessica tried to shrug it off. "It's really not –"

"The hell it's not. After everything that happened with Glen Roberts. And then Clarence Davenport, the trust we put in both those men... Clarence was like an uncle to Malik. I guess Patty saw you as an intruder, and I just followed her lead." He reached over, gave her forearm a squeeze. "And I am sorry, Jessica Kincaid."

"Well..." Jessica tossed the notepad on the table. "I guess if I didn't accept your apology, that would just make me every bit as bad as you thought –"

"I'm worried about Malik," he interrupted, as though they had only just sat down to talk. Troubled face, teeth biting down on his lower lip. "I'm worried about him. I'm worried about Patty."

Malik had been her ulterior motive since setting up their meeting. But she never thought the opportunity would simply fall into her lap. An unexpected gift, double-stamped _fragile_. This was big game hunting, and Jessica telegraphed her concern with as little movement as possible. "What's going on?"

"I don't know..." Malik's father stood up and walked into the kitchen. "I know I shouldn't even be talking to you about this. But I feel as though maybe you've got some insight. I've dissed you before, and I'm not about to make the same mistake twice."

He returned with a fresh beer, took a seat.

Took a nip for courage and cleared his throat. "Oh-eight was a mighty bad year for us, as you know. Patty's car accident, her clinics getting shut down. I know Malik must have told you how trying the recovery was. The physical therapy, and all that."

"Yeah... Malik told me about it."

"Took a real toll on him. We put him on antidepressants. Didn't seem to work. And the side effects were bizarre. He began sleepwalking. Talking in his sleep. Eyes all crazy, like he was reenacting his nightmares. Strange thing... At first, there was this silver lining to it all. Malik and Patty were closer than I had ever seen them. But then..." Malik's father flashed an uncertain grin. "We off the record now?"

"Of course."

"Patty got addicted to pain killers."

Jessica put a hand over her chest. In doing so, she could sense the shallow display of distress as she began to piece things together, one step ahead of Mr. Phillip Council.

"And when the pharmacist finally cut her off... Malik did something I am particularly ashamed of."

Jessica decided to take a risk. "He stole some morphine from his internship at the Center for Human Genetics." When Malik's father shot her a surprised look, she gave him a sheepish look. "Guess I shouldn't be telling you this, but... I was basically Malik's confessional booth."

With the circle of trust tightening, the elder Council nodded. "Just glad he found someone to talk to."

"Yeah."

"When Patty saw what he'd done... it was a wakeup call. For all of us. She went into rehab, got cleaned up. Malik went to therapy. It was right about then that the school year was starting, and I admit... I wasn't exactly there for either of them. A house like this don't come without a lot of hard work."

Jessica graced his arm with her own empathetic touch.

"Yeah, it's no excuse... Thing is... between Malik's therapy, you coming into his life... then the whole scandal with Glen Roberts, his acceptance into Wesleyan... Somewhere in the middle of all that, things began to..." He searched for the words in another sip of beer... "Things got complicated. Malik and Patty's bond became so strong that I became a kind of bench warmer. And after Clarence Davenport was found in his home, it only became worse... They became like their own secret club. Won't share their secrets, won't give me the password to get in... and it's been getting worse. This whole summer's been one long nightmare."

"I've been getting the same feeling," Jessica agreed. "Like they're locked into some kind of contract neither can get out of. Maybe don't want to get out of."

Jessica had no idea whether that was the case. It turned out to be exactly what Malik's father wanted to hear, and he pointed at her with an emphatic finger. "That's what I'm talking about... And now, they're off at the beach house, I'm here tending to the lawn like some kind of domestic servant... Jessica, do you have any idea what's happening to my son?"

_A pretty good one_. "I think Malik has some deep-seated psychological problems. I think his mother loves him very much. And I think by the time they get back from the beach, things are going to be better."

"You really think so?"

"There's nothing I can tell you that you don't already know. Maybe you just needed someone to talk to."

Malik's father gave it some serious thought.

Before he could get too comfortable with the idea, Jessica stood and stretched. "Tell you what. If you'd let me, I'd like to go up to Malik's room. I'll leave him a note; _hope you're feeling better_ , that kind of thing. I'll tell him we should meet up for coffee or something like that. We'll talk, I'll get a read on him. And I'll let you know if I catch any bad feelings... How about it?"

"Well..." he smiled, polished off his beer. "Wouldn't do me any good if Patty found out you were here, so... just make it discrete."

"No lipstick on the mirror, I promise."

"I've got to go move the sprinkler." Malik's father rose and ambled towards the back yard. "You just go ahead and holler at me when you're done."

He had hardly stepped out onto the deck, when Jessica tore up the stairs.

Well aware that trust came with a certain constraint on time.

# ***

If there truly was such a thing as past lives, Jessica would've pegged Malik as a crow. Black and devious would have only covered the obvious characteristics of his power animal. It was his proclivity for petty theft that truly defined the comparison. And like his avian counterpart, Malik had a nest for all his little prizes.

Racing against the clock, Jessica tossed her book bag on the floor and hunched down at Malik's desk. The inert monitor kept watch over her every move as she pulled on the topmost drawer. The one that was always halfway open due to warping, as Malik had always alleged.

Jessica no longer cared if that really was the case.

She released the drawer from its home and set it down on the floor.

She reached into the gaping socket, expecting to feel the clutter of tiny little keepsakes. Hoping to find something along the lines of a notebook. The elusive journal he had confessed to on several occasions. Her search came up empty, save for a splinter caught beneath her thumbnail.

Returning the drawer to its rightful place, Jessica stood and scanned the room. Malik's mother wasn't big on the whole Fourth Amendment. Prone to conducting random searches. If she'd found his special hiding spot, was there finally anyplace in his room he could have considered safe?

Jessica jiggled the desktop mouse.

The hard drive clicked twice, awoke with an low, annoyed whine.

The monitor joined in, lighting up to show the blue, Windows lock screen. Chess piece icon welcoming Malik, requesting his password.

"Shit." Jessica glanced back to the open door, saw nothing but the hallway wall. Got down on her knees and ran her hands over the keyboard. Held a little impromptu séance. Fingers twitching, ready to get a move on.

She typed in _Angry Jonny_.

No good. Beneath the password slot, the computer provided a gentle hint: favorite movie.

"Yeah, right. 'Cause Malik's just that stupid." Just in case, she typed in _Bulworth_.

Another negative.

She glanced at a framed picture on Malik's desk. Taken on the night of their first date. Malik had a dab of ice cream on his chin. That thing on Jessica's face looked to be an actual smile.

And what movie had the two of them blown their money on that evening?

It couldn't hurt to try: _Tropic Thunder_.

Nothing.

Jessica was about to abandon her efforts, when she remembered that they had been too young to buy tickets to the R rated extravaganza. They had gone PG-13, then snuck into Tropic Thunder.

"If this works..." Jessica typed in _Mummy3_.

Bingo. The screen lit up with a benign chime.

Yet another picture of Jessica, unflattering close-up the day after a botched camping trip.

Downstairs, she heard the door to the backyard slide open.

"Tick tock..." Jessica clicked on the start menu. Clicked on the search bar and typed in the word _Journal_. No folders, no documents. Malik was no idiot. "Code word, code word." She did a search for _Memoirs_. _Epic_. _Deep Thought_. No matching results.

Then she remembered the Angry Jonny letters.

Did a search for _paint files_.

A short list popped up, instincts double clicking on a file labeled _EyesOnly_.

The paint file engulfed the entire monitor.

Glaring white background covered in messy black letters.

Jessica didn't need a scrapbook to tell her where she'd seen those words before.

THIS STORY BELONGS TO JESSICA. LET HER BACK IN, MR. HOLDER. OR INNOCENT PEOPLE WILL DIE – ANGRY JONNY.

The first Angry Jonny letter sent to the Observer. The one that nobody knew about except for her, Al Holder and the detectives.

And now, apparently, Malik as well.

"Jessica, you all right up there?"

From the sound of it, Malik's father was stationed at the bottom of the stairs.

No time for cocktails. Jessica grabbed a flash drive off Malik's desk, stuck it into one of the computer ports. She moved the mouse to the top left corner of the window and dropped the _file_ menu. Wherever the document was hidden, the pathway was too long to fit in the provided space.

She heard Malik's father call out again, joined by footsteps, slowly ascending the stairs.

She went back to start Menu, repeated her search for paint files. _EyesOnly_ , there it was again. She right clicked and raced down to _open file location_. The window opened up instantly, displaying all the contents of a folder simply entitled _AJ_. Palms slick with sweat, opened the flash drive.

Greeted unceremoniously with a window asking for her password.

The clock had run out.

She dragged the contents onto the flash drive icon, praying uselessly that it would take.

Surprised to find that it was actually working.

She watched helplessly as the transfer took place... seconds remaining.

Done.

She hop scotched across the screen, closing every window.

Opened the start menu and locked the computer.

Tore the flash drive from its port and shoved it into her book bag.

Leaped up with a full one-eighty just as Malik's father appeared in the doorway.

"Everything alright, Jessica?"

With a pleasant smile, Jessica reached down and hoisted the book bag over her shoulder. "Right as rain."

He glanced around the room. "Where's the note?"

"Like I said, no lipstick on the mirror. Wrote him a little something on his computer. Left it on the desktop for him. That way Mrs. Council won't know I was sniffing around your boy."

"Good thinking. I'm surprised he gave you his password."

"It's all about trust," Jessica said, walking past him and out into the hallway.

"Lord knows I could use more of that around here."

_You have no idea_ , Jessica thought.

She charmed her way down the stairs and out the front door. Left Malik's father with continued assurances that his son was going to be just fine. Strolled out to her car and opened the door. Glancing across the street, she saw Detective Randal leaving the Castle residence, cellphone glued to his ear. He caught sight of her and threw her a neighborly wave.

"Always the good cop," Jessica muttered.

Hands shaking, she started the car.

Took a look at the address Al Holder had looked up for her.

She rolled down the windows and headed north.

Recharging her batteries for her next stop.

# **Chapter 54:** **Anita Montero.**

It was somewhere around six when Jessica pulled up to Anita Montero's house.

Happily nestled on the corner of Flocks and Tandy Street.

Single-level, wood siding. Dark windows looking out onto a strip of dying lawn that wrapped its way around the side of the house and out toward the backyard.

She didn't need to check the address twice.

There in the driveway was Jessica's prized dragon.

The legendary Pontiac G6.

She made her way across the street. The sun had taken unusual mercy on the neighborhood as evening approached. Light breeze bending the blades of neighboring lawns, their houses pressed close to the ground. Roofs staring up at clear blue skies. Smoke from a nearby cookout drifting through the air, mingling with the pleased laughter of those who had bet against the weather and won. A world briefly turned perfect under the approving cry of a distant train whistle.

The news of this lovely day seemed to stop short of the front porch.

Jessica felt the wood creak beneath her feet. All along the porch, planks rose in warped waves, powder blue paint splintering. Porch swing hanging precariously from a pair of rusted chains. Flat, green cushions projecting the damp stench of mildew.

Taking one last look at the Pontiac, Jessica pressed the doorbell.

Sensed it wasn't working.

She opened the pollen-encrusted screen door. Rapped on the entrance, embedded windows rattling with every knock. Jessica refrained from the urge to press against them, get a little preview of what lay in store.

From inside came the sound of approaching footsteps.

Jessica had replayed the fantasy a thousand times. Now that the time had come, she couldn't recall what any of those daydreams had involved. Though she was fairly certain none of them had involved the woman that answered the door.

At five-two Anita Montero looked to weigh in at an alarming eighty-five pounds. A long, white t-shirt hung over jeans that that had once hugged a fuller figure. Her skin was stretched taught, the faded color of candle wax. Cheekbones struggling to escape. Black bandana covering a naked scalp. Her eyes remained the only constant, the bridge between past and present. Large, brown and beautiful; woven with the pain and pleasure of a visitor at her doorstep.

"Hi."

Jessica's first instinct was to run way, appearances be damned.

Anita smiled weakly. "It's the chemo. Don't let it bother you."

Jessica coughed, fidgeting in her heels. "Sorry, I didn't know."

"How can I help you?"

"Sorry again. I'm Jessica Kincaid." There was no doubt this woman had no idea who she was. But there was the Pontiac resting in her driveway, and Jessica inched along with her plan. "I work for Al Holder, over at the Verona Observer."

"Bringing them in kind of young, isn't he?"

"I'm an intern, actually. Observing the Observer contest."

"Well, congratulations, Jessica. Come on in, please."

Easier than expected. This woman was either far too trusting, or the cancer had left her with nothing to fear from anything or anyone. Whichever it was, Jessica was forced to brutally slay all guilty thoughts as she stepped over the threshold, scanning the living room for clues.

"Sorry about the looks of this place." Anita motioned listlessly at the dormant furniture, cut off from daylight by downcast shutters. "I do most of my entertaining over near the kitchen."

"You live here alone?" Jessica asked, following Anita down a dark hallway.

"Yeah. For a while now."

"I really hope I'm not intruding."

"Please, I'm forty-seven years old..." They came out into a small, square room coupled with a cramped kitchen no larger than a walk-in closet. "I don't know what that has to do with anything. Guess it's just my way of reminding myself. Have a seat, can I get you anything? Rum and coke?"

Jessica sat down at the thick, wooden table. "No thanks. Don't drink."

"Just as well, seeing as how I have neither in the house." Anita poured a couple of waters and joined Jessica at the table. "Only ask out of habit. That was Sebastian – my son's drink of choice."

"Where's he?"

"Died a couple of years ago."

The hits just kept coming. "Sorry."

"Please, don't be. I'm sure you didn't come for the war stories."

Jessica wondered if there wasn't still time to turn back. She thought of Al Holder, lying in the hospital. One of his final orders had explicitly been to treat Anita Montero with the proper respect. If he had known the amount of time Anita must have spent in her own hospital bed, would he even have given Jessica the address?

But angry thoughts of her midnight stalker made quick work of her humanity, and she forged ahead. "This is going to sound strange, but... what was your impression of Ethan Prince?"

"Yuck."

"Doesn't sound like a ringing endorsement."

"If you don't mind me asking, what brings you here asking about him?"

_What brings me here is a bullshit cover story that's just given me access to your home and trust_. "I think he's involved in some unethical activities. Nothing I feel comfortable discussing just yet. And of course, there's a good chance I'm just jumping at shadows, because... well, as you said. _Yuck_."

"Well, I never liked or trusted Ethan," Anita said. "Not just him, but his type."

"Which is?"

"You got a day job, right?"

"Day and night job." Jessica rolled her eyes. "I'm a waitress over at the Prescott."

"Oh, how nice." Anita looked as though she were about to follow that tangent, then stuck to the script. "Well, you know those hotshot guys? Waiters who think they're the cock of the walk because they're so damn good at their job? Not just proud with their work, but infinitely superior to everyone? You just want to shake them by their shoulders and tell them that they're just fucking waiters, they don't make a goddamn difference. _Wake up_ , y'know?"

"Big fish, small pond."

"That's Ethan Prince for you. His ego is completely wrapped-up with how important he is to the paper. And it's the Verona Observer, for God's sake. He's never broken a congressional scandal, he'll never set foot in Afghanistan. But if he's at the top of where he is, then he's at the top of it all. Presto. Life is now meaningful."

Jessica nodded, standing up and casually strolling to a wall of framed photographs. "Well, Mr. Prince ain't exactly at the top. Don't even think he realizes he's just Al's little hand puppet."

"Ethan's wanted Al's job for years." Anita shook her head. "He must be drooling over the whole Angry Jonny thing. Been waiting a long time to shine for the board of directors. How often does a serial killer come along and make your little existence the center of the universe?"

It was a fair question. One that hadn't occurred to Jessica, though the signs had been there since day one. Ethan's resentment had always seemed unnaturally aggressive. This was his golden opportunity and Jessica could've woken half the world with the thunder she'd stolen from him.

"I've noticed Ethan's empathy for the victims has often been... overshadowed by his own self-interest. By what Angry Jonny has done for him."

Anita sighed. "Wish I could say I blame him...." She stared across the room. Eyes glassy, absently stroking her arm. "When I read about the third victim, Dr. Lazenby... I was just filled with a hateful kind of joy. It was almost transcendental. Thinking about the horror he must have felt when he woke up and realized that he'd lost his tongue and both eyes. All alone. Completely helpless."

Jessica felt the room grow darker. The sun was in retreat, and the lit florescent tube alongside the kitchen sink began to hum with a greater sense of purpose.

"Well..." Jessica cautiously abandoned the photographs. Slow steps once again putting the table between her and Anita. "There's a lot of people out there who think Angry Jonny's victims got what they deserved."

"Oh, it was a little more personal for me," Anita said flatly. "Dr. Lazenby was one of the medical experts employed by Generation Insurance. It was his job to dig through any costly claims and search for any scientific excuses to deny coverage. _Any_ excuse to deny coverage. They snatch their findings from whatever obscure medical journals, studies they can find. Almost out of thin air."

Jessica reached for her water, took three large swallows. "How much of your treatment did Generation Insurance cover?"

"Big fat nothing... Never mind that I quit smoking years before getting cancer. Never mind that it was breast cancer, and never mind the consensus on the genetic traits of breast cancer. Dr. Lazenby was more than happy to sign a letter stating that my cancer was a preexisting condition. Soon as my year was over, they refused me any further coverage..." She offered up a chilling smile that seemed to tighten her skin even further. "There's days, I have to admit, when it's not that easy to hate Angry Jonny."

With her knuckles turning white, Jessica set her cup down. Looking for any excuse to leave, unable to move under the spell of Anita's empty stare. No longer the same eyes that had greeted her at the door, drawn her into the depths of this empty house.

The piercing cry of a cellphone sent electric shocks through Jessica's body, muscles seizing.

"I'm sorry," Anita said, sniffing and reaching for the fruit bowl. She removed her phone and held up a skeletal finger. "Let me just get this..."

Jessica kept perfectly still as Anita waded through a quick conversation, comprised mostly of monosyllabic replies. Anita glanced over once or twice, tossing apologetic smiles her way. She finally concluded with a whispered, _I'll take care of it_.

Hung up and rose from her chair. "I'm sorry. I just need to use the restroom, if that's OK."

"Fine," Jessica said, perhaps a little too enthusiastically. "Mind if I go after you're done?"

"Won't be long," Anita replied, perhaps with too much zeal of her own.

Jessica watched her exit, then heard a door close in the hallway. She quickly checked to make sure she had all her belongings, trying to remember if she'd left her book bag in the car. No longer remembering what had brought her there in the first place.

Until she saw Anita's cellphone.

Lying on the table, unattended.

Knowing she wouldn't have another shot, Jessica scooped it up and began to fumble with the keypad. It was an outdated model, its interface completely counterintuitive. Trembling fingers sending her to alarm settings. Then to memo pad. She glanced up to the kitchen doorway, expecting Anita to return any second.

The phone slipped from her fingers and bounced off her foot, skidding under the table.

Jessica heard the toiled flush.

_Abort, now!_ her brain screamed.

Unwilling to give in, she took a deep breath and dove to the floor. Reached beneath the table and recovered the phone. She flipped it open. Methodically moved the cursor to _incoming calls_ and mashed the _talk_ button.

What came up could hardly be called a list.

Just one name, repeated over and over.

**Chaucer**.

**Chaucer**.

**Chaucer**.

**Chaucer**.

No time to put the pieces together. Jessica snapped the phone shut, set it back on the table. Hurried through the kitchen door and into the hallway.

No time for much of anything, it seemed.

Anita was standing at the entrance to the bathroom.

Wearing the same startled expression as Jessica.

Hands behind her back, turning her body into a single, sickly exclamation point.

"Hey..." Anita nervously took a step to her left, away from the bathroom door. "It's all yours."

"Don't worry about it..." Jessica inadvertently took her own step to the left. "I've really got to get going."

"Jessica –"

"Should've been gone fifteen minutes ago –"

"Oh, don't go just yet," Anita insisted. "Head on back to the kitchen, I'll fix us some tea. No rum, but I'm positive, I've got some chamomile –"

"I've got to go, now."

Anita didn't respond.

Didn't move either. Just kept blocking the hallway, hands behind her back.

Eyes growing desperate.

"What've you got behind your back?" Jessica asked, no longer content with play making.

Anita began to move towards her. "Look, I'm sorry if I scared you with all that cancer talk –"

"Don't come any closer."

"I'm in _pain_ , Jessica, and I have to do whatever is necessary –"

Jessica began to inch backwards, second away from bolting for the back door –

"Jessica, wait!"

The discord in Anita's voice actually managed to stop Jessica cold.

With a shamed expression, Anita brought her hands out in front of her.

No knife, no gun.

Just a small, glass, army-green pipe.

Didn't take an enormous leap down memory lane to figure what Anita had been packing into that bowl.

Jessica closed her eyes, kicking herself in the ass. "Shit."

"I guess I'm still kind of embarrassed..." Anita explained, lips trembling. "I guess it's just... I haven't smoked pot since I was a teenager. And now I'm forty-seven years old, and I'm _dying_... you know what my son used to say about pot?"

Jessica shook her head.

"He used to say pot's for goddamn _losers_." When she hit that final word, Anita broke down. Drawing out the vowels with a sob that threatened to rob her of her last breath. She drew in a shuddering sigh, only to reinforce the tears and despairing wails. "I wish he were here to tell me that's not _true_."

Jessica couldn't take anymore.

Saw herself charging past Anita, right out the front door.

Destination, anywhere but here.

Two seconds into her decision, she drew Anita close in a tight embrace.

Jessica was genuinely repulsed by what was left of that body. Repulsed by her own reaction, cradling the skeleton of a fading photograph. With every sob, Jessica felt Anita's ribcage digging against her. Arms like brittle sticks against her back.

"I just get so _angry_ ," Anita cried, choking out two more breaths before stepping away. Wedging herself in the corner between the wall and the doorway to the living room. "I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry you had to see me like this."

"It's OK." Jessica unconsciously wiped her hand over the wet spot on her shoulder. "Sorry I reacted the way I did back there... Hey. You're smoking like a teenager, I'm stuck being one. Who's the real loser here?"

"Oh, shut up..." Anita sniffed, rubbing her nose against her shirt. "You're an old soul, Jessica."

"There's days I feel it."

Anita laughed. "Ah, shit. Look at me..." She trained her eyes on Jessica, red blood vessels pleading with the rest of her face. "Promise you won't tell anyone?"

It was a ludicrous request. Victimless crime, no one to tell.

At least, as far as Anita could have guessed.

The connection to Chaucer Braswell was simply too much to leave to chance.

"Of course I won't tell anyone," Jessica promised, fighting back a wave of nausea as she abandoned what little honesty they had shared. "Just please don't tell anyone else I was here, OK?"

"Yeah..." Anita nodded, because it seemed reasonable enough to her. "I won't tell."

"I could get in a lot of trouble if Ethan Prince ever found out –"

"Not a soul."

"Same here."

Anita held up the pipe. "Let me guess. You don't smoke pot either, right?"

Sharing a bowl with Anita was more tempting than she could have imagined. "I've really got to go."

"I know."

"Are you going to be OK?"

"Oh, what a question," Anita mused. Realized she'd said it out loud, and quickly reassembled her pride. "I'm going to be just fine. Both of us are."

Jessica was none too sure about that.

When she finally got behind the wheel of Eli's car, her hands wouldn't stop shaking. It was Anita's pain, it was Chaucer's duplicity. It was Al Holder's heart attack, it was the decaying nature of the everyday, every skip on the calendar bringing another reason to slip into madness.

Jessica began to pound the dashboard with her fist.

Hating herself.

Hating the whole goddamn world.

# **Chapter 55:** **Diary of a Mad Black Woman.**

It was half past one in the morning and Jessica's wrist had taken on a mind of its own.

Door shut tight, modern equivalent of candlelight casting a pool over her desk. Over her notebook. Every last nerve begging for a drink to go with her fatigued ramblings. She settled for another cup of herbal tea. Kept right on letting the pen stagger across the page.

_Adding to the list of every last person who has lied to my face. Am I angry at them, or is this rage more properly directed at myself? Never had a father. Along comes some capable, resourceful man. Tall, dark and handsome, out of the CLEAR BLUE SKY... and suddenly I'm just a giant ball of trust_.

Jessica glanced out the window, across the street. No Pontiac to be found. Maybe Anita mentioned something to Chaucer. Maybe it was just one of those random nights that the car simply failed to make an appearance.

Maybe any number of things.

So Chaucer's got a cancer ridden friend. Woman friend. Come to think of it, ain't seen no ring on his finger. More to the point... Who wouldn't love to wreak that kind of vengeance, that particular "Jonny" brand of justice on a man like Dr. Lazenby? Didn't Chaucer always claim to be in town on business? Business he refused to speak of? Business he claimed he was done with shortly after Dr. Lazenby met his grizzly fate on the Fourth of July?

Jessica paused, wondering if anything at this point was too far a stretch.

It's not too far a stretch. On the one hand, Chaucer seems to be fixated on me. Helping me, or so I thought. So that checks out. On the other hand, such calm and cool. The person I'd least suspect. Didn't he show up late for my meeting with Benjamin Morris, the computer geek at the center for human genetics? Matter of fact, how easy was it for Chaucer to get that manifest implicating Malik in the theft of those chemicals?

Jessica felt herself straying. Gritting her teeth she fought to stay on point.

Dr. Lazenby, one of the men responsible for fucking over Anita Montero... who just happened to have quit Generation Insurance to work at Pantheon... just happens to end up at the wrong end of a wine key.

She ran her hands through her hair, tugged sharply at her curls as though forcing them to go straight.

But what about the others? Could Angry Jonny's interest in me really extend to murdering Clarence Davenport? Or maybe it was all just a wonderful coincidence. Here he comes, looking for a way to kill the man responsible for Anita's condition... and then Davenport comes along. Shit, what if Davenport was just a practice run? A dress rehearsal that got rid of one of my enemies while preparing him for his main target. Two birds? One stone?

What about Jason Castle then? Where was the connection?

Maybe there is no connection between the crimes. I keep thinking about the violence that's erupted on the streets of my city. Verona has become ground zero for this country's anger and hatred. Our worst fears manifested. Didn't Detective Donahue tell me that any one of us could be Angry Jonny? Who's to say each crime wasn't committed by several different perpetrators?

Jessica stopped writing. Nose tilted upwards, as though catching the scent of her own argument. Multiple criminals, multiple offences. That wasn't the argument Detective Donahue had posed to keep Dinah locked up without bail.

No. No, that can't be right. If I'm going to add Chaucer to the list, then he must have had a reason to off Jason Castle as well. What's missing? What am I missing?

The world was spinning. Eyes growing heavy.

Only a few sentences left in her before collapsing under the weight of her suspicions.

Looks like I'm going to have to dig a bit deeper to find out what Chaucer Braswell's doing here in Verona.

Whatever came next, Jessica would have to wait till morning to read.

By the time the sun had risen, she awoke to find herself curled up on the floor.

Halfway between bed and the open notebook on her desk.

# **Chapter 56:** **Starting Over.**

Jessica awoke to a searing puddle of sunlight and a three loud knocks on her door.

She shot to her feet just as Dinah barged in. Dressed in nothing but white cotton panties and a bra.

Jessica was all ready to spout out an explanation, some contrived story to hide the fact that she had passed out on the floor in her work clothes. Fortunately, Dinah didn't seem the least bit curious. She went to the wall opposite her bed, and lowered the blinds.

"Can you fucking _believe_ it?" Dinah put her hands on her hips. "I go to the kitchen to get the coffee going, and there's some goddamn Mexican construction worker on one of those giraffe machines."

"Cherry pickers," Jessica clarified, din of construction work just starting to rattle in her ears.

"Cherry pickers, ass-lickers. This guy's just looking through the goddamn window, staring at my tits, or legs, or all of it. Whatever."

Jessica rubbed her eyes, eased herself into her chair. "Welcome to the club."

"You know, I'd walk right down to the office and tell that bitch Kate to do something about it –"

"Do what about it?"

"I know, right? That woman's unflappable."

"Yeah."

"The woman's a goddamn cyborg."

Jessica shrugged, leafing through her notebook. "A politician, is what she is."

"She's a half-cyborg politician sent from the fucking future to... I don't know, pave the way for Skynet to kill us all."

Jessica massaged her temples, reached for the tepid remains of last night's tea.

"Anyway..." Dinah sighed, went to sit on the futon. "The bitch slipped us a letter today."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. Consider it our notice."

"Specifically?"

"Renovations on our building start October first."

Jessica downed the mealy contents of her mug, coughed. "So that's it for us, then."

"Look..." Dinah leaned forward, bare elbows on bare knees. "I may not be able to get a fucking job in this town anymore, but I think I got us a place we can move."

"Yeah?"'

"You know that building next to the East Campus wall? Old brick throwback, balconies with those gorgeous arches?"

"Yeah?"

"The lady who lives there is looking to sublet. She's taking off for a year or two. Been living there since the late nineties, and the place is rent controlled at... you ready?"

Jessica nodded.

"Six hundred a month."

"Don't play."

"Straight up. Ten-fifty square feet. Prime location. We're talking about apartment that's as close as we'll ever get to this place. Top-left corner, balcony looking out onto the campus wall."

Jessica turned to look out the window. Saying a silent goodbye, greeted with nothing more than a pasture for evil robots looking to tear the whole place apart. "Yeah."

"Thing is... she's looking to book by the start of September. No negotiating on this. Which means we've got to be out of here by the end of this month... which means we're going to have to break our lease."

"Which means we could lose our deposit."

"And I'm not saying we couldn't use that money..." Dinah said, close as she ever came to weighing her financial options. "But this is golden. We're broke, few months shy of homeless. Even if I manage to get some kind of job, one year from now, this place becomes too rich for our blood. So it's either stay, let Daedalus bleed us dry. Or pick up stakes and move. Whatever the outcome, we only come this way once."

"Shit." Jessica swung around in her chair. "I hate running."

"I know."

"I don't cry, and I don't run."

"I know."

If Jessica thought there was a God, she might have taken that moment to pray for guidance. But keeping a close eye on the news had taught her the Man Upstairs had bigger things to ignore. Far as empirical evidence went, it had always been just her.

Her and Dinah.

And with the list of betrayals stacking up, Jessica had to admit: maybe the time had come to start over.

"If I could take just one thing with me," Jessica said. "Then let it be my aunt and best friend."

"Really?"

"Why the hell not?"

"That's my girl!" Dinah threw her arms around Jessica in a gin-and-lime-scented embrace. "Let's blow this popsicle stand."

"Yeah," Jessica agreed wearily, shuffling to the closet. "Here's what. We signed our lease with Angela, not these jerks. I think I can get us out of this without any fees or penalties. I'll write up a letter listing all abuses by the new management. Tell them that, come the end of this month, we out."

"This calls for a drink!"

Jessica let Dinah go and play. Changed into her streets, got her work uniform ready. She began to search for her book bag. Had herself on all fours by the futon, when she got a pretty good idea where she had left it.

Somewhere in the depths of Anita Montero's house.

With a stiff groan, she went to the kitchen.

Dinah was pouring herself another eye opener, sucking on a lime.

"Hey, Blondie. I'm going to need your makeup, wine key and book bag."

"Sure."

"Is Eli around?"

Dinah put a theatrical finger to her lips. "Still snoozing."

"Well, this is him losing. I'm taking his car."

"Leaving a little early, ain'tcha?"

"Yeah..." Jessica grabbed Dinah's makeup kit from the bathroom. Turned the faucet. Found the pipes to be in perfect working condition.

She saw no reason for Chaucer to know anything about that.

# **Chapter 57:** **The Ex-Detective Files.**

It was with a sinister, almost evil satisfaction that Jessica realized she was getting damn good at this.

Chaucer had not batted an eye when she arrived unannounced. And, as always, he took the opportunity to hit the gym. Jessica closed the bathroom door. Let the shower run. Sat on the counter, waiting till she heard him leave. Popped her head out to double-check, then turned the water off.

She cautiously checked his closet, all pockets. Came across a black Samsonite attaché case. Complete with dual combination locks, and Jessica wasn't going to waste any time going down that road. She left the closet as found and began to dig through the dresser.

Rummaging past socks and white cotton briefs, she came across nothing more than an empty money clip and a thimble-sized brass unicorn hanging from a chipped, pink-painted chain.

"You got anything to say?" she asked it.

The unicorn's single, tiny glass eye winked back.

"If that's how you want to play it..." Jessica sent the horse back into its stable, covered it with some of Chaucer's undergarments, and crossed the room.

Opened yet another door, only to find another one staring right back.

Jessica reached for the doorknob. Came up empty, finding only a round, metallic disk wedged into the wood. The door before her led to the adjacent room, number 213. Connecting doorways meant for large groups of clients looking to remain close while maintaining autonomy. Parents and their kids, sets of couples on vacation. Just for the hell of it, Jessica pressed her ear close to the door.

Didn't hear anything from room 213.

She closed the first door and circled the bed. Opened Chaucer's nightstand and found a torn envelope.

Addressed to Anita Montero, from the main branch of Pantheon Hospital.

Inside, Jessica found three pages worth of hospital bills. Meticulously itemized. Chemotherapy, EKG, pharmacy, X-rays, lab work, physical therapy; even ice packs, gowns and Tylenol came with their own price tags.

All totaling to well over twenty-thousand dollars.

Jessica was willing to bet this wasn't the only such bill Anita received.

She carefully folded everything back into the envelope.

Ducking under the bed, she found the laptop.

In a brilliant bit of luck, Chaucer must have simply closed the screen last time he used it. No need to hack another password. She opened the web browser and did a search on Anita Montero. Didn't get much. On a whim, she typed in the name of her deceased son, Sebastian Montero, paired with Chaucer Braswell.

Right off the bat, there was an article from the Wilmington Star News featuring both their names.

Easy credit means hard choices for The Blue Paradise.

Jessica didn't recognize the article from her previous searches into Chaucer's background.

She clicked the link, found the article to be dated 9/15/2002.

Throwing a quick glance at the clock, she began to read.

Dromio Johansson has been raising eyebrows since he moved to the Carolina coast some thirty years ago. He's saved small businesses from going under, turned out hundreds for blood drives. He's opened art galleries and raised thousands for endangered loggerhead turtles.

_But_ _perhaps his most revolutionary enterprise was the advent of The Blue Paradise, a local restaurant where a couple of quarters could buy you a solid meal. Every item on the menu, barring beverages, was priced at twenty-five cents; from crab cake appetizers to pan-seared mahi-mahi._

Wilmington's business community started a pool on when the restaurant would finally be forced to close its doors. Nobody put their money on anything past one month. One year later, The Blue Paradise was the number one hotspot for locals and tourists alike, bringing in travelers from across North Carolina.

And _Dromio Johansson was making a killing._

" _It's twenty-five cents, suggested price," Dromio had told this newspaper. "The average Joe doesn't want to look poor. The rich want to look richer. And the prices they choose to pay end up subsidizing everyone_ _else."_

Of course, there was one catch. Nobody gets a seat at The Blue Paradise without a working credit card. This was meant to keep the bad element from taking advantage of the restaurant's bargain bottom prices.

_However,_ _eyebrows are once again being raised along with Blue's prices._

_Over_ _the years, credit has loosened up so much that plastic no longer reflects what truly rests in our bank accounts. Nowadays, anyone can get a credit card. And now that anyone can sit down at The Blue Paradise, don't expect your bill to look any different than Jacob's, The Pilot House, or Water Street Bar and_ _Restaurant._

" _It's economics 101," says Chaucer Brasuell, longtime general manager of The Blue Paradise. "Our prices have gone up because more people have credit cards. More credit means people can afford it. And more is what the restaurant business is all_ _about."_

_But will the Paradise lose its essence without the very thing that made it so_ _special?_

" _It's still the same restaurant," insists Sebastian Montero, onetime waiter and longtime friend of the Johansson family. "Same great food, same lively atmosphere. And Dromio Johansson will continue to guest bartend every Sunday night, serving up his signature drink, The Blue Paradise."_

Whether or not Dromio's establishment will remain the toast of Wilmington remains to be seen. In the meantime, hungry patrons are going to have to find some other place to spend their two bits.

_Shave and a haircut, anyone_?

Jessica blinked. Scrolled back to find Chaucer's name misspelled for the variant _Brasuell_.

She scrolled down, found a few related articles. Nothing directly involving Chaucer, Anita, or her son. Though each consecutive link laid out a pretty clear story.

Blue Paradise Now Closed on Sundays.

Tourism Down for the Second Continuous Year.

Not All Wilmington Businesses Weathering Storm.

Paradise Lost, if Only Temporarily.

"Looks like somebody ain't rollin' as high as he'd like me to think..." Jessica took a look around the room. There was a sobering clash between the designer threads, the loss of a once prospering business, Chaucer's classy ride and Anita's outrageous hospital bills –

"His _car_."

Jessica closed the laptop and shoved it under the bed.

She scooped the keys off the nightstand and bolted from the room.

Crossing the parking lot with measured steps, Jessica casually approached Chaucer's Cadillac and unlocked the driver's side. She dove into the clean interior. Nothing to be found but that new car smell suggesting a recent reupholstering. Yet another expenditure that her midnight stalker may or may not have had the cash to cover. Jessica popped the trunk and went around back, keeping a close eye on all surrounding vehicles.

Wasn't too shocked to find a black Colt semiautomatic resting in a shoulder holster. A strapped private investigator wasn't anything to write home about, retired or not.

She was more interested in a pair of white cardboard boxes, filled with alphabetically listed files. Fully expecting more evidence of financial woes, Jessica removed one of the manila folders. Felt herself descending further into the dark, face to face with a familiar name.

Patricia Council.

Jessica flipped through the contents. A few pages of nearly illegible handwritten notes. A couple of photographs, taken from a distance. Malik's mother outside her house, in her backyard, parking on Pantheon's campus. Each one tagged with a red marker: lengthy ovals hovering just to the left of Patricia in every picture. No matter how closely she stared through the various hoops, Jessica couldn't figure what the background held that was so damn significant.

She found a Xeroxed police report, dated January second, 2008; the night of Patricia's car accident.

The head on collision had been with none other than Dr. Lazenby.

Prius versus Escalade. Nobody placing any bets on that outcome.

Jessica shut the folder, replaced it and pulled out the next in line.

Malik Council.

Amongst photocopied yearbook pages and the manifest from his internship in 2008, she found more handwritten notes. Most interesting were details involving his relationship with Jessica; the amount of time they dated, when they broke up and under what circumstances. His past use of antidepressants, walking and talking in his sleep. Information she had fed him over the course of the whole summer.

There was Dinah's file, fat with recent police reports.

Vice principal Clarence Davenport; crime scene photographs coupled with the child pornography investigation. Carlton Walsh, Philip Council, Glen Roberts; the one thing they all shared in common were Chaucer's written notes, most findings lifted straight from Jessica's own lips.

"You sneaky, fucking _plagiarist_..."

Jessica flipped her way through to the letter K.

And there was her file. Everything Chaucer ever wanted to know about her but was afraid to ask, including her police and court reports for public affray. _Knocked down from assault_ , those were the words scrawled along the margins.

Jessica was beginning to think this was never about her, never about Dr. Lazenby or revenge. It was about Anita's hospital bills. It was about a global recession with no immediate end in sight. It was about money. It was all about a cash reward for any information leading to the capture of Angry Jonny that now tipped the scales at a combined sixty thousand dollars.

At the center of which sat Jessica Kincaid.

Keys to the kingdom, combination to the vault.

Jessica forced back the bile, tore the top off the second box.

She blinked. In a blatant contradiction to her enraged theorizing, she found a box of vinyl gloves. A box of plastic shower caps. A box of sterilized shoe covers, the kind worn in operating rooms. And finally, a brown bag.

Inside that bag, a brown bottle with a label marked _Chloroform_.

FOR PROFESSIONAL USE ONLY.

There was always the possibility that Chaucer had been using the gloves and shoe covers for snooping. He'd obviously been doing a lot of it. He'd mentioned lifting the chloroform from Carlton Walsh's fridge.

But the connection to Dr. Lazenby was still too much to ignore.

"Then again," Jessica murmured... "Maybe it's about a little bit more than money."

She replaced the lid, slid her file back into the first box.

Went for one last fishing trip.

Extracted a folder that came with a name, and a very curious amendment.

_Eli Messner_... Followed by a single, unsettling question mark.

Jessica tucked the featherweight file under her arm, closed the box and the hood of the car.

"Time to break some records."

Jessica ran across the parking lot, into the lobby. Slid across the marble floor, two inches from cannon-balling into a stack of suitcases. Nuts to the elevator. She took the stairs two at a time, giving herself a ludicrous reminder to update her contact information at the YMCA.

For one sickening moment, Jessica was positive she'd left the key card in Room 214.

The moment passed, and she sprinted into the bathroom. She'd left the water running, knowing it wouldn't do for Chaucer to come back to a bathroom free of condensation. Jessica stripped naked and hopped in. Bunched her hair with both hands, forcing the water into every fiber.

Hopped out one minute later, thoroughly unsatisfied.

Jessica dried herself off, slipped into her work duds. Another moment of alarm as she realized that her damp curly top would undoubtedly give the ruse away. She reached for the hair dryer and threw it against the floor. The protective cap popped off, went skidding behind the toilet. Coupled with a large crack in the plastic shell, Jessica felt that would count for broken.

She wrapped a towel around her head, walked out into the bedroom.

Darted back into the bathroom, scooped up Chaucer's car keys and set them on the nightstand just as the door opened. Jessica didn't play her smile too hard, containing her heaving chest with crossed arms.

"Hey," Chaucer was frowning, holding up a copy of the Observer. "You didn't tell me Al Holder had a heart attack."

"Yeah, sorry..." Jessica said. "It's just that when the shit piles up this high –"

"Is he going to be OK?"

"Looks like. I'm going to visit him later on..." Jessica scooped Dinah's book bag. "After I'm done with this shift."

"Hey. Look at this..." Chaucer had sat down on the desk, eyes serious. "Says here the cops are starting to doubt what Stoppard's wife is selling."

"That he attacked Terence Woods?"

"No, that looks open and shut... But the wife's love affair with the press is making them doubt that Scott Stoppard is behind every incident."

"Hmm..." Jessica shrugged. "With the debt they're stuck with... Maybe she did it for the reward. Maybe they both did."

"You know... That never occurred to me."

"Well, that's one for me then." Jessica made for the door. "I'll call you if I hear anything else about Al."

"Jessica?"

She froze. Turned slowly, trying to catch any sign of her search before he could spring it on her.

Chaucer pointed to his head. "Towel, Jessica."

Jessica laughed, took it off and tossed it across the room. "Yeah, forgot to mention that I might have broken the hair dryer."

"Smooth."

"One of us has to be."

"Later."

"Peace."

Jessica experienced one last bout of fright as the elevator doors closed behind her. Loose ends. Ripped open Dinah's book bag, instantly soothed by the sight of Eli Messner's file. She crossed the lobby and strode out to the parking lot.

Wasn't even scheduled to work the Prescott that day.

Jessica smiled bitterly. "I am _definitely_ starting to get good at this."

# **Chapter 58:** **Prince of Darkness.**

The Verona Observer had changed overnight.

No pop, no chatter.

No Al Holder.

From across the room, Celia halfheartedly waved for Jessica to join her.

"How is he?" Jessica asked.

"He's going to need surgery."

"I'm going to stop by and visit once I get off. Three o'clock. Want to punch out early, come with?"

"Can't." Celia sniffed. "Ethan needs every available man... oh, and he said he wants to see you in his office."

When Jessica opened the door, there was nobody waiting.

She rolled her eyes, understanding exactly what had been lost in translation.

" _His office, my ass_ ," Jessica muttered, trudging next door and knocking on Al's door. She walked in, physically repulsed at the sight of this worm all settled in behind the desk. "What's this, Ethan? Haven't measured for curtains yet?"

Ethan pushed the keyboard aside with a humorless sigh. "It'd probably be a good idea for you to start calling me _sir_. Or Mr. Prince."

"How about Freddie Prinze?

"I think you mean Freddie Prinze Junior."

"I'm old school."

"Who cares?" Ethan leaned back in the chair, testing its resistance. Visibly pleased. "So your buddy, Malik..."

"Not my buddy."

"Buddy, boyfriend, baby-daddy. Again, who cares? He's shirked his responsibilities around here for too long, so he's fired."

"Since when?"

"Since as soon as you tell him."

"You are a brave, brave man, Ethan –"

"Mr. Prince."

"– But I don't know how to get in touch with him."

"Crack investigative reporter like you?" Ethan smirked. "I doubt it."

"I'll see what I can do."

"Splendid."

Jessica didn't budge.

Ethan shot her an impatient look, motioning for her to bring it.

"Look..." Jessica slid Dinah's bag to the crook of her arm. "About my editorial; I've temporarily misplaced my book bag –"

"What editorial?"

"My editorial on Camelot Apartments? Daedalus, the takeover –"

"No, I know _which_ editorial," Ethan clarified. "I mean _what_ editorial. As in we're not running it. Not anymore. Ain't happening."

"Well..." A confused smile snuck in through the corners of her mouth. "You can't do that."

"Can't I?"

Jessica's smile died on her lips. "No. You can't."

"As the new chief editor –"

" _Acting_ chief editor –"

" – And you are an intern!" Ethan yelled, rising from his desk. " _You_ don't get to play Nancy Drew and put together little exposés. High school student. Pens. Paper. Coffee. _That's_ you. Chief editor, boss man; that's _me_. And I can do _whatever I want!_ "

Jessica couldn't bring herself to admit how very right he was. "Why are you doing this?"

"Why are you still here?"

"I asked you a question –"

"OK, let's make this easy." Ethan put his palms together in a condescending prayer. "You either deal with this, right now... Or you can consider yourself gone along with your buddy Malik."

Jessica held up her hands. "Fine."

"Fine yourself."

"Just how thrilled _were_ you when Angry Jonny started picking people off?"

Ethan smiled sourly. "If it's a matter of who benefits, just how thrilled would you be if he did the same to me. On a scale of one to ten?"

"What's the number after _you're an asshole_?"

"Get out."

"I'm gone."

Jessica violently stalked past the wide eyes and flabbergasted expressions of those who were once her coworkers. Face set in stone as Ethan began to yell after her.

"That's right, you keep walking, Jessica! Keep right on walking! Don't think I won't be telling security about this, and don't forget to let the door _hit your ass on the way out!_ "

As she passed by a red-eyed Celia, Jessica kept her voice low. "I'll tell Al you said hello."

With a solid wink, she kicked the stairway door wide open.

Her ass making it through just fine.

# ***

After laying her prying eyes on Anita Montero's hospital bill, Jessica had to wonder what this near-death experience would be costing Al Holder. Artificial respirator, EKG monitor, IV drip. Hospital gown, extra pillow beneath his head. Little paper cup with a pair of aspirin resting by his side. Jessica had half a mind to close the blinds, just in case sunlight was extra.

Al smiled at her through the plastic mouth piece.

Not the reaction she had been expecting after recounting her showdown with Ethan Prince.

"What's that look?" Jessica asked.

"Oh..." Al shrugged with his eyes. Took shallow breaths, taking his words in small doses. "I was going to... deliver this speech... about what journalism used to be like... used to mean... what a joke I've become..."

"Sir, I don't think –"

"But I've got something better..." He lifted a few fingers and wrapped them around Jessica's hand. "You saved my life, Jessica."

"That college recommendation ain't going to write itself, sir."

"Oh, you... you can joke all you want... but thems the facts... the only reason I'm alive is because of you... you're one of the best people... I've ever had the honor to work with."

Jessica glanced up at the local news on the television. "I'm not much of a best person, sir."

"Stop."

"This whole summer, it's just been... one step forward, two steps back. There's days, these days... I swear I can feel myself slipping away from my own body. You know?"

"A teenager with an identity crisis... Stop the presses."

Jessica smiled.

"You're going to be fine," he said.

"You can't deliver on a promise like that."

"I'll show you what I can... Deliver." He moved his eyes towards the coat rack. "Get me my phone, would you...? Front pocket... got to turn it on."

Jessica did as she was told, a little worried about possible effects this might have on the equipment.

"Dial star-four."

"What's that?"

"Ethan's office."

"Yeah, you might want to try calling your own."

"That shifty bastard..." Al wheezed shallowly. "Dial star-seven."

Jessica punched it in.

"Let's get this on speaker, shall we?"

Jessica held the phone to the air holes in Al's mask. When Ethan finally picked up, voice at an obnoxiously professional register.

"Ethan..." Al put on a few pounds of authority himself, voice deep and foreboding. "This is Al Holder."

"Al?" Ethan's voice went up an octave. "What's going on? Where are you calling from?"

"Take a wild fucking guess."

A few seconds of silence passed before Ethan responded. "Is she there?"

"Yeah, she is... And you are officially suspended for two weeks."

"Wait, Al –"

"Nobody talks to my staff that way," Al growled, steamrolling right over him. "You get tomorrow's edition wrapped up. Then go home. And you _stay_ there."

"I will call Williamson, Al..." Ethan was trying to play the threat card himself, fighting back through clenched teeth. "I' am _not_ kidding, I will call the _president_ –"

"What a coincidence... I'm just about to call him myself."

"Are you listening, Jessica?" Ethan yelled, white-hot fury distorting the transmission. "I hope you are, because I am _done_ playing around! I will get you for this, I will fucking _destroy_ you, you _bitch_!"

Al tapped Jessica with his thumb. "You can hang up now."

Jessica was happy to comply.

They repeated the process once more, only this time there was no doubt Ethan wouldn't be calling the shots for a very long time. Al's talk with the Observer's president was brief. Calling from the hospital was an inadvertent stroke of genius, underscoring just how important Al regarded his decision.

When it was over, he nodded weakly. "There you go."

"Thanks Al."

"Williamson's going to be... covering things for a bit... Finish up your editorial... have it for him day after tomorrow."

"Thanks again..." Jessica grabbed his hand. "You want me to stay a while?"

Al shook his head. "They're going to... prep me in... a few hours."

"Is the procedure complicated?"

"Not like it's brain surgery or anything."

Jessica smiled weakly. "I'll be waiting when you come out the other side."

Al's eyes fluttered. Spiraling towards sleep before catching a sudden updraft. "Hey."

"Go ahead."

"Good call on that... card game... they know who Charlie Savage's killer is."

Jessica came close to uttering Malik's name. "Who?"

"Some punk... Small fish... Still looking for him... Got his gun matched with ballistics."

She sighed, relieved as she dared to be. "Just another Angry Jonny wannabe."

"Maybe... maybe not."

"What do you mean?"

"There was some blood... blood on the butt of the gun... they checked it out... Not Casey's."

Jessica felt one of Al's knuckles crack as she clenched her hand.

Al didn't notice, eyes closing once more. "Test matches... the DNA... unknown DNA they found... they found on the third... on the third... Angry Jonny victim... Dr. Lazenby."

With that final herculean effort, Al slipped away.

Jessica let go of his hand.

She bent over. Put her lips next to his ear, because she had to tell someone, if only whispered in a dream. "That DNA belongs to Eli Messner. Eli Messner with a question mark..."

She kissed his forehead and whispered one last time:

Thank you.

# **Chapter 59:** **I'm Your Boogie Man.**

Jessica set up shop at the corner table.

She leafed through Eli's file, periodically scanning the pool hall for all the usual suspects. And then some. No signs of Chaucer, Eli, or Malik; didn't mean she wasn't being watched. She took a sip of orange soda, playing make-believe as she fought the urge to leap behind the bar and take down an entire six-pack.

Contented herself with the amusing image, and hit reset.

Eli's folder was anemic as the man's body. Just a handful of documents, some Xeroxed yearbook pictures. Only scant notes from Mr. Chaucer Braswell; it appeared Easy Rawlins wasn't all that without Jessica Kincaid doing his homework for him.

Most of the information panned out. Went to Wilson Middle School in Tampa, Florida. Made it to seventh grade, after which he was homeschooled by his mother and father. Trevor and Sally Messner, both of whom died in a car accident, just as Eli had told her. After that, the trail went cold.

Stood to reason. Eli had spent the rest of his life with no paper trail. Earning his keep in the underground card rooms. Crashing with friends, no lease. No bank accounts, no credit cards. Most recently there had been the renewal of his driver's license in June of 2008.

No living relatives.

How could Chaucer have simply missed the grandparents in Brooklyn?

Eli had ditched them at nineteen; could be they had since died.

The alternative explanation was almost too colossal for Jessica to comprehend.

From across the smoky room someone called out: "Hey, Casper! Is the jukebox broken?"

"Nah, son!" Casper yelled back with his traditional reply. "Just needs some money!"

One minute later, KC and the Sunshine Band were singing _I'm Your Boogie Man_.

Jessica flipped back to Chaucer's one and only page of notes.

Slid her finger down past the bulk, and found an isolated clue in the bottom right corner.

Written out in uppercase block letters was a word Jessica was confident the Oxford English Dictionary did not list: SLEHLAIDDMCMLMS!

Next to that, scrawled out in Chaucer's typical chicken scratch, was a two-word question: _driver's license?_

Jessica backtracked, searching the yearbook pages for clubs and activities; a section familiar to those who knew it was never too early to start padding out a college résumé. Near the top of the page, she found a group picture labeled _Defending Life_. There was Eli – or a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed facsimile – surrounded by similarly earnest teens. Each of them wearing shirts with the letters HLA printed across them. The faded copy made it hard to say for certain, but the stripes stretched across their shirts hinted at the red, white and blue.

Jessica was familiar with the HLA acronym.

_Human Life Amendment_ ; a broad category for any proposed constitutional amendment that would effectively outlaw abortion. The only law that had ever come close to passing was the Hatch-Eagleton amendment in1983, which had come up short eighteen votes for passage.

What she had failed to notice the first time around was the club at the bottom of the page.

There was Eli again. Standing in line with four other kids. Broad grins forming a bright, fluoride chain. The rest of them were all sporting white shirts with differing letters printed in bold capitals.

CML, IDDM, SLE, MS.

And smack in the middle was Eli, sporting the same Human Life Amendment shirt.

Underneath the club was what might be charitably called their name:

SLEHLAIDDMCMLMS!

Jumble to jumble. The name of their club was clearly an amalgamation of their t-shirts, including HLA.

"Still, what the _hell_?" Jessica asked.

She zeroed in on CML. Along with Eli and his star-spangled shirt, this kid also stood out from the rest. Shirt hanging from his skeletal frame. Head balder than a baby's. Happy-go-lucky smile contrasting sharply with worn eyes, dark circles that bore a striking resemblance to someone Jessica had recently met.

A cancer stricken woman by the name of Anita Montero.

Jessica stuffed the file back into Dinah's bag, yearbook page clenched in her fist. Stood up a little too fast. Bumping the table with enough force to send her soda rolling down the table. She was already at the bar by the time it shattered on the floor.

Casper gave her the eye. "That's it. You're officially cut off, gosh-dammit."

"I'm not giving you my keys..." Jessica perched herself on a barstool and leaned over. "This might sound strange, but... is there a doctor in the house?"

"You OK?"

"Sudden attack of curious."

Casper nodded. Hands cupped around his mouth, he called out across the bar: "Keisha, get over here!"

From over near the jukebox, a six-foot knockout cat walked across the room. Dark skin glowing, frizzy hair pulled back. Limber legs, arms swaying gracefully; a magnet for the eyes of men and more than a few women.

Even Jessica had to grip the counter to keep from falling into her enormous, mahogany eyes.

"You rang?" she asked.

Casper nodded. "This here is Jessica Kincaid, and she's got a bad case of the snoops."

"Hey there, little sister..." Keisha smiled warmly, holding out her hand. "Keisha Jennings."

They met with a firm shake. "Jessica Kincaid."

"KJ and JK. How about that?"

"Not a bad Hold 'Em hand, either way."

Keisha laughed. "OK. You got a sense of humor. And a question, I gather?"

"You a doctor?"

"Gonna be, baby."

"So if I can just quiz you then..." Jessica swallowed her girl-crush and unfolded the page from Eli's yearbook. "What does the abbreviation CML mean to you?"

"Not much for small talk, are you?"

"Word is, I got a case of the snoops."

"CML is short for Chronic Myelogenous Leukemia. It's a chronic form of myeloid or nonlymphocytic leukemia..." She threw her hands up in the air. "What's up!?"

Casper slapped her a high five.

Jessica tried to smile. Didn't like where this was going. "How about IDDM?"

"Diabetes Mellitus, type one. Otherwise known as type-one diabetes. AKA juvenile diabetes."

"SLE?"

"Systemic Lupus Erythematosus. Or just plain Lupus. Miss Jackson, if you're nasty."

"Speaking of things I get..." Jessica went down the list. "I'm guessing MS is short for Multiple Sclerosis."

"Aw..." Keisha stroked Jessica's cheek. "You watch TV. How cute."

"No, but I play one in real life. What have you got for HLA?"

"Human Leukocyte Antigen..." Keisha grinned, waving her finger in Jessica's face. "Nice try with the trick question."

"Now talk to me as though I were your goldfish."

"HLA's not a chronic disease. It does, however cause a cell-mediated immune response against the body's own liver, resulting in autoimmune hepatitis."

Jessica could only imagine how pleased the young Eli Messner must have been to find his condition and political statement were a perfect match.

Perfect for his tiny, Junior High club of chronically ill children.

"So it all comes back to the liver?" Jessica asked.

"Not a very happy liver. With proper treatment – glucocoticoids, maybe combined with azathiorpine - autoimmune hepatitis can go into remission. Though relapses abound. You could go with other immuno-suppressives like cyclosporine, methotrexate..."

Jessica couldn't decide whether to catch Keisha's infectious smile or simply shut down, right there. "So how wise would it be for someone with autoimmune hepatitis to regularly consume alcohol?"

"How regularly we talking, little sister?"

"Regular enough to qualify as a serious irregularity."

"Barring a liver transplant, anybody who drinks that much juice ain't going to last long on this planet."

She wasn't sure if Keisha caught the artificial undertones in Jessica's laughter.

Casper seemed to be enjoying himself just fine.

All the while, the question mark on Braswell's file continued to grow.

Finally eclipsing the good name of Eli Messner.

Staunch pro-lifer, unfortunate victim of autoimmune hepatitis.

And certainly not the man who would be waiting for her when she arrived home.

The jukebox kept right on playing, everyone in the joint jamming to their own personal boogie man.

# **Chapter 60:** **That Kind of Poker.**

While Dinah lay unconscious on the couch, snoring through that evening's binge, Jessica thought she would ask for a little lesson on the great American game.

Eli sat across from her, his half of the table stacked high with plastic poker chips.

Accompanied by a bottle of scotch and a habit that wouldn't quit.

Jessica's stack was all tied up in the middle. Carefully matching her pair of cards with the five turned face-up along the middle. Waiting for Eli to make his move.

Marlboro clamped between his teeth, Eli weighed his options.

Possibly trying to make Jessica sweat a little more.

He was wasting his time.

A dark serenity had come over Jessica since returning from the pool hall. The murky peace that came with knowing the end was near. In a summer of schizophrenic emotions, she knew this strange enlightenment would soon abandon her as well. In the meantime, there was an undeniable power that came with it.

Eli played his cards close, wrapped in his own illusions. And all the while, Jessica sat with a pleased smile. Listening to Etta James on the radio, coasting on a cloud of absolute clarity. Maybe not absolute. There was still no telling who the man across from her really was. But he had no idea she was even wondering. Every hit of scotch another nail in his coffin.

It was as close to real power as Jessica had ever felt.

"Yeah, sorry..." Eli snubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. He counted a stack and placed them in the pot. "Going to have to call that."

Jessica sighed. "Pair of tens."

"Fours over," Eli declared, flipping his own hole cards.

He began to reach for his winnings, ready to declare game over.

Jessica reached down, and took hold of her shirt. Pulled it up, right over her head, revealing the black lace of her best bra. A push-up she seldom wore, whose time had come to shine.

Stopped Eli cold.

Jessica reached over and scooped the chips back to her own side.

"OK..." Eli poured himself another drink. Another nail. Popped another cigarette in his mouth. "Didn't know it was going to be _that_ kind of poker."

Before Eli could cast a guilty glance over his shoulder, Jessica reassured him, "Don't worry. She's out like a light. And after all, it is just a game."

Eli was suddenly very concerned with shuffling the deck.

They had come this way once before. Had they made it just a little further, shed a little more clothes, Jessica wouldn't be playing this little game. Wouldn't be looking for one last scrap of evidence to bury the once and never Eli Messner.

A fresh hand was dealt.

Jessica checked her cards, hardly caring what they were.

Eli nodded towards her. "Bet's to Venus De Milo over there."

Jessica picked up a random assortment of chips. Counted them out to keep up appearances. "Bet fifty-two."

"Fifty-two," Eli mused. "That's an odd number."

"Even number, actually..." Jessica glanced out the window. No sign of Anita Montero's Pontiac. Strange, vengeful hopes that Chaucer was out there in the dark. Watching her. Having to just deal with it. "Eli, what's the worst thing you've ever done in your life?"

Eli called the bet and laid down three cards, face up. "If you're something along the lines of, _I gouged out a man's eyes and cut his tongue_ –"

"I once beat the shit out of some chick just for paying me a compliment," Jessica said.

Eli glanced up from the game.

"True story..." Jessica had a sip of tea. Warm, therapeutic taste clashing with her casual confession. "Shortly after my mom disappeared. So shortly, I hadn't even noticed she was missing yet. I used to get _that_ fucked up. I was out on the street, hanging with some guys I knew. Sitting on the stoop. Some white girl just walked on by, and you know what she had the balls to say to me?"

Eli's only reply was a drag of his cigarette.

""Looked me in the eye and straight told me... _nice hai_ r." Jessica smiled, almost drunk off the memories. "And the real tragedy is, this girl meant it. But that's not what I heard. I was too caught up in my own intoxicated identity crisis. I wanted kink, I wanted what I was supposed to have. Either that or straight and blond. Something categorical. Not the weird-ass hybrid I got stuck with, y'know?"

"Yeah."

"So I jumped her. Went to town on her. Could have gone way worse if my boys hadn't pulled me off. All the chick did was pay me a compliment. And I sent her to the hospital. All because I didn't know who I was."

Eli called the bet, flipped over another card. "Do you know who you are now?"

"Do you, Mr. Eli Messner?"

Jessica threw in another fifty-two, doubled the pot.

Eli sipped his scotch. "I used to have a friend named Seymour. This was back in grade school."

"We talking Tampa?"

"Yeah..." Eli exhaled a cloud of exhaust gray. "So there was something wrong with Seymour. Kind of slow, sounded like every asshole's impression of a retarded kid. Whatever, guess I'll never know what was up with him. Anyway, one morning, I woke up and I just came to the realization. Clear as crystal: hanging with Seymour was just plain not cool. So I ditched the chump."

He called Jessica's bet and laid down the final card.

"That's the worst thing you've ever done?" she asked.

"A few days later, I was sitting with a bunch of kids in the cafeteria. Poor Seymour was so dumb, he didn't even realize I'd given him the brush off. Sat down next to me with his orange tray. And as though we'd all planned it, every one of us got up at once. In unison, I mean it was amazing. And we settled at another table..." Eli pounded his drink, poured himself another. "I remember looking back and seeing Seymour's dumb, inarticulate little face. Too stupid to figure out what had just happened, but... still too smart to follow me and my new group of friends..."

"That's a bad one, Eli."

"Don't need to tell me twice."

Jessica shoved all her chips in the middle. "All in."

"I call."

"Pair of twos."

"Pair of kings."

"Long as we're being honest..." Jessica reached back and unhooked her bra. Casually hung it over her chair and leaned back, everything laid bare. Daring Eli not to notice. "I believe this earns me back those chips."

"Yeah..." Eli had another hit of scotch. "I guess it does."

Jessica corralled the chips back into her corner. "You feel like offering up some collateral?"

"Huh?"

Jessica gave him a lazy smile. "Take your shirt off, and we'll keep playing."

Eli looked stricken.

Not conflicted enough, though.

He peeled off his shirt. Bundled it in his lap, sunken chest like a sand trap.

Jessica gave him the once over.

No sign of any scars on his flat, pale belly.

Nothing to suggest the transplant so desperately needed to allow for allow for his habit.

"You're right." Jessica reached to the floor and picked up her shirt. "We should probably call it a night."

Eli agreed, hastily clothing himself. "There's not a whole lot I've got left to teach, anyway."

"No kidding." Jessica covered up. Stood up and collected her bra. "I'm going to bed."

"I'm going to finish up this bottle. Curl up with Dinah, maybe watch a movie... See you tomorrow?"

"Maybe... got an early shift."

Jessica wasn't due at the Prescott till five in the afternoon.

Didn't mean it wasn't going to be an early day.

She wandered into the kitchen. Opened up a drawer and extracted a brown, paper lunch bag. She tiptoed into the hallway, listened for the television.

There it was.

Jessica stole into Dinah's room.

Found Eli's jacket draped over the chair. Picked it up and shook it over the bed.

A pair of light-blue poker chips fell onto the bedspread.

Clutching the paper bag, she scooped them up. Turned the whole thing inside out, effectively trapping her clay prisoners and any fingerprints that came with them.

She gently closed the door to her room.

Slid the paper bag under the futon.

Reached under the pillow for her red notebook.

Wrote in its pages until her eyes could no longer stand her own thoughts.

Fell asleep, never doubting she would wake up long before Eli Messner.

Mr. Question Mark.

# **Chapter 61:** **All the News That's Fit For Prints.**

Jessica was done fucking around.

Seven-thirty in the morning, and she did not wake up so much as succumb to a bout of consciousness. Forgoing coffee and a shower, she hastily dressed for success. No jeans or tank tops for this girl, not today. She scooped up the lunch bag containing Eli's poker chips and shouldered Dinah's loaner. Slipped out the door, still stuck for a plan to get her own bag back.

She walked to Tenth Street. Cool breeze helping her on her way to The Coffee Mill. Bought a cup of Ethiopian and sat down at a round, pedestal table. With an hour or so to kill, Jessica tended to her red notebook. Hunched close, hair continuously winding its way around her pen.

At eight-thirty, she cruised to the bathroom. Washed her face and applied some makeup. Took one last look in the mirror to straighten her clothes. She threw her shoulders back with professional flare.

"Let's do this."

It was twenty minutes to the station.

She expertly wove her way through security without so much as a peep from the guards or metal detectors.

What I did on my summer vacation.

Jessica didn't recognize the woman at the front desk, though she seemed to know who Jessica was. Her thin, plucked eyebrows furrowed. Cautious tone in an otherwise casual conversation. "What can I do for you, miss?"

"I need to speak with either Captain Donahue or Sargent Detective Randal. It's important."

The officer nodded and quickly dialed the extension.

Jessica had been prepared for the usual firewall that came with an unannounced visit. Evidently, clothes made the woman as well as the man.

The officer hung up and rounded the desk, leaving her partner in charge. "I'm officer O'Brien. Please follow me, miss."

They took the elevator three flights up and stepped out to a hive of desks and cubicles.

Jessica was reminded of her first day at the Observer. The rushed, roaring chaos that television had conditioned her to expect was replaced by a bustling, yet mostly underwhelming office environment. She was also unprepared for the amount of attention she received. Casual glances of a dozen cops adding up to a collective stare.

O'Brien led them to Donahue's slice of the pie, a cubical twice the size as any of the others.Donahue looked up from his work.

Jessica took a few bold steps forward. "Detective Donahue –"

"Before you say anything..." He held his hands up in a peaceful gesture, eyes so penitent, they bordered on a plea for mercy... "I want to make something clear. Neither Detective Randal nor myself had anything to do with this. All pertinent information came from your newspaper. I know we've had our differences, but you have to believe me when I say that your safety has always been our top priority –"

"Detective?"

"Yes, Jessica?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

The question knocked Donahue off his stride. He groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You haven't read the paper today, have you?"

"No... Why, what's in the paper?"

Donahue motioned for her to sit, all set with exhibit A.

Jessica took the front page from his hands and let the bold print slug her in the stomach.

Newly Revealed Letter Links Observer Intern to Angry Jonny.

Beneath the banner, smaller captions spelled out the head: Managing Editor, Al Holder, Colluded With Investigators.

Printed in the middle of the page, as though lifted straight from Malik's hard drive, was the original letter... _This story belongs to Jessica. Let her back in, Mr. Holder. Or innocent people will die_.

Signed by that summer's local hero, Angry Jonny.

The article itself was proudly penned by none other than Ethan Prince, acting editor-in-chief.

"I don't know how Prince got a hold of it..." Donahue dragged a second chair over and sat alongside Jessica. "Maybe he knew all along. He called last night, looking for a quote. I tried your cell, but got nothing."

"My phone was off."

"I know. Half that article is about you and Dinah. All the connections..."

" _A waitress at the luxurious Prescott Dining Room_ ," Jessica read, trying to maintain. "He wrote where I _work_?"

"Yeah, Al Holder doesn't come off much better. Second half is all about him, Davenport's charges of plagiarism, journalistic integrity..."

"Journalistic integrity. Really."

"I'm sorry about this, Jessica."

"Yeah..." she continued to gaze at the article, words jumbled in a dyslexic mess. "Where's Angry Jonny when you need him?"

"Hey..." Donahue leaned over, staring hard. "Don't say that kind of shit around me, all right? I'm still a cop, none of that's changed."

"A few things have, Detective."

"Want to tell me about it?"

"I'm going to need my personal space back for a second."

Without further prompting, Donahue returned to his desk. "This better?"

Jessica nodded. "I've come with a peace offering, Detective."

"Go on."

"Well, not so fast..." Jessica centered herself, looking to reclaim the confidence she had walked in with. "I'm going to need a few things in return."

"You're not really giving me a lot to work with."

"I know the department's been in a turf war with FBI all summer. I imagine anything linking Jason Castle to the other attacks would only make things worse for you."

"Do you have evidence connecting the first three attacks?"

"Won't know until someone takes a look at what I got. Question is whether that someone is going to be your men or the G-men."

"Go on."

"I'm willing to accept your obsession with my aunt, and help you in any capacity I can... If you're willing to do the same. That is, if you are willing to accept that there might be more to this whole nightmare than Dinah and Davenport."

"I'm not dropping the investigation."

"Then don't. All I'm asking is for you to stop with this tunnel vision nonsense. Take what I have to offer and consider other avenues of thought."

Donahue didn't look to be leaning one way or the other. "I imagine you also want more access."

"Not like I'm gonna go to the press."

"Bear in mind... there are things we simply will not tell you. Nature of the beast, Jessica."

"And I don't plan on giving it all away on the first date. Those are the rules of my own little beast."

"Seems like we've got the rough outline of an understanding."

"Good..." Jessica unzipped Dinah's book bag and placed the brown sack on Donahue's desk. "Open up. Look, but don't touch."

"If this is a human finger..." Donahue unrolled the top, peered in. "Looks like a pair of poker chips."

"Correct."

"Where'd you get them?"

"Boosted them from a young man named Eli Messner," Jessica informed him, now well past the point of no return. "You won't need to cross for my prints."

"Who cares about Eli Messner?"

"You do. And if you can lift any DNA, the world's going to look a whole lot different afterwards."

Donahue was either unimpressed, or feigning disappointment. "That's it? Pair of poker chips?"

"There's more..." Jessica stood up. She shouldered the book bag. Felt Eli's file shifting around inside. "And you'll get it once I'm convinced you're taking this seriously."

"Fingerprints and DNA?"

"Building blocks of life."

"We're going to need a signed affidavit that you have given us this evidence of your own free will."

"Lovely."

"Also get a visual recording of you saying as much."

"Lead the way."

Donahue pointed past Jessica.

She turned, jumped a little when she found Detective Randal posted at the entrance. Arm propped on the divider. "Well... I'm guessing you've been there long enough to save us from having a conversation."

"Let's go get you on camera," he said, motioning for Jessica to follow.

The curious eyes of the department escorted them back to the elevators.

Celebrity status achieved.

Oscar speech on hold till she could find a more appropriate way of thanking Ethan Prince.

# **Chapter 62:** **Contract with the Devil.**

It had been a while since the press had settled outside Camelot Apartments. Not so long that Jessica didn't recognize their vans from a block away. Cameras at the ready, hopes of a personal ambush.

Jessica cut across the backyard of a two-story tenement, angling for one of the back streets. Darting across the broken pavement, she hopped over the cement wall and crossed the dusty parking lot. A miniature bulldozer, no less noisy than its larger cousins, roared across the courtyard. Most of the grass had been torn away. An enormous rectangle of overturned dirt outlined the future swimming pool.

Rounding the dumpsters, she noticed Eli's car was gone.

Jessica slipped into the back stairway. The blast of the stereo tumbled down all three flights. She entered the kitchen to stovetop burners pulsing like charred, spiral speakers.

Dinah was in the living room, sashaying around with a bottle of beer, muddling her way through rap lyrics. She spun in the air, pointed happily at her niece: "Hey, girl!"

"Where's Eli?" Jessica called out.

"Who?"

"Eli!"

"Took off! Didn't say where he was going!" Dinah shambled over to Jessica, face alight. "You and I, on the other hand; we're moving out of this dump!"

Jessica stalked to the stereo, cut the volume in half. "What are you talking about?"

" _I_ went down to pay our den mother a little visit," Dinah boasted, still bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Ripped into her. Told her where her and Daedalus could shove their central air, and their goddamn lifestyle center. As of now, we are _officially_ done with our lease!"

"Dinah, slow down."

"Yeah, it wasn't even a big deal. I signed our notice to vacate, dated it –"

" _What_ did you sign?"

It finally occurred to Dinah that she was the only one celebrating. Stopped dancing, confused. "A notice to vacate. Notice of something, just standard –"

"Shit!" Jessica kicked the stereo, shutting it off. Kicked one of the speakers over for good measure. The gin, Jack, and mini Absolute bottles jumped along with Dinah. "Shit, Dinah! What did you _do?_ "

Dinah was stuck with her mouth open. Blond curls drooping.

"Never mind," Jessica said, yanking at the front door. "I'm going down there."

"I'll go with you –"

"No!" Jessica barked. "You just stay right where you are. You stay. Stay. Drink some goddamn coffee or something, get yourself together."

"I can't," Dinah whimpered.

"What?"

"They shut off the water again."

Jessica rolled her eyes, slamming the door as she left.

# ***

From the moment Jessica saw Katherine's peppy smile, she knew it was over. She had known as much the instant she kicked the stereo into the wall. But someone had to answer for Dinah's mistakes. And as long as Dinah was broke and out of work, that someone would have to be Katherine.

"Jessica, hi!" Her greeting put them both on the same page. "I assume you're here to get a copy of your notice to evict?"

"Let's have it."

"Here you go."

Jessica had figured their form would differ from the previous management's. She scanned the agreement, never thinking she would have to stop and read the second paragraph three times over. Four times, then a fifth before she finally threw it across the desk.

"You can't possibly expect us to pay that," Jessica said. "In fact, I don't care what you expect. We won't."

Katherine watched the form swing in the air like hammock, all the way to the floor. "You know, if someone else leases your unit after you two leave, then you won't be looking at too many rent checks."

"And if they _don't_?" Jessica was narrating the worst-case scenario as it played out in her head. "You've got demolition teams moving into our building at the end of October. And how long is that construction going to last?"

"We're working as fast as we can to better –"

"Jesus Christ, you really are a cyborg."

"Your aunt's signature is her agreement to pay rent on unit K3A until someone else occupies the space, or until your lease is up."

"Our lease is up at the end of next May! That's nine months at six-hundred, fifty for an apartment we're not even using."

"Well, like the previous management, we do have a payment plan –"

"Fuck your payment plan. I won't do it."

Without so much as a frown, Katherine folded her hands on the desk. "Then we'll take you to court."

"Not if I don't take you there first."

"On what grounds? It's Dinah's name on the lease. You were a minor at the time the renewal was signed. Your name is nowhere, we are not legally bound to you in anyway."

"You really want that kind of publicity?" Jessica laughed, crossing her arms. "Daedalus just rides into town, takes over our building. Cuts a backroom deal with Pantheon to get us undesirables out, so you can jack up the prices for a bunch of spoiled college kids from Jersey and upstate New York. You don't answer our pages, you've got construction waking us every morning –"

"We were ready and willing to relocate anyone while construction was taking place –"

"This is our _home._ "

"And this is my job." Having won the battle, Katherine finally dropped the smile. "Dinah signed the form."

"She was drunk."

"Well, I'm no lawyer, so I don't know how _that's_ going to look in court... never mind that she's the main suspect in a series of brutal attacks. Never mind that her niece, Jessica Kincaid, has recently been implicated in a recent newspaper article as... I think the term is, _person of high interest_."

Jessica was seconds away from lunging across the desk and strangling her.

Katherine cut her off with a simple fact. "No, there's nothing you can do about it..." She broke eye contact, rolled back to the filing cabinet. "Come see me about that payment plan when you're ready."

Jessica had exhausted her ammunition. So thoroughly crushed, she even stooped down to pick up her copy of form. Bowing before her masters, then ducking out of the room with a serious problem awaiting her come September.

# ***

Dinah was hunched over the table, crying into the ashtray as smoke spiraled upwards from her cigarette.

Jessica sat across from her. Legs kicked up. Sipping on tonic water, listening to her aunt's sobs paint the walls. August had the summer heat at its meanest. Blind's drawn to keep the press and unsightly construction out, light diffusing throughout the room in a sunflower supernova.

"I'm sorry." Dinah's voice wet from crying. "I messed everything up."

"It's alright, Blondie. Have yourself a cry."

"I was just trying to do something. Anything."

"I know. It's alright." Jessica figured even the most outrageous lie at this point was better than torturing her with the awful truth. "We're going to be fine."

With the stereo broken, it was up to the neighborhood to make music.

Dogs barking, children digging their last few weeks of freedom.

Ice cream truck coming up the way, making it all the more sweet.

Dinah continued to cry, and Jessica had no choice but to keep listening.

# **Chapter 63:** **Take the Long Way Home.**

A little more faith in humanity might have convinced Jessica that the decision to fire her had been reached after her shift. But even with that extra bit of faith, it was still a tall order. The Prescott had been booked for a private wedding anniversary. All hands on deck. Putting herself in Nora's shoes, Jessica might have done the same. Let the young, desperate girl work through the banquet. Take orders, clear dishes. Help pour the champagne.

Wait for the dust to settle.

Wait for the husband and his buddies to run out onto the golf course and wrestle each other. Wait for the wives to finish glaring passively at younger, emphatically more available women. Wait for the singles to start pairing off, settling on their sleeping arrangements for the evening.

If Jessica had been Nora, that's when she would have taken herself aside.

And that was exactly when Nora led her into the office to discuss the conditions of her termination. A basic cable rerun of their previous conversations. But on this third time around, Jessica didn't lash out. Didn't give them any attitude. She nodded contritely, asked a few polite questions. Finally accepted her two weeks' notice without much to add.

"One last thing..." Jessica said as opened the office door, ready to head home. "Supposing everything about Dinah and me turns out to be wrong... can we have our jobs back?"

"Of course," Nora replied.

"Immediately," Evan agreed. "You just come right back, and I will personally –"

"Well, I will be back tomorrow, anyway." Jessica interrupted. "I still got two weeks here, right?"

"Of course."

Jessica wandered through the kitchen, ignoring the upbeat banter of another evening in the trenches. Bitterly amused with Nora and Evan's reaction to her complacency. Fleeting glimmers of confusion slipping out from behind their masks of feigned concern.

Maybe they had been hoping for more of a showdown. Some catastrophic catfight that would have left them with no choice but to fire her right on the spot. A little more faith in humanity might have convinced Jessica that they were simply worried about her.

On the other hand, with a little less drama in her life, Jessica might have found the strength to fight a little harder.

# ***

Jessica took her familiar jaunt across campus.

She rounded the parking deck near the Center for Human Genetics, walked up the shrouded path leading to the back of Pantheon Chapel. A thin layer of fog hung in the air, gumming up her footsteps. Echoes muffled by damp insulation.

She stopped, let her intuition momentarily take the stand.

Glanced over her shoulder.

Nothing more than orange ghosts floating just beyond the pine trees; streetlights and lethargic needles. The chapel's towering spire kept watch from above.

Jessica kept walking. The path curved upwards, towards an outdoor passageway linking the south side of the chapel to another set of buildings. Beyond those masonry stone arches, a set of steps led down to the central lawn, stretching out over several hundred yards.

A vast, wide-open perimeter, surrounded by sentinel lampposts.

That was where Jessica wanted to be.

Casting one last glance behind her, she doubled her pace.

Made it to the passageway, ready to step through the second set of arches and out into safety.

A wiry tentacle wrapped around her, pinning her arms to her waist. Screams trapped in her throat by a grainy palm locking over her mouth. She was dragged along the passage, towards a dark alcove. Shoved against a heavy timber door, one of the many gothic knockoffs leading into the chapel.

Jessica was pinned down, iron hinges digging into her back.

"Don't scream, Jessica."

It was that familiar voice that brought the struggle to an end.

Her eyes crossed, corrected themselves into sharp focus.

Nose to nose with the man who would be Eli Messner.

"Don't scream," he ordered. "For just two minutes, can you not scream?"

Jessica nodded tasting the dusty grit on his fingers.

He removed his hand. Left arm still wound behind her back, steel fingers latching onto her wrists.

"If you're looking for your poker chips, tough shit," Jessica panted. "I guess you know where they are well as I do."

"Damn it, Jessica..." Eli looked as though he were about to cry. "Why would you _do_ something like this?"

"That's the dumbest question anybody has ever asked me."

She brought her knee up, hard.

Eli had been expecting it, left leg angled over his right.

Another brief struggle ensued, but it was little more than a show.

Jessica could have let out with a good shriek at any point.

Instead, she settled down. Played good girl for the moment.

Another truce. Only this one didn't come with much of a shelf life, and Eli knew it. "OK listen."

"Are you following me? How long have you been –"

"I parked at the Prescott and followed you here, would you just _listen_?" Eli took a few measured breaths and plunged in. "I came to Verona to destroy Jason Castle."

"Yeah?" Jessica was still straining to catch a glimpse of anyone that might be wandering near the arches. "Well, mission accomplished, Eli."

"No, that's just _it_ ," Eli hissed. "All right, so yes: I was there the night Jason Castle was attacked. Yes, I'd been staking out his home for a good couple of weeks before that night at Spiro's. But _I didn't do it_."

"Then who did?"

" _I don't know_. I followed Castle to the restaurant. Bumped into him on the way to his table, lifted his keys. Paid some kid to make a copy of them while the old man was eating. I stepped out to grab a smoke, got the copies. Somewhere between Castle's fit about the wine and his problems with the goddamn food, he went to the bathroom. I joined him, pretended to find his keys by the sink. Gave them back."

"Brilliant. Also, who cares?"

"I saw Angry Jonny." Eli's frightened eyes flashed right back to the beginning. "I wasn't planning to do anything that night. I just wanted to walk around his house. To feel it. Knowing that I could do anything I wanted to him. I came in through the garage entrance. Up from the woods. I was in a room near the kitchen when I heard the back door open. I'd left it unlocked. I panicked. I hid behind the door to the room I was in and..."

"What did you see?"

"It was too dark. I was looking through a crack in the door. All I saw was a shadow crossing the living room. Soon as he was gone, I ran out the door."

"Bullshit." Jessica laughed right in his face. "And you just stuck around Verona for your health, I suppose."

"You don't understand. For over fifteen years, I've been stuck grinding it out at card tables. I can't get a real job, I can't get health care. I can't even vote. Taking Jason Castle down was my _life_... When Angry Jonny took that away from me, there's not much place else I had left to go." Eli closed his eyes, face swathed in shadow. "I wandered around this godforsaken city like a ghost. I didn't know what I was going to do. Had no idea what the rest of my life was supposed to look like... and then there was you. You and Dinah –"

"Don't even –"

"It's the _truth_. I thought maybe I could have a real life here." Eli's fingers tightened around her wrists. "And every time Angry Jonny resurfaced, I told myself I should run. I had the money, a brand-new identity. But after all those years focusing on how much I wanted to hurt someone else, I thought... I met you, Jessica, and I thought maybe there was more to life than just... Anger."

Jessica didn't know which she hated more; Eli's attempts to draw her into his pathetic narrative, or the suggestion that there was anything in this world other than rage.

And he didn't even have the common courtesy to tell her his real name.

She lunged forward, butting her forehead against his mouth.

A searing pain sliced across her brow.

Through pink flashes of lights, she was pleased to see things had gone far worse for him. Blood gushing from his lips, Eli stumbled back. She rushed him before he could recover and drove her fist into his gut. Brought him to his knees then down onto the floor. Fetal position, a newborn gasping for air.

She knelt over him. "Who are you really?"

Eli wheezed, eye bulging. "Guess the cops'll figure that out for you real soon."

Jessica spied his car keys, hanging from his pocket like a hermit crab.

She picked them up, jingled them in front of his face. "I'm taking these. Don't try coming around our apartment. Got an undercover cop looking out for me, and if you think things are bad now..."

Jessica sent her shoe into his stomach, a little something to keep him down.

Ran from between the arches and out onto the brightly lit lawn.

Didn't stop until she was halfway home, and even then, she kept her wits about her.

Glancing around every few minutes just in case she had made a major mistake in letting Eli go.

# ***

She returned home to find Dinah passed out on the couch.

Logged onto Facebook to find her friends gone from over a hundred, down ten.

Clicking on the local news to see just how many people had read about Angry Jonny's original letter, she was presented with the perfect end to yet another perfect day.

Al Holder had died in recovery.

Last minutes on earth spent flat on his back.

# **Chapter 64:** **Descent.**

Two days later, Jessica was elbow deep in her red notebook.

Letters skewing to the right as she dug in with her pen.

They buried Al today. Pinecrest Cemetery, just across the road. I wanted to go, wanted it so badly. But the local news is still buzzing. Not the heart attack, so much as me. Jessica Kincaid. Angry Jonny's inexplicable benefactor. Even as half the city wanders the streets, petrified, the rest of them revel in his message.

Malik was still missing in action. Chaucer remained the benevolent caregiver, never once giving away his true motives. Eli's face had been plastered on the front page, courtesy of the VPD. Side by side with the mug shot of one Arnold Brennan, a seventeen-year-old sex offender from Georgia. Put on trial for statutory rape and sodomy in 1994. An election year for the District Attorney, Jason Castle, whose zealous prosecution of Arnold Brennan practically rewrote Georgia's child protection laws.

Arnold Brennan disappeared after several probation violations.

Several years later, he had been presumed dead.

Only to be resurrected in Verona, North Carolina.

Donahue had broken the news to Jessica that morning.

The prints on the poker chips had led them to Eli's true identity. His DNA had matched the skin samples taken from Dr. Lazenby's clothes. Without Eli's profile in the FBI's Combined DNA Index System, their original analysis hadn't raised any red flags.

But that news wouldn't be available to the public.

Jessica added it to the mix, kept right on stirring.

Verona has exploded. Imploded. A powder keg that's finally found a willing spark, or an empty stomach, so starved that it has begun to devour itself. History books are filled with slow, gradual steps towards the present. Looking back, we're all privy to the moments that led us to inevitable outcomes.

Yet all the testimonials bear a strikingly historical resemblance.

One day everything seemed fine. The next day, we all woke up and the world had gone to hell.

Angry Jonny's followers have taken to the streets, homes and public buildings of Verona. A crime wave with no apparent leader, no apparent message. Just the enraged whims of anyone who has ever found themselves at the wrong end of injustice. Gangland hits are now tagged with his name. Jealous lovers, laid off workers, even white collar employees, their life savings mysteriously vanished... We are all candidates. Whether for destruction or as avenging angels, that's what's got everyone watching their backs.

Or searching for someone to blame.

Two high school kids found beaten after school.

The car of a high ranking state official torched.

The Pantheon Bursar's office trashed.

Nobody seems to know who had it coming and who's just been caught in the crossfire.

And it all happened so gradually, not one of us really noticed.

Jessica stared out across the midnight streets, madly searching for the blue Pontiac. Half-drunk from sleep deprivation, unaware that her own journal entries had slowly changed. Morphed. Sentences losing their way as she gave into Verona's collective unconscious. No longer caring who Angry Jonny was, just fantasizing about who would be next if she were that unknown vigilante.

I wander back and forth from a job I won't have for much longer. I read the papers. I see the smirking face of Ethan Prince, Katherine, those privileged, gluttonous customers feeding at the Prescott. I see the deceitful, lying faces of Malik, Chaucer, Eli, all the men who would pretend to be my friends. I think about a father who left too soon to leave any memories, a mother who disappeared, leaving behind nothing but.

I wander, and everywhere I look, I wonder.

With every person who crosses me, I wonder.

What would Angry Jonny do?

She wrote without thinking. Letting the hate take hold. Unaware of what was happening. Never once looking back, never once checking her entries for substance or ineligible ideas.

Motive, means, opportunity. Every time I try and get to the heart of Angry Jonny, figure out his next move... there I am. Taking what I've learned and turning it to my own opportunity for retribution. Split between hunting down my guardian angel and the many different ways I could execute his work.

Jessica contemplated the scars on her knuckles. Amazed that they had yet to heal. A constant reminder of how easy, how gratifying it had felt to split Carlton Walsh's face apart.

Imagine how good it might feel to take out an eye.

Both eyes?

Cut out Katherine's silver tongue.

Ethan's sarcastic and power hungry eyes.

If that way lay madness, then Jessica had been on that path longer than she realized.

A dark, reptilian light glowing at the end of the tunnel.

There's moments I don't even wonder if I'm capable of it... I sit, writing in this journal, my namesake written across the red cover. I sit, looking out over the slow destruction of my home, watch this city unraveling, and all I can ask myself is who's it going to be?

Who is it going to be?

The very next day, Jessica got her answer.

# **Chapter 65:** **Jessica's Lucky Number.**

Friday night, and the Prescott was packed.

Jessica bounced from table to table, a pinball trapped between bumpers. Taking orders, pouring wine, closing out checks two at a time. Tackling her responsibilities with robotic diligence. Smiling purely through the miracle of muscle memory. Eyes dull, senses sharp. Conversation buzzing in her ears like locusts.

It was eight-thirty when Nora swung by the bar. "You waiting on a drink order?"

"Yeah." Jessica scooped some ice into a champagne bucket. "Table ten's doing some bubbly."

"Let me take care of it for you. You got a one-top just sat down at table thirteen."

Jessica straightened her tie and crossed the room, narrowly avoiding a busboy collision.

Arrived at table thirteen, only to find her welcoming overtures placed on hold.

Without the contrived hardhat and spotless, blue-collared fatigues, Jessica almost didn't recognize him. The everyman smile from his web pic replaced with a dour frown. Perfectly manicured hands continuously running through thinning strands of chestnut hair. Pink polo shirt hugging a doughy figure. Gray eyes in a constant state of displeasure as he barked orders into his iPhone, a talk-radio host broadcasting live from the dinner table.

Jerome Keanen, CEO of Daedalus Incorporated.

Mr. Table Thirteen.

The thought brought a wide, wicked grin to Jessica's face.

Jerome glanced up from his conversation. "Yeah, hold on a second." He put his lips back to the phone. "Hold on, Kate, I'm about to have dinner..."

"Good evening, sir," Jessica cooed, hands behind her back. "Welcome to the Prescott, my name –"

"Yeah, I'll have a Knob Creek. Neat."

"Certainly, sir. And if –"

Jerome had already returned to his phone, finger tapping impatiently against the white table cloth.

Floating inches above the carpet, Jessica returned to the bar and punched in his order. Delighted to hear that they were out of Knob Creek. She put in a request from the same distillery and delivered it to table thirteen with a graceful bow.

Jerome picked up the hefty serving and had a sip between words.

His eyes bulged, tearing up instantly. Reached for his water with a strained swallow. "Jesus, what _is_ this?"

"We were out of Knob Creek, sir. I had the bar upgrade your drink to a Booker's, with our compliments."

" _Bookers?_ " Jerome coughed into the phone. "That's a hundred and twenty-five proof!"

"My apologies if it's not to your liking. Booker's comes from the same distillers as Knob Creek –"

"But it's a hundred and twenty-five proof. How can you not _know_ that?"

"Again, my apologies. May I get you another drink?"

"No." Jerome poured some water into his Booker's with a disgusted shake of his head. "Just get me a bottle of the Burges Merlot. And if you're out of that particular one, don't go getting creative, OK?"

"Yes, sir. Burges Merlot."

Jerome went back to yammering, taking another gulp of his drink.

On her way to the bar, Jessica stopped by another table to check on their meal. Not really paying attention to the lukewarm replies through overstuffed cheeks.

No matter.

For the evening of August seventh, the rest of her tables were free to be. Free to bitch, moan, whine, even insult. Free to overindulge, free to under-tip. Free to live in a perfect world where actions had no consequences.

After all, they weren't the ones on trial.

Whether he knew it or not, Jerome Keanen was being tested.

And Jerome Keanen was off to a very bad start.

# ***

To believe the American mythology, summer was a time of transition and personal discovery for teenagers. New experiences, new friends. Extraordinary adventures that changed lives and shaped perspective, gently ushering the young towards autumn and adulthood.

It had been months since Jessica had taken a tumble behind the bleachers of Brookside's commencement ceremony. Dismissed by classmates, threatened by authority figures. Pushed around by superiors, insulted and demeaned by powerful malcontents.

None of that had changed.

But Jessica had.

The night spent waiting on Jason Castle was now a meaningless bookend. She had walked away from that encounter with her mind spinning, soul bruised black and blue.

A meaningless little girl named Jessica Kincaid.

That June bug had long since flown.

And the world had proven itself to be incapable of turning to its better angels.

Jerome Keanen had been rude, dismissive, and arrogant. Unable to deal with the well-intentioned mistake involving his choice of bourbon. Ungrateful for the free drink he had happily inhaled after such bilious reproach. When Jessica arrived with his bottle of Burges Merlot, she took the blame for his disappointment.

"Yeah, I don't know what you think you brought me."

His approval of the second bottle, on the other hand, was clearly no thanks to her. He smacked his lips, nodding. "Yeah, can I order now?"

"We have some specials, if you –"

Jerome had pointed to his phone. "I'm trying to have a conversation. I've already decided."

As the menu had promised, his salad came with red onions. Having failed to read his mind, it was up to Jessica to apologize for his lifelong allergy to raw onions. The porterhouse hadn't quite managed to straddle the fine line between medium and rare.

"How hard is it to just do your job?"

The answer was that it was nowhere near as hard as it had once been.

It was now bordering on magical. Stuck with a second table thirteen, nearly two months since Jerome's predecessor. Yet this man's words passed right through her. His malice unable to take root. It wasn't just Jessica that had grown. The anger within her had swollen into such an unsustainable level that it had simply collapsed on itself. eagerly feeding off Jerome's toxic energy, down to a poisoned singularity from which there was no escape.

Dark enlightenment that filled her with a mindless sense of supremacy.

Deviously assuring her that none of it mattered.

That everything was going to be just fine.

# ***

Jerome Keanen had Jessica charge his meal to room 323.

She was hardly surprised to find him registered under the name John Galt.

As with most cell junkies, Jerome Keanen had inadvertently supplied Jessica – along with any number of neighboring tables – with a wealth of knowledge. Most of it superfluous. All of it loud and overbearing. But within that roaring cyclone, Jessica had isolated several points of valuable information.

She brought him his receipt, pen tucked into the bill holder.

All set to administer the final portion of his test.

"And I hope you'll be coming back to dine with us," Jessica said.

"Yeah, hang on." Jerome drained his Cognac, scribbled the tip and rose unsteadily from the table. "I'm going to need a wakeup call for nine-fifteen tomorrow morning. That's _a.m._ Not the other one, OK?"

It certainly wasn't Jessica's job, but she was more than happy to oblige.

She watched him shuffle from the room.

Opened the bill holder with a curious smile. "Let's see how our bright little man did on the math section."

She took a look at the tip, and made some calculations of her own.

Nodded, and tucked it into her apron.

Somewhere between six and seven percent.

Six-point-five from a man who bought and sold buildings like hotels on Boardwalk. A man who altered lives of distant strangers on the turn of a healthy profit. A man who not only made it his business to take, but wasn't even content with all that he had.

Jessica was satisfied.

She worked her tables late into the night.

Closed out, tipped out.

Clocked out.

Didn't bother changing into her streets. She left the dining room and crossed the lobby, stopping halfway through to allow a group of midnight revelers stumble their way to the elevators. Approached the front desk, and rang the bell.

Alec was working the graveyard, grinding out that tuition.

He approached her with a caffeinated wink. "What's up, Jessica?"

"Is room 213 free on the thirteenth?" Jessica smiled. "That's next Thursday?"

"Let me just..." Clickity-clack, and he smiled right back. "Yes it is."

"I'd like to reserve it for that evening."

"Sure. Who's it for?"

"Why, that would be me."

Alec raised an impressed eyebrow. "Treating yourself?"

"What can tell you?" Jessica's smile grew even wider. "I had a good night."

She reached into her pocket and counted out her tips from the past three nights.

Paying for her room in cash.

Reserved for the evening of August thirteen.

Jessica's lucky number.

# **Chapter 66:** **No Line on the Horizon.**

Jessica did not know exactly how room 213 would serve her purpose.

She knew why, and for the time being, it was all that mattered.

As she sat at her desk, blinds offering a splintered view of her final weeks at Camelot, Jessica explored the nameless creation within her. Effortlessly roller-skating along the event horizon. Observing quietly while rays of light plunged downwards into its depths. Left hand amusing itself with inkwell spirals across her red notebook. Taking her time, never doubting where this would all end.

She had spent all summer wrestling Angry Jonny. Gradually gaining access to his mind, each time going a little deeper. Like stepping into a cold, winter ocean. And now she had finally let go; submerged beneath the waves, eyes closed to find herself entirely acclimated. No land, no shore. Not even an ocean, just the embryonic silence preparing her for another life.

Just her and Angry Jonny. She knew his thoughts, his schemes. Savvy to his stealthy deceptions, sleights of hand that had kept him free from capture. The genie was out of the bottle, walking out there among those who both worshiped and despised him, while Verona slowly tore itself apart.

Immersed in those dark waters, Jessica had even come to understand why.

Why Angry Jonny even existed.

Why, without realizing, Jessica had scrawled out Jerome Keanen's room number. Why she had written down her own room number along with the date of her reservation. Why she found herself methodically listing increments of time in consecutive, fifteen-minute blocks.

There was so much she had come to learn, that _why_ was almost a secondary thought.

The how would be revealed to her soon enough.

For the time being, Jessica had a plan.

And the first step was to set the stage for the capture of Angry Jonny.

Jessica's arm brushed against her laptop's touchpad. Waking from its sleep, the screen shone painfully in her eyes.

There on the desktop, her mother grinned at her with overjoyed eyes.

Jessica calmly clicked around and removed the picture from the background.

Replaced it with a simple, solid black.

"Much better," Jessica said, grasping her pen with a firm grip.

She drew a line in the page before her, stepped over it with nimble ease, and set about the task of building a better mousetrap.

# PART SEVEN

# August 10 – August 13

# **Chapter 67:** **Halfway to Doomsday.**

The call was made at high noon on Monday, August eleventh.

Sooner than Jessica had expected. A good sign; if nothing else, it was evidence that a lasting partnership had indeed been struck between her and the lead detectives. It also meant no more dressing up for their benefit. A pair of jeans and a white tank top, that would do nicely.

Dinah had been showing signs of recovering from her massive bender. Rock bottom, nowhere to go but up. Sitting at the living room table, circling the anorexic _help wanted_ section while calling to set up various interviews.

Jessica waved from the doorway.

Dinah waved back, proudly pointing to a glass of iced tea.

It seemed she had taken the final step from depression to acceptance.

For the time being, Jessica pleased to have evolved from denial to anger.

She drove Eli's car to the police station and parked around the corner. Through the metal detector, joshing with the security guard, who didn't need to be told twice who she was coming to see.

Both detectives were cloistered in Donahue's cubicle.

Randal was on the phone, having it out with some unfortunate soul.

Playing the bad cop for once, just full of surprises. He slammed the receiver down, tough veneer peeling away as he greeted Jessica with his deviously naïve smile.

"So there's another letter, now?" Jessica asked, graciously helping herself to a seat.

"Arrived at the Observer this morning," Donahue confirmed. "We stopped by to talk to Ethan Prince, get the original. It's going online at the end of the day, hitting the front page tomorrow."

"Did you happen to catch the size of Ethan's erection beneath his pants?"

"Trick question. Man's got no dick."

"For the duration of this sentence, I am officially in love with you."

Randal crossed behind Jessica, patting her back. "Didn't see you at Al Holder's funeral."

"Didn't want to distract." Jessica felt a momentary emotion cross her heart. Something she was able to recognize as sadness before it was swallowed whole. "Press is still drooling over the first Angry Jonny letter."

"And here's the latest one..." Donahue passed her a Xeroxed copy. "We're still checking the original, though there don't seem to be any prints. Same with the envelope."

Jessica focused on the words.

Same style as the others. Jagged words capitalized in a Microsoft paint file.

MY FINAL ACT, MY LOVE.

JOHN OF ENGLAND, IN A LOOKING GLASS DARKLY,

I WILL GET HIM WHERE HE LIVES:

BEFORE THE ELDERBUSH,

PAST A WEST BROADWAY AREA.

WHEN THE MAKER

OF A MODERN UTOPIA DIES,

I WILL BE THERE:

HALFWAY TO DOOMSDAY

"They say the final act is where everything is revealed," Donahue commented. "From the looks of this little sonnet, Shakespeare must have been the single greatest serial killer in human history."

"Not your best," Jessica commented, taking each line one step at a time.

"So far, nothing's all we got."

"Except we're pretty sure this one's dedicated to you," Randal said. " _My final act, my love_."

"I suppose you heard we're only charging Scott Stoppard with the fourth attack," Donahue said. "Turns out he was performing a bit of a human sacrifice. Gets his revenge on the man that drove him into debt, then his wife gets the reward money from us and Castle's grieving wife."

"Mm..." Jessica murmured, light years ahead of them.

Donahue cleared his throat... "Didn't think you'd take it so well, considering."

"Considering what?"

"Considering that brings us right back to Dinah."

"I think we've all got bigger problems to worry about right now." She held her arm out, snapped three times. "Can I get a pen?"

Donahue handed her a ballpoint, even as Randal chuckled: "Now she's giving _you_ orders."

Jessica went down the length of Angry Jonny's letter.

Underlining, circling, making notes.

Donahue and Randal locked eyes.

"I call that foreign currency," Jessica informed them, scribbling away.

"You call what foreign currency?"

"When the two of you exchange a look you think nobody understands." Jessica made it to the last line, drawing a small clock next to the word _doomsday_. "All I'm seeing right here... is a where, when and who."

Donahue crossed his arms. "You're saying you have something?"

"I'm saying I have _it_." Jessica started on the third line, tapping her pen with each word. " _I'll get him where he lives_... Angry Jonny's next victim; where does he live?"

"Before the elder bush."

"It's a plant," Randal said. "Known as _Sambucus Nigra_. Found in Europe, northwest Africa and southwest Asia. Long way from home, far as _where_ goes."

"Unless _where_ is also a _who_ ," Jessica said. "I know it seems like a million years ago, but Barack Obama wasn't always president. Before him we had George W. Bush. Before him Bill Clinton. And before him –"

"Before you were born," Donahue sighed.

"– before him we had George H.W. Bush... known nowadays as the elder Bush."

"Before him, we had Ronald Reagan."

"Or, if you want to get genealogical... the elder Bush's grandfather; Prescott Sheldon Bush." Jessica frowned. "As in the _Prescott-Pantheon Hotel_."

"Wait a minute –"

"Past a West Broadway area," Jessica continued, on a roll. "He's not talking about the New York Broadway. He's talking about a Broadway out west. On the West Coast, in Los Angeles. But I don't think area refers to a location, but an area code. If we take the same idea, and think of _past_ not as a place but as a time... then what we have is the old area code for all of Los Angeles... Two-one-three. Or, if you like: the Prescott-Pantheon, room two-thirteen."

Donahue and Randal exchanged more foreign currency.

Before they could interrupt, Jessica moved to the next line. " _When the maker of a modern utopia dies_. Angry Jonny ain't interested in a perfect world. He's too busy punishing people in this one."

"I'm starting to agree with you," Donahue ventured.

"You searched my entire apartment, and you don't remember the book?"

"What book?"

"On my shelves. _A Modern Utopia_. Written by H.G. Wells."

Donahue nodded. "And when did the maker of A Modern Utopia die?"

"1946... On August Thirteenth."

"How would you –"

"Everything I need to know, I learned in high school. Wrote a report on him just last year."

Out beyond the reaches of the cubicle, phones continued to ring off the hook.

"So we've got the Prescott Hotel, room 213 on August Thirteenth," Donahue reiterated, finally coming aboard. "What about the last two lines? I will be there, halfway to doomsday."

"You ever heard of the doomsday clock?"

"No."

"It's a theoretical clock. Conceived by some science cats at the University of Chicago back in 1947. It's meant to monitor how close we are to world annihilation. The closest we've ever been is at two minutes till, and that was between 1953 and 1959. The farthest we've ever gotten is seventeen minutes, between 1991 and 1994. Last I checked, we were at four minutes till."

"And at midnight?"

"End of the world as we know it..." Jessica gave a cold smile. "But I guess Angry Jonny's content with eleven-thirty."

Donahue tossed his coffee cup into the garbage. "How the hell did you just figure all this out, Jessica?"

"Maybe it's because Angry Jonny knows me. Maybe it's because I've walked more than a mile in his shoes. But maybe it's because, just last week, I got myself a room at the Prescott. Room two-thirteen. Reserved for Thursday, August thirteenth."

"What are you saying?"

"Any leads on Eli Messner?"

"No..." Donahue rubbed the back of his neck. "We're thinking he must've left town by now."

"Huh."

"Why?"

" _John of England, in a looking glass darkly_..." Jessica let the air conditioner bring theatrical chill bumps to her arms. "That's King John, isn't it? King John is slang for the starting hand King-Jack. Put it in a looking glass, another name for a mirror, and what do you get?"

"Jack-King."

"Or, if you want to use the abbreviation... J.K."

"Or maybe Jessica Kincaid," Randal concluded.

Jessica nodded. "I guess I just kind of worked backwards from what I already know."

"Which gives us?"

"Two days," Jessica agreed. "Two days before Angry Jonny comes looking for me."

Randal and Donahue didn't waste time. Trading rapid-fire ideas, figuring out who to call next, standing on their toes and craning their necks over the cubicle, already questioning who they could trust with this information.

Jessica let them talk it out, patiently waiting to spell out her own terms for the inevitable sting.

Casually laying the letter on Donahue's desk.

A work of absolute genius.

# **Chapter 68:** **Last Rites.**

That night, at half past nine, Jessica stopped by On The Rail.

Slid on up to the bar and ordered an orange soda from Casper. Easily ignored the whispered looks from curious regulars. Finished half her soda in two gulps. Checked out the action, humming to the strains of an Aretha Franklin throwback. Took in a fair amount of smoke before she motioned for Casper to come over.

He threw his weight over the bar, enthusiasm overcompensating for another long night of making ends meet. "Yes'm!"

"Got a favor to ask."

"Shoot."

"I need to borrow your iPod for a few days."

"My iPod?" He popped the top off a beer, threw the cap out across the pool tables. "That's my brain, my little girl. Ain't got but a couple of CD's at the house. Hell, I got more vinyl than CD's."

"Just for a few days."

"Oh, well. When you put it like _that_..." Casper reached back to a rickety shelf and handed it over. "Now you guard this with your life."

"I'll do you one better..." Jessica smiled, pocketing the device. "Write down your five favorite movies that you don't already have, and I'll have them waiting on here for when you two reunite."

"Can't say no to free shit." Casper took a Post-it and scrawled out a few titles. "Now when I say Lolita, I mean the original 1962. Peter Sellers and Sue Lyon. Don't be slipping me none of this 1997 Jeremy Irons shit."

"Noted." Jessica took the list and downed the rest of her drink.

"Need another one?"

"Nope. Got a big week ahead of me." Jessica threw a five-dollar bill on the counter. "And let me just thank you, Casper. For all your help."

He tilted his massive head to the right. "You ain't dying now, are you?"

"Born again," Jessica replied. "I'll be seeing you."

"You know it."

A rush of pleasant humidity greeted her on the outside.

Jessica crossed the street, into the funeral parlor's parking lot.

Vague memories of some altercation involving her and vice-principal Davenport. It had been raining. Her skin wet against his fingers as they tried to work their way around her throat.

None of it mattered.

"He got his in the end," Jessica said, stepping into Eli's car.

Heading for home, signaling her intent all the way.

# ***

Wednesday, August 12.

9:30 am.

Waking up was Jessica's only proof that she had ever been asleep.

She drove to the Prescott. Parked and walked through the lobby, straight for the stairs.

Although she had already been through this once before, it remained the weakest link in her plan.

Jessica trotted up the carpeted steps, pulling back her forest of curls and securing them with a hair tie. She poked her head out from the third floor stairwell. Spied the housekeeping cart two doors down from room 323. For the next twenty minutes, Jessica remained on the landing, periodically checking on their progress. She kept her phone glued to her ear for the benefit of anyone who might be skipping the elevator in favor of walking.

Once the ball got rolling, there could be no witnesses. If just one person caught her prowling the third floor hallway, Jessica would have no choice but to abort the entire operation.

And so she waited for the perfect moment.

No guarantees it would even come.

Finally, Jessica snuck out of the stairwell.

Walked past the cart, now stationed before the open door to Jerome Keanen's room. Snatched a shower cap from the tray of toiletries and kept moving. She turned the corner and slipped on a pair of black leather gloves.

Peeking back around, she saw the housekeeper select a fresh set towels from the cart, preparing for bathroom detail. Jessica readied herself, knowing she only had one shot.

Now or never.

The maid went back inside. Jessica booked for the room. She wrapped the shower cap over her bundled hair. Down the hallway, the elevator chimed, its doors sliding open. Jessica crossed over into Jerome Keanen's room. She crouched low, pressed close to the wall and eased her head past the corner.

The door to the bathroom was almost completely closed.

Sounds of the maid humming to herself as she went about her business.

Jessica nipped across the bedroom and hid herself in the closet.

She stood perfectly still, careful not to brush against any of Jerome's clothes. Through the closet door, she could hear the roar of the vacuum. She was happy to wait it out, completely at home in pitch black. Jessica thought back to her first trial run. Just two days ago, shortly after the detectives had called her in to go over Angry Jonny's latest letter. She had left the station, driven to the Prescott. Gone through all the same steps; the stairwell and the cellphone, the gloves and shower cap. Wondering at every stage if she wasn't going to have to come up with a plan B.

Wasted worries. Everything had gone without a hitch.

She had made it into the closet undetected, and waited for the maid to finish her work.

Cautiously stepping out and into an empty room.

This time, there was far less work to be done. Jessica had already run reconnaissance on room 323, and now it was just a matter of collecting her prize. She opened the dresser drawer, everything just as she had found it last. Leafed through Jerome's day planner. Currently on tour of Camelot Apartments. His plans for the night of August thirteenth remained unchanged .

Nothing but another lonesome meal in the Prescott dining room.

Followed by an entry so pathetic, it was almost moving:

10:30 - BED.

Yeah, you get your beauty rest.

She closed the planner and opened up the small, leather-bound guestbook. Jerome hadn't bothered to leaf through any of the brochures boasting Verona's local attractions. He hadn't even put his parking permit to use.

To say nothing of the spare key card, which Jessica was happy to take off his hands.

She closed the drawer and stood by the bed for another ten minutes.

Gave housekeeping enough time to make their way down the corridor, and out of sight.

The whole time, just looking down at the freshly changed comforter and pillowcases.

Counting the hours before she would be seeing them again.

# ***

11:15 am.

Jessica left through the main entrance, then went around to the back. She greeted the kitchen staff, each one happy to take a moment to wave back as the lunch orders piled up. Jessica caught the arm of a passing waiter and told him she wanted to talk to Nora in her office.

She let herself into the cramped office, always unlocked under the premise that trespassers would be fired on sight. Jessica was already on borrowed time, good as gone anyway. She rifled along the hangers of freshly dry-cleaned housekeeping uniforms. Picked out something nice for herself and stuffed it into Dinah's book bag.

Not a minute too soon.

Nora entered the room, doing her best to seem interested in Jessica's needs.

Jessica fed her a sob story about needing just one more week of work.

Nora listened as patiently as her persona would allow, repeatedly glancing at her watch.

Jessica made it easy on her by offering an out: _Just think about it._

Nora was happy. Jessica was happy. The two of them left the office together.

One of them off to deal with a dining room of oversized, hungry toddlers.

The other making preparations to deal with just one.

# ***

That same day.

2:15 pm.

Jessica pulled up to the Center For Human Genetics. She bounded up the stairs, and into Benjamin Morris's office. Caught him in the middle of packing up a few personal items.

"Jessica, long time..." He scratched his dense curls, unwilling to be beaten to the punch. "July fourth, I believe. Am I right?"

"Right as rain..." She took a look at his bundling, hardly able to recall the afternoon she'd helped Angela Lansing pack up her office. "You moving out or something?"

"Unemployed," Benjamin announced, laughing merrily. "As of next week."

"Tough break."

"Eh. Everyone gets outsourced sooner or later."

"India?"

"Florida."

"Ah..." Jessica nodded knowingly. "So you can't even lose your job like a decent, patriotic American."

"I'd expect this kind of abuse from Chaucer..." Benjamin pulled a chair. Enjoying the padded contours for as long as he could. "Speaking of which, you ever get a hold of Disney Owens?"

"That's yesterday's paper, Benjamin."

"As for today?"

Jessica unsheathed Casper's iPod. "I need you to get me some movies."

"Ah..." Benjamin placed a finger next to his nose. "And I'm guessing you don't want to pay for said movies?"

"Movies stolen are twice as sweet as movies earned."

"Say no more. You got a wish list?"

Jessica handed him Casper's top five choices. One of her own inserted at the end.

"Ah, yes..." Benjamin stroked his finely trimmed beard. "I don't think I'd be _too_ embarrassed downloading any of these."

"Yeah, thing is; I need them by Thursday."

"Ah. That would be tomorrow, yes?"

"Problem?"

"Might be." Benjamin's large brown eyes flashed quizzically. "You know much about bit torrents?"

"I know it's a good way to get what I want without paying for it."

"Essentially. But peer-to-peer file-sharing relies on demand. Between the trackers and the seeders, the file distribution isn't always predictable. It's like an anarchist's free market. Without enough people leeching, you won't get much action from seeders. Doesn't matter how kind the original tracker is, without enough peer connections –"

"Let me ask you something," Jessica interrupted. "How is it you've never gotten the shit kicked out of you?"

"My best friend plays rugby."

"Got it." Jessica tapped the list. "If all else fails, just make sure you get me that last one."

"Now here's a classic..." Benjamin's face turned dour. "Unless you're talking about the remake."

"Nope. Straight black and white."

"By tomorrow, you say?"

"You can stop by my place. I'm at Camelot Apartments."

"I thought they were tearing that place down."

"They are."

"Ouch." Benjamin extended a caring hand, respectful fingers hovering as close as they dared. "Hope you've got a good backup plan."

"Got a great one," she said, wrapping her arms round his shoulders and squeezing. "Thanks for your help."

Jessica kissed him on the forehead, leaving Benjamin speechless enough to allow for a fast getaway.

# ***

That same day.

5:00 pm.

Jessica made a point to park in the back lot, round Camelot Apartments, and approach from the front sidewalk. Only one of the local stations had bothered to stick around. Hopes paying off as they caught sight of her. A blonde reporter with red-painted lips came bounding on noisy pumps.

Leading with her microphone, camera man on an invisible leash.

"Ms. Kincaid, do you have any thoughts on the latest letter sent to the Observer?"

Jessica waved dismissively. "No comment."

"The police say it's a phony. That the envelope was postmarked from Wilmington, out on the coast. Any comment as to the authenticity?"

How impressive the truth would have sounded. It had been Jessica's idea to tell the press that the latest letter was a hoax. Keep any eager beavers from trying to decipher the content. She had driven out to the coast herself the previous Friday night to drop the letter in a Wilmington mailbox. Call it a quiet homage to Chaucer Braswell. Or perhaps another fine piece of misdirection along with Jessica's impromptu interview.

"No comment," Jessica repeated.

"Ms. Kincaid, is there anything you'd like to say, personally, to Angry Jonny?"

Jessica had reached the edge of the front lawn, far as the press could follow without trespassing. Not a minute too soon. She turned to meet the camera. Leveled her words with steady bravado.

"If he's watching, I want him to know I think he's a coward... No. Coward is too kind. More descriptive than true. He's a _punk_." Jessica caught the reporter's eyes light up, gave her a tasty morsel for the evening news. "Angry Jonny, I don't care how many people in this town think you are righteous and just. Doing God's work or not. I know you don't have the guts to show yourself for who you really are. Final act? Take a bow, already."

Jessica turned and headed up the walkway to her building.

Let the talking heads take care of the rest.

# ***

Later that night.

11:50 pm.

Jessica calmly entered the last entry in her journal.

Makes perfect sense to the police.

Angry Jonny finally turns to his ultimate obsession. Fantasies played out to the point where each new victim has only left more to be fulfilled.

Makes perfect sense to me.

Though I'm not really sure what's left of me.

Just this notebook, and whatever tomorrow may bring.

Starting at midnight, the doomsday clock resets.

Twenty three and a half hours after that, we'll see who's left standing.

Jessica closed the notebook and went to make herself some tea.

# ***

Thursday, August 13.

9:15 am.

Jessica sat on the living room couch, watching the local news. Three more Angry Jonny wannabes had struck in the past three days. No mention of the numerous acts of vandalism and theft, eponymous name spray-painted at each location. The live at the scene...

Dinah entered the room with a haggard sigh. "Things is bad all over."

"True that... you all right?"

"Dealing with it." Dinah collapsed on the couch, threw her feet up onto Jessica's lap. "Just got another call. From another career opportunity. Another one crossed off the list."

"Where from?"

" _Boxxx Car Video_."

"The porn shack over on _Lafleur Street?_ "

"They sell adult DVDs and novelty items," Dinah replied primly. "And they've really cleaned up the place from the old days. Gone all mainstream to compete with the Internet."

"Ain't judging."

"Good..." Dinah sighed again. "I would've really liked that job."

Jessica turned off the TV then gave Dina's shins a hearty smack. "Fuck it. Want to go out tonight?"

" _You're_ asking _me_ if we should go out?"

"I'm insisting."

"Who are you, and what have you done with Jessica?"

" _Jessica not here_ ," she replied. " _Jessica went away. Jessica gone_."

"Well, when you see her, tell Jessica it's a date."

"On the Rail?"

"Word."

"All right..." Jessica stood up and stretched. "I'm working 'till around ten-thirty. Why don't you go on ahead and meet me there? Take the car. I'll get a ride from Amanda."

"Hey, Jess?"

"Yeah?"

Dinah smiled weakly. "I feel better already."

"Hm." Jessica scratched the back of her head. "Yeah, me too."

Before Dinah's emotions could snowball, Jessica hurried to the bathroom.

Daedalus had the water running. Running with what was harder to ascertain. Jessica had to guess the pink hue was from clay deposits leaking into the new piping. Whatever the reason, it was all the more believable when she called Chaucer to invite herself over.

# ***

10:05 am.

The housekeepers were just starting to ready Jessica's accommodations for the evening. She peeked in through the open door. Didn't see anybody, and she quickly leapt past 213. Pulled out the key card that Chaucer had gotten for her and knocked on his door.

Slipped the card into the lock and saw the light turn green.

She stepped in to find Chaucer doing a calf stretch. He coughed, reached for his gym towel and sat down on the bed. "I just thought I'd do this up here while I was waiting. Didn't want to miss seeing you."

"Yeah, I was hoping for a word myself."

"What's up?"

Jessica went to the terrace doors, swept her eyes across the green. The day had turned cloudy, an unexpected departure from that morning's forecast. Farther along the links, miniature golfers took their required practice swings. Golf carts resting on the sidelines like squat, obedient Shetlands.

"Read the latest?" Jessica asked, turning back to Chaucer.

"Angry Jonny's latest letter?"

"That's the one."

"Yeah..." Chaucer was lying back on the bed, cradling his knee to his chest. "Cops said it was a copycat."

"What do you think?"

"I'd have to agree. It's too dense for the kind of man who leaves hobo signs along with his calling card. Whatever it might have meant, it's just too much information..." He rolled over, stood up. "Why? You think it might be the real thing?"

"I know this creep like the back of my hand." _Still covered with bruises from busting Carlton Walsh's nose_ , she added silently. "No, I don't think it's his work... But even still. Got a favor to ask."

"Whatever you like."

"Just in case we're all wrong..." Jessica feigned concern, bit her thumbnail before continuing. "I've got a shift this evening. Starting at six. Might not be done till midnight. After that, I'm getting a ride home, but until then... could you keep an eye on Dinah?"

"Keep an eye?"

"Just in case Angry Jonny strikes again... I've just been thinking the worst thoughts. Wondering if maybe he wouldn't be getting a little jealous of Dinah at this point. The prime suspect in his master plan, you know?"

Chaucer nodded gravely. "I've thought about it once or twice."

"She's probably going to be at home. Might go out to the pool hall later on. But if you could shadow her. Keep watch, hush-hush. Soon as I'm off work, I'll give you a call and tell you to head on back here, I promise... Just for a few hours, is that OK?"

"Of course..." he stepped around the bed. Paused as though he was contemplating a hug. Indecisive. "You sure you're going to be fine, now?"

"Like I said. Dinner shift, surrounded by tons of people. Ride home with Amanda."

"And you're sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Amanda isn't Angry Jonny?"

"Please. Amanda still plays with dolls."

"So do I, but don't go telling nobody."

Jessica hoped her laughter didn't sound as hollow as if felt. "So you'll do it?"

"I said I would..." Chaucer lunged into one last embarrassing stretch, then headed for the door. "I'll be back in around forty-five. You want any coffee from downstairs?"

"Better know it."

"See you then."

Jessica let the smile linger on her face for as long as she could stand it.

Didn't need to worry about turning the shower on or covering her tracks.

This next part was going to be nice and easy, no more than ten minutes.

Jessica pulled a plastic shopping bag from Dinah's book bag. Scooped up the Cadillac keys and headed downstairs. Through the lobby and out to Chaucer's car. She popped the trunk and opened one of the boxes.

There was all that she needed; a box of sterilized vinyl gloves, a box of shoe covers, and a bottle of chloroform labeled _for professional use only_.

"Don't you worry, sweetheart," Jessica whispered. "I am nothing but professional."

She took a pen from her pocket and scooped each item into the plastic bag. Rolled the chloroform bottle in, then tied the ends together. Covered the box, leaving everything as she had found it.

She slammed the trunk shut and walked away.

Back in Chaucer's room, Jessica placed the plastic bag in Dinah's book bag. She removed a roll of duct tape. Went to the door that separated 214 from 213. Opened it. There was that second door; no handle, no lock allowing her to open it. She placed a piece of tape over the latch, holding it down as she wrapped the tape around the inside of the door. With the 214 latch firmly trapped in its cubby-hole, she slathered on another piece of duct tape for good measure.

Jessica closed door 214.

Stepped back and had a look, checking to see if anyone would be the wiser.

She reached out and pulled on the knob. The door opened without protest.

Jessica closed it once more, convinced she was all set on that end.

Went to the bathroom and helped herself to a good long shower.

One of the best she'd ever had.

# ***

Back at the apartment.

2:30 pm.

Dinah was off on another job interview, leaving Jessica to pace the rooms and empty hallways. Nothing but the walls and furniture to accompany her as she remained waiting. Paused once or twice before the minibar, eyeballing the miniature bottles of Skyy Vodka.

Shook it off.

Waiting for Benjamin to call. She turned on the TV. Watched two minutes worth of mind-numbing footage from the ongoing Afghan war, then turned it off, gave up.

She helped herself to a glass of tonic.

One sip. Two sips, when someone came knocking on the front door.

Jessica practically skipped across the living room floor.

Threw open the door, all ready to assail Benjamin with whatever debasing comment she could conjure.

In place of her jolly, affable hacker, there was Anita Montero.

Same shadow of a woman as she had last seen. Same oversized clothes masking her ravaged figure, bandana pulled taught above her gaunt, sallow features.

Anita held out Jessica's book bag, smiling apologetically. "I know I should have been by sooner."

"Not at all," Jessica assured her. Not sure what she meant by that. "I'm the one knows where you live. My bag, my problem, right?"

"I don't feel like disagreeing. But I do."

Jessica took the bag. "You want to come in?"

"Oh, I don't know."

Jessica leaned in with a sly nudge. "You stoned right now?"

"A little." Anita giggled. Stopped, ashamed. Then giggled again. "I can't believe I just laughed, considering what I'm about to ask."

"Ask away."

Anita took a breath. Settled herself. "Were you able to attend Al's funeral?"

"No. No, I don't know if you read –"

"Yeah, I saw the story in the paper. Ethan is such a prick."

"He really is."

"Well, I was _really_ sick that day," Anita confessed. "And I missed it too. And I know he was buried right across the road, Pinecrest Cemetery... And I was wondering if maybe you wanted to come with me. To visit him."

"That is such an unbelievably creepy request."

"I know..." Anita burst into a fit of laughter. Her body rattled with the effort. "But I really didn't want to do this alone, so I thought..."

"Say no more," Jessica smiled, feeling the black hole within her shriek in protest. "Don't know how it's physically possible, but I believe I've just gotten a contact high."

Anita laughed. Stopped, pleased and mortified. Then kept laughing.

Jessica laughed along. Just plain mortified.

# ***

3:00 pm.

A single sheet of cloudy Saran Wrap stretched over the day. The air was holding steady at a humid seventy degrees, mingled with a crisp wind that lifted Jessica's hair and the loose strands of Anita's head scarf. A graveyard of saturated light, tombstones emotionless beneath an unwelcoming sky.

The two of them stood silently over Al Holder's grave.

Jessica flashed back to her first hours at the Verona Observer, now just an watercolor blur.

Robbing her of all emotion as Anita wiped a tear from her face.

The sound of a bike bell alerted them to the strangest sight.

Just over the grassy hillside, Jessica spied a couple riding a bicycle built for two. Pedaling in tandem along one of the many winding paths. Weaving between under-bite headstones. Scattering rose petals as they journeyed past countless generations, the end of all things.

"How about that?" Anita marveled, sniffing.

Jessica didn't answer.

Kept right on watching those two mysterious creatures continue on their way.

Biking right past the event horizon, gliding happily over the void even as the eerie, afternoon light fought uselessly to escape the darkness within her.

# ***

4:00 pm.

Benjamin called from the parking lot.

Jessica went down to meet him.

"Got 'em all!" He handed her the iPod with a proud, rosy grin. "Don't say I never done nothing for you."

"Perish the thought." Jessica absently took the iPod from him, then realized she had a golden opportunity. "How easily could you bypass a password-protected flash drive?"

"Depends. If it's just password-protected, that should be fairly easy. But some flash drives come with an elaborately encrypted filing system that –"

"Yes or no, Einstein."

Benjamin laughed. "Yeah, I can do pretty much anything you need..."

As always, Jessica couldn't quite figure how he managed to let the abuse roll off his back.

Minutes later, Benjamin was sitting on the hood of his beat up, 1995 Mercedes. Swearing at his computer, while happily delivering his diagnosis. "Yeah, I think you misunderstood. The message you received when opening it was prompting a password that allows you to see the files, not access the drive itself."

"What files?"

"Don't know. They're encrypted..." He glanced up, gave a sly smile. "Are we to understand this might be an unexpected bonus?"

Jessica frowned. Perhaps Malik's journal had landed in her care through pure blood, sweat, and circumstance. "Maybe... Can you break the encryption?"

"Looks to be a pretty standard program. Easily downloaded online. Easily cracked."

With a pained smile, tugged at her ear. "The files on the drive... they are of a..."

"Personal nature?"

"Yes."

"I won't peek. Trust me, they won't even pop up."

"You're a bit of a godsend, Benjamin."

"I'm a bit of an atheist."

"There are no atheists in foxholes."

"Amongst veterans, there are plenty..." Benjamin's eyes reverted to some sad memory before rediscovering their sheen. "Give me a few minutes, and I'll give you the world."

And while Benjamin hacked at shadows, Jessica doubled checked the iPod.

Scrolled down the list and found just what she needed.

Gleefully realizing that she was one step closer to fulfilling her master plan.

# ***

5:15 pm.

With Benjamin's part fulfilled, Jessica wasn't left with a lot of time to prepare herself for what lay ahead. She was due at Southland in forty-five minutes. After that, there would be no way back. So she took her time. Gathered every last building block, imaginary blueprints glowing before her eyes.

She folded the housekeeping uniform, placed it at the bottom of her book bag.

Next came the items pilfered from Chaucer's car. She added a shower cap and allergy face mask. Nestled the whole assortment onto the housekeeping uniform and covered it with a pair of gray sweatpants, a purse of toiletries, a pair of black pumps, and a white dress shirt.

Picked up the iPod. Scrolled down and selected her movie. Jumped ahead forty-seven minutes and adjusted the volume to what felt like a suitable level. She turned it off and slipped it into the book bag's front pocket.

She took out the two key cards, each one labeled with their corresponding rooms.

214 and 323, both joining the iPod for a little nap.

Jessica wriggled into a pair of tight, black designer jeans.

Topped it with her signature tank top.

She went through the entire ritual in complete silence, save the sound of her own breathing.

Jessica stood in the middle of her room and did a slow turn. Every book, piece of furniture, the lamps, futon; regarded them all as though she had just moved in. Playing the part of whoever would come to replace her.

She walked to the desk.

Absently adjusted the framed issue of last year's Economist endorsing Barack Obama. Did the same with the newspaper clip of pigs on a farmhouse roof, trapped by rising floodwaters.

Jessica waited for either one to speak to her.

To take her back to years, months, even weeks previous.

Neither served to remind her of anything, and she sat down at her desk. Opened her laptop and picked up Malik's flash drive. The clock in the corner read 5:40. Jessica weighed the small, plastic tab in her hand, wondering if it wouldn't be better to hold off until later.

A gust of wind blasted through the window, knocking over an empty coffee cup.

Jessica shivered.

She closed the laptop and slid it carefully into her book bag, along with the flash drive.

There really was no more time to waste. Any minute, Dinah might be home. Soon after that, Chaucer would be pulling up outside to keep watch. Maybe in his Caddie, maybe in Anita's blue Pontiac. The last thing she wanted was either one of them catching her on her way out.

Jessica had already told them all that was needed.

Last rites performed, and now it was a simple matter of one final farewell.

"Goodnight, room."

She strapped on her book bag and headed for the kitchen.

Opened one of the drawers and removed her wine key. Dug her nail into the groove and pulled out the two and a half-inch, serrated blade. Scraped the teeth against her arm, drawing a thin line of blood without trying. Imagined the damage she could inflict with just the slightest bit of force.

Jessica washed the blade and folded it back into the wine key.

Slipped it into her book bag and took a deep breath.

Locked the door behind her and took the steps one at a time.

# **Chapter 69:** **A Strange Wind.**

With every step towards her destination, Jessica could have sworn the breeze was holding her back. Up along Ames Street, past the gas station with black-barred windows. Past the Islamic Learning Center, its windows boarded up, brick walls still stinging with the red spray paint spelling out Angry Jonny's name.

She turned down a side street, where porch swings jittered nervously above sagging floorboards.

Under the concrete timbers of the highway overpass. Garbage littered along the ramps leading up to dark and sullied corners. Random graffiti courtesy of random taggers, local gangs, and the familiar name of the man who had ruled Verona all summer long.

Heading downtown, that strange wind continued to blow as Jessica made her way to Southland.

When she walked in, Jessica almost expected to find Eli yucking it up with a group of rich losers. Beers meeting in a brotherly toast, even as he schemed to take every last dime from their pockets.

But the reality of it was that Charlie had been shot through the chest.

Eli was on the run, a statutory rapist whose double life Jessica had blown to pieces.

Nothing but ghosts now, seated under the red glow of an empty bar.

She casually waved to the bartender and made for the rest rooms. The truncated hallway leading to the smoke-free section was decorated with vintage Lucky Strike ads from the mid-fifties. Pink, grinning faces enthusiastically reminding her to _be happy-go-Lucky!_

The back door lead out to a one-way street, where an unmarked van awaited her arrival.

Jessica slid the door open and stepped in.

Against the far side, a small shelf was set up with dual monitors and some wireless recording equipment. Most of the space was dedicated to the comfort of seven or so officers crammed inside. Padded chairs, wheels stripped from the pedestals. There was even a cheap mattress laid out on the floor, in case someone needed to take a rest.

At the moment, neither Randal, Donahue, nor any of their team were ready to stretch out. They sat Jessica down and ordered the driver to get going. The van started up, floor wobbling against the wheels as they pulled away.

"You think anyone followed you?" Donahue asked.

"Not as far as I can tell."

"Got to admit it Jessica, you got me more paranoid than I've been in a good long while."

"Excellent."

"You got what you're going to be wearing?"

Jessica nodded. Unzipped her book bag and took out a white dress shirt.

Donahue opened a small, metallic briefcase and removed a wireless microphone, clip-on receiver no larger than a pager, and her earpiece; a small, milk-chocolate disk, width of a thimble. He closed the case and carefully laid them out on its surface, body bobbing along as the van took a sharp right.

"Gentlemen," Donahue declared. "Eyes to the front of the vehicle, please."

Randal and the rest did as they were told.

"Your shirt, please, Jessica."

Jessica took off the tank top and folded it into her bag.

Donahue picked up the microphone and reached between Jessica's breasts. Clipped the microphone to her bra. Adjusted it a few times, never more than a couple of millimeters in each direction. He reached behind her and clipped the receiver to her belt. "Ordinarily, we don't use this. In your case, we thought you'd like the option of breaking transmission, in case you need any privacy..." Satisfied with his work, he motioned for her to get dressed.

Jessica slipped on the dress shirt. Buttoned up, amazed to find she could hardly feel the bug nestled against her chest.

"And Jessica is officially decent," Donahue announced.

"Officially out of her mind, if you ask me," Randal said.

"Ain't nobody asking you," Jessica said. "But I think it's sweet you're worried."

"Let's get some levels," Donahue called out. He smiled thinly at Jessica. "Randal ain't the only one worried. I really wish we could have some of our guys in the hotel. In the stairwell, hallway. Shit, anyone of the rooms on that floor."

"If wishes were horses then beggars would ride. You can't just have a bunch of cops roaming around, even undercover. If Angry Jonny even suspects I'm onto him, that's the ball game. Besides, considering how he was even able to find out I'd be staying there... who's to say he doesn't work at the hotel?"

"I still think we should've asked Chaucer to give up his room for the evening. The man is right next door to you, might end up making all the difference."

"I told you, I don't trust him... And it's not like Angry Jonny's going to come into my room, guns a-blazing. He's going to _sneak_ in. Whether it's through the front or through one of the neighboring rooms."

"Or up through the balcony." Donahue said, taking hold of Jessica's head and placing the soft, plastic disk next to her ear. Stuck like a Band-Aid. "Maybe drop in real quick from the room above, you never know."

"Well, on the off chance he's changed his name to _Goofy Jonny_ , you'll have a couple of guys posted on the edge of the golf course. At the tree line, right? Besides, it doesn't matter how he gets in. He'll think I'm sound asleep, and he will take soft steps to make sure I stay that way."

"Everyone quiet!" Donahue went to the monitoring station, steps uneven as the van continued to bounce along. Donahue threw on a headset. Brought the microphone to his mouth and motioned for Jessica to cover her right ear. Held down a button on the console. "So Angry Jonny's going to take his time those ten feet across the room to your bedside. That's supposed to make me feel better?"

Jessica felt his voice coming in loud and clear through the microphone. She replied in a regular speaking voice. "The instant I see him, I'll mumble the catch word."

"Which is, one more time?"

" _Caterwaul_. That should give you all plenty of time to come get to me. I don't care if he does manage to put me under. When I wake up, you'll have him cuffed, and this will all be over..." Jessica allowed a smile to surface. "How's that sound?"

Donahue gave the thumbs up. Took off his headset. "We almost there?"

The driver called out an affirmative.

"Alright, then..." Donahue sat himself back down before Jessica. "After we drop you off at the parking deck, I want you walking _straight_ to the Prescott Pantheon. Like Red Riding Hood to grandma's, got it?"

"Got it."

"We'll be in the neighboring parking lot of the Pantheon Faculty Club. At eleven, I'm sending in a couple of FBI agents into the bar for nightcaps. Undercover. Female detail, nobody ever figures them for cops. Come eleven-thirty, I don't care how scared it gets him, we're moving the van next to the dumpsters out back."

"And I'll be snug under the covers," Jessica added as the van came to a halt. "Counting sacrificial sheep."

"Not sure if the joke plays."

"Not sure it matters..." She stood, picked up her book bag. Gave Donahue a tiny wave. "Guess I'll see you at the end of the world."

Donahue didn't crack a smile. "It's not too late to turn back."

"It most certainly is, Detective."

"I'll be reminding you of how wrong you are over the course of the evening. Good luck, Jessica."

"Good luck," Randal added.

Jessica slid the door open, hopped out into the same deck where Eli had parked his car on the Fourth of July. Nobody in sight as she walked away. The van backed out, speeding up the ramp and around a corner. She looked out from level three, over the treetops of East Campus. A sea of green rippled beneath a pale, flattened cloud cover obscuring the sun.

"Soon," Jessica promised.

A single, whispered word, lost to the wind.

# **Chapter 70:** **Dinner and a Movie.**

7:10 pm.

Jessica checked in, got her key.

Slipped it into her pocket, then headed for the elevators.

It was a quick ride, enough time for Jessica to try out her new equipment.

"You guys there yet?"

Without so much as a static pop, she heard Donahue in her ear. "Yeah. We saw you walk in."

"Just checking out how these things work in the elevator."

"Top of the line."

Jessica headed down the hallway, key at the ready. She stopped before Chaucer's door and knocked.

"What was that?" Donahue asked.

"Just thought I'd run another test," Jessica said, satisfied that Chaucer was out for the evening. "Glad to hear you picked it up."

She entered room 213 and closed the door behind her.

Breathed in the virgin scent of a spotless room. "I could get used to this."

"Don't get too comfy..." Donahue wasn't wasting time, guiding her through preparations. "Search the bathroom, shower and closet. Check under the bed. Don't say another word until I'm convinced."

Jessica did as she was told, reported back with the all-clear.

"OK, good... Come eleven-thirty, it's going to be dark in there, so give me the layout. What's in relation to what?"

With a ghostly light streaming through the windows, Jessica kept it concise. "Bed in the middle of the right wall. Night table on either side..."

Jessica glanced down, found a complimentary copy of the New York Times and Verona Observer staring back up at her.

Front page story revealing the DNA connection between Eli Messner and Dr. Lazenby.

Kept on giving them the schematics. "Window leading out to the balcony on the far wall. Got a desk and chair to the right of that. Closet in the far-left corner. Dresser opposite the foot of the bed. Two-door cabinet on top, television inside. Next to that, the door to room 214..."

"Check and make sure it's locked."

Jessica opened door 213. Found the duct tape sticking out from around the latch of Chaucer's door. Gave it a gentle push. Just a crack, beyond which Jessica could see the empty room beyond.

"Alright," she reported, quietly closing her own door. "It's locked."

"Head on out to the balcony."

Jessica swept the embroidered lace curtains aside.

She stepped out and surveyed her kingdom. Even with the weather turning ugly, the golfers had stuck to their game. Jessica glanced down. A blue awning stretched from one end of the building to the other. Below that, she could hear the restaurant staff clearing the outdoor seating for the evening.

"All right, looks good," Donahue told her.

"I thought you were in the van." Jessica came back in, drew the translucent curtains shut.

"The rest of the team's on a different channel," Donahue explained. "Don't worry, though. They can all hear you."

"Excellent." Jessica reached into her book bag and took out her heels, sweatpants. She pulled out the shopping bag and crept stealthily into Chaucer's room. "How's the activity in the surrounding units look?"

"Hang on..."

Jessica walked in a low crouch across 214. Chaucer had left the lights off, lace curtains drawn. She crossed into the bathroom and knelt down by the wastebasket. She pulled the cheap lining out of place, laid the shopping bag to rest against the bottom. She replaced the lining. Shuffled its contents around just as Donahue came back on the horn.

"Too early to tell who's home and who's not... No lights yet, but it's only seven-thirty."

Jessica scuttled back across Chaucer's room and into 213. "So it looks like I'm all set."

"Looks like. Though the day's getting nasty."

"Strange wind."

"Feels like tornado weather." Donahue sighed. "It's not too late to turn back..."

"Let's not worry about it."

"All right, I'm going to leave you alone for a bit... When's your reservation?"

"Eight-fifteen..." Jessica withdrew her laptop, extracted the housekeeping outfit and placed it under the bed. "Condemned woman getting one last meal and all that."

"Do us all a favor and stop with the jokes."

"You haven't heard the best of it..." She took her toiletries and headed for the bathroom. "Ten o' clock, I'm going to kick back and watch a movie on TCM... Can you guess what it is?"

"Don't want to know. Just finish washing up and enjoy your dinner."

Jessica paused. "How can you tell I'm in the bathroom?"

"Acoustics."

"Look at you. Keep up the good work, and you'll make captain someday."

"Goodbye, Miss Kincaid."

Jessica waved at the mirror and turned the faucet on.

Splashed warm water on her face, careful not to send any drops down her neck and onto the microphone. The board was set up. Pieces all in place.

Now it was just a matter of how it would all play out.

# ***

Jessica worked her way through dinner with methodic bites.

The food was not entirely without taste. There was no discord between her mouth and mind. It was her mind's relationship with reality that seemed to be suffering. Accepting the upscale flavors, but never fully processing them. Like reading a recipe off an eye chart.

She choked it all down with three refills of tonic water.

All the while staring across the room. Not the least bit worried that Jerome Keanen would notice her sandpapered eyes, sense his complete objectification. He was a man of habits. Too preoccupied with his iPhone to take a look around. Tearing into his finely tailored meal, bored with the knowledge that there would be so many just like it until his dying day.

Jessica took two trips to the bathroom.

Passed by Jerome's table each time, checking for any signs that he might not be going directly to bed after dinner. Didn't catch anything definitive. But the mismanaged slur of his lips was good enough. The promise of an early bedtime. Out cold till the sun woke up to catch him crying.

For dessert she had a virgin strawberry daiquiri.

Munched on the crushed ice as Jerome signed for the meal.

Jessica watched him depart, shoulders slouched like a fat, velveteen rabbit.

She checked the time on her phone.

9:20 pm.

Jessica flagged her server, some newbie she had never seen before. "Can I get the check, please...? I'm hoping to catch a movie."

She turned off her phone, tipped forty dollars, and headed upstairs.

# **Chapter 71:** **A Boy's Best Friend.**

She announced her return at nine-thirty on the spot.

There was Donahue, resting comfortably in her ear, requesting another check of the premises.

Jessica entered the bathroom, turned on the light. No killer in the shower. Back in the bedroom, no boogieman in the closet. Nothing under the bed but the folded housekeeping uniform, which she placed on the comforter before going to the window. She parted the curtains just enough to cast her dim outline over the dark and abandoned golf course. Closed them again and got to work.

With the light from the bathroom keeping her affairs secret, Jessica kicked off her heels. Ducked into the bathroom and slipped on the housekeeping outfit. Loose-fitting slacks first. Then, with as much care as possible, she put on the mulch-colored shirt. Glad to find that the extra size hung just loosely enough, topped it off with a gray vest. She ran the water for a few seconds, validating her reasons for visiting. Left the bathroom light on as she entered the bedroom.

"Hey, Detective. What's the good word on the weather out there?"

"Nothing good about it." Donahue replied, seemingly unaware that Jessica was now wearing an extra layer of clothes. "There's a tornado watch in effect just a couple counties away."

"How are your boys out in the woods?"

"Getting pelted. Might have to draw them back if it gets any worse."

"I can guarantee you, Angry Jonny ain't coming in through the windows," Jessica said. She pulled out the iPod and cued it up. Slipped it into the pocket of her borrowed uniform. "Everything's going to be fine. Our movie should be starting in another twenty minutes."

"Dare I ask what it is?"

"You and the cavalry can have a little contest..." Jessica gave the headphone wires plenty of slack, then slipped the white ear buds down her white dress shirt. Carefully wound them up through the under-wiring of her bra, pining each a couple of inches away from the microphone. "Whoever guesses first gets a free drink on me after we do this thing. Maybe even a body shot for one of your boys."

"Quit messing with our head," Donahue snapped. "Just keep yourself entertained until then."

Jessica's laptop was lying on the floor, begging for attention.

"Yeah, I'm just going to mess around online for a bit..." She slipped on her shoes and grabbed her computer. "Guess I'll let you all chat 'till then."

"Well, I'd very much like that."

"Until ten, then."

Jessica opened her computer. Let the glow wash over her as she lay on the bed. Checked her email. Nothing. Checked Facebook. Her friend list now down to Dinah and Malik.

Malik.

Jessica reached out with her foot, snagged a book bag strap.

Removed the flash drive. Held it close to her face, as though trying to remember what the hell it was. Not that she didn't. Like everything else, Jessica simply found herself wondering if it even mattered anymore.

There was a fast, loud rap against her window.

Jessica jumped. Fist balled around the flash drive.

Outside, the wind continued to supply excited testimony.

She stuck the flash drive into the USB port.

Benjamin had done her well, and the window popped up with no added password prompt.

Along with the folder she had pilfered from Malik's desktop, she found two others; PICTURES and CHRONICLES.

Jessica clicked on CHRONICLES. Within that, there were several sub folders, each one labeled with the month and year. She thought back to her talk with Malik's father, the fatalism of a simple decree.

Oh-eight was a mighty bad year for us, as you know.

Well, she was sure to know soon enough.

Jessica clicked on a folder reading JAN '08.

Surprised to find not one document, but a series of Word files. One for each day of the month. Jessica clicked on the first one, unimaginatively titled 01/01/08.

**January 1, 2008.** _Happy New Year. Another one come and gone. Another party with friends and friends of friends. Most of which make me wonder why I even have friends. Or if I even do. Keep it going, though. Just a year and a half, and I'll be walking that line. Dopey hat paper clipped to my hair, ready to hit it and quit it. Get the hell out of Verona. Adios, North Carolina._

And that was it. Sparse and strangely heartfelt; more of a poem than the historical artifact suggested by the term _chronicles_. Jessica closed the entry, clicked on the second one. Less than a paragraph this time. Malik musing on the inconsequential nature of the day after New Year's Day.

Clicking on the next file, Jessica found herself on familiar ground.

**January 3, 2008.** _Mom was in a car accident. Whole front end of her car crumpled in like tinfoil. For a while, it didn't look like she'd be walking again. Now they say they can slip a titanium rod in there, held tight with a mess of screws. With a few years of physical therapy, they say she could eventually make it without a cane or anything._

Dad's lost his damn mind. I swear he wants to kill the man who did this to her.

For the first time, I finally understand him when he talks.

Also know I've spent too long taking mom for granted.

Maybe there's something here. A reason this all happened.

Jessica made quick work of each entry, skipping ahead as the wind continued to lash at the windows.

**January 30, 2008.** _Mom's home. We've laid out a bed for her in the living room. Can't have her going up and down the stairs. Soon, we're going to try out her freaky, upgraded leg. She's got a walker for now. Her physical therapist says it's going to be slow. And probably painful. Good news is, she's got enough painkillers to last a life time._

Glen and Clarence stopped by today. After years of getting used to them as my teachers, it's like we're now old family friends. And I've got to sit there and act all hopeful when mom wriggles her toes.

The lawyer's coming by tomorrow to talk about the lawsuit.

Guess dad isn't in the killing mood after all.

**February 2, 2008.** _Groundhog Day. Mom tried her first go with the walker around the back deck. The lawyer was there, recording the whole process. She fell. Screamed and cried. I had to help her up. The lawyer seemed to like this. Dad was off at a meeting with the dean. I helped mom to the bathroom then put her to bed. Gave her some painkillers._

Oh, and the mad dash to college has already begun.

**March 9, 2008.** _She's still got trouble walking. Between class and the Clinton campaign, Dad's never around. Clarence's got more time for us than him. He's around all the time. Hate to say it, but it's almost annoying. Something about him puts me on edge. But we need all the help we can get._

I've been put on my own happy pills. Mom says they've got me walking in my sleep. Talking in my sleep. What's that song from the 1980's?

**May 6, 2008.** _Obama took North Kakalaki in the primaries. Dad told us he'd be campaigning for him over the summer. I think Mom wants to feel useful again. Things aren't going so good at the clinic. Everyone's freaked about the economy, and there's word about cutbacks. And Mom's not there to take the helm._

She's a proud woman. All these years, I never really sat down with her. All this time together has shown me something. Never realized all that she's been through. The years fighting police brutality. All those losses and let downs. Damn. There really is no justice in this world, and I'm starting to understand why my mom is the way she is. How much we need each other.

Getting ready for exams.

Wish I had been old enough to vote in this one.

**June 7, 2008.** _Clarence took us out to dinner. Spiro's, my mom's favorite. First time getting her to leave the house. We went to Ben and Jerry's afterwards. Never thought ice cream would change my life, but..._

There was a girl served it to us. Most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Milk chocolate skin. Crazy brown eyes, larger than the world we live in. She smiled at me with slightly crooked teeth; seemed to make her all the more spectacular.

I stood there like a damn fool, while she held out my cone. Too polite to call me out. Clarence had to nudge me, jumpstart my brain. I just sat with my back to the counter, watched her in the reflection of the windows. I wanted to get up, go to her. Find some excuse to talk to her, ask questions, everything about her.

Couldn't come up with anything.

For now, all I've got are those endless eyes and a name tag reading Jessica.

Timelines were starting to converge in Jessica's head. She struggled to bring that night back from beyond. Not a lot of flowery description in Malik's journal, but that shouldn't have stopped her from remembering. Shortly after they started dating, it was the _one story_. The _how we met_ highlight that was supposed to separate them from the usual slush of countless romantic sagas.

But Jessica couldn't envision any of it.

Surprised to discover she had ever worked at Ben and Jerry's.

The shadows of her hotel room chose to stay out of it as Jessica scrolled down.

Double-clicked once more.

**June 11, 2008.** _Mom's prescription is going to run out soon. I don't know if this is how it works, but I'm afraid she's hooked. Can't even talk to dad about it. His work on the Obama campaign is taking up all his time. I don't know about these things. I don't know or understand the desperate look in my mother's eyes._

I know it makes me scared.

I know I'm starting to feel desperate too.

**June15, 2008.** _Lawsuit's fallen apart. Too many problems with my mom's deposition. And this Frank Lazenby is one powerful bastard. Works for the insurance companies, spends his life fucking with other people's claims. Taking away what's rightfully theirs. This must have been a walk in the park for him._

Meanwhile, dad's just not around.

Mom's out of pills.

I'm starting to taste her anger, scared for both of us.

**June 29, 2008.** _Carlton Walsh has started looking at me all strange. Suspicious, is what he is. Guess he ought to be. Mom is in real bad shape. I told her I managed to get some pain stuff from a friend who wasn't using it no more. Gave her the first injection myself. Can't believe how steady my hands were. I mean, I read up a good amount, made sure I had it all straight. But in the end, I just was happy to see her happy._

It was as if she'd gone to the skies.

Soon as I figure out how, I want some of that feeling for myself.

**July 12, 2008.** _I think I may have broken my mom's heart. All that stuff I took from the lab. Not just what she needed, but a bunch of other things. Thought it would ease suspicions in case anyone caught the missing items. When I told her where I'd gotten it, she began to cry. I cried with her._

She admitted she had a problem. She said she would go into rehab.

I told her I would get off the happy pills. Fight depression on my own damn terms.

We're going to tell dad tomorrow.

I've got to find a way to sneak all this shit back into the lab.

**August 2, 2008.** _And this is what Mom's got to deal with now. The free clinics are gone. Closed down. Guess THE STATE is looking for gaps to fill. Preparing for what's on the horizon. That was my mother's life, right there. All she ever did was try to help people. Shit. Even if Obama is elected, what the hell's going to change? Where's anyone going to find the money for people who need help?_

Nobody really cares.

I don't want to see my mom crying any more.

**August 15, 2008.** _I'm going to have to guess yesterday was as low as it's going to get. Because today was something amazing. My mom's still crying over the clinic, but she's drug free. I'm finally off the happy pills. And I just got back from my first date with Jessica Kincaid._

We bought tickets for the third Mummy movie. Snuck into see Tropic Thunder. My dad's going to kick my ass, but Robert Downy Junior in blackface had us rolling. Man, every time she leaned against me, all heaving, hand holding onto my arm. Ecstasy and comedy all rolled into one.

We went out for ice cream.

I don't understand how she can stand it after working at Ben and Jerry's all that time.

Maybe she was just being nice, but I don't care. She's smart. So damn smart, and wise, and dark, and she's such her own person. This whole year, I've been moping around, crying like a pussy. And here's Jessica. She's got such a strong soul, the girl is tough as nails. She doesn't let bullshit get to her. And with honesty like that, every time I see her laugh, I know it's true. I'm making her laugh, and the whole stupid world laughs with us.

Even that one kiss on the cheek at the end of the night was like comets in the sky.

I'm not going to feel anything like that for another eighty years.

Jessica blinked against the strain of the ten-point font.

Absently touched the back of her neck. Each finger wrapping around to her jugular, searching for a pulse. Recognizing the beat, but unable to imagine who it belonged to. In a rare display of passion, Malik had sketched the portrait of a girl Jessica didn't recognize. It was like reading the diary of a complete stranger. Some notebook found abandoned on a park bench.

How could she possibly be Miss August Fifteenth?

"So it's three 'till ten, Jessica..." Donahue's voice sent Jessica's disembodied thoughts crashing down. Enough to make her convulse, choke on what she had been reading. "We've got our bets going on down here about our movie. You ready?"

"Yeah," she replied, throat dry. "I'm just going to the bathroom." She threw her feet off the bed, ignoring the sting of sleepy feet. "Turning off the microphone for a second. Some things a girl just doesn't want anyone listening to."

"Yeah, fine."

Jessica reached down to her belt, shut them down.

Took off the receiver as she sat on the toilet, took care of three tonic waters and a strawberry daiquiri. That much, at least, hadn't been a lie.

She flushed the toilet, washed her hands. Turned off the bathroom light and returned to a bedroom free of light, save the glow of Malik's innermost thoughts.

Jessica turned on the television, punched in the channel for TCM.

Caught the host in his last seconds of introducing the movie.

"Uh, Jessica..." Donahue phoned in. "One-two, one-two. You want to turn yourself back on?"

Jessica took a deep breath as the Universal logo popped up on the screen.

Muted the sound and reached into her pocket. Pulled out the iPod and hit play to correspond with the television. She could just hear the faint sound leaking from the ear buds between her breasts. Jessica closed her eyes, reached down and turned the receiver on.

"Sorry, boys..." She clenched her jaw, waiting to see how this would play in the van. "Too much?"

"A little loud, Jessica."

"Not a problem." She quickly lowered the volume on the iPod. Just a few bars, testing the waters. "How's that. Can you hear me now?"

Donahue didn't reply.

Jessica waited by the television with baited breath. "Boys?"

"You can't be serious..." Donahue sounded downright disappointed. "Jessica, tell me you're not watching Psycho."

Well, that was one way to put it.

The television screen was certainly displaying the images.

From within the confines of her shirt, the movie was playing along. Ear buds hooked up to her iPod, giving the perfectly synchronized illusion that the television was not on mute.

"Yeah, it's Psycho, alright." Jessica walked back to the bed, laid down. Out of sight from outside eyes, nothing but the flicker of the screen to give her presence away. "Looks like I owe someone a drink."

"As if I wasn't stressed enough," Donahue groaned. "Well-played, Jessica."

"So the volume's OK?"

"Volume's fine... But come twenty past eleven, I want you to shut it down."

"No worries..." A dull exhilaration raced through her. The game was on, all hers to lose. "Enjoy the movie, everyone."

"Enjoy the movie yourself."

As far as the movie went, Jessica had around forty minutes to enjoy herself.

For the moment, Alfred Hitchcock's classic continued to play out on screen and in her pocket. Soundtrack muffled from within her shirt as she returned to Malik's journal. Clicking from folder to folder, drugging up shipwrecked pieces of her own life along with her ex-boyfriend.

First up, her problems with Malik.

**October 1, 2008.** _That's the problem with dating a girl as smart as Jessica. Sooner or later, she begins to figure out all that's wrong with you. Fortunately, a girl like Jessica calls you out._

Yes, I'm prone to stealing. Petty theft, like snatching her aunt's toenail clippers from the bathroom. Don't know why. Power issues, I suppose.

I'm a bit of a liar. Shit, who isn't? But then again, that's just an excuse.

Her and mom don't get along so hot.

Two tough ladies in the same room. What was it Chris Rock said? Something like, women could run this world if it wasn't for the fact that women hate women. Women hate women. And these two just don't see eye to eye.

I think Jessica has trust issues. Dad leaving her. Mom leaving her. Alcoholism and all that. Wish she could trust me. I feel stupid writing this. Know I'd be made a fool if anyone ever knew, but... I want to go further with her. And I have to admit, even though I love her, maybe it's just because...

No, I do love her.

I want more of her.

Damn it, this was supposed to make life easier.

One month later, there was the fiasco with Glen Roberts.

**November 7, 2008.** _So it's all over. All over school, all over the news. I can't believe it. I mean, I think I do, but... Glen Roberts? He's been a friend of the family's long as Clarence. How can I take Jessica's word over his? Sexual harassment? Glen's been a man about town forever. Independently wealthy man teaching kids because he wants to?_

Nobody believes her.

Hell, even I don't believe it on some level.

But on the real?

There is something about Glen.

Jessica doesn't have a friend to her name right now. And all my friends, so-called friends, are telling me to break it off. Same with my parents. Especially the same with my mom.

Problem is... I just plain believe Jessica.

Am I just going to sit back and let her fight on her own?

What the hell kind of man am I supposed to be?

**December 12, 2008.** _Had it out with mom. She just plain doesn't like Jessica, that's all it feels like when all is said and done. Damn it. Stuck in the middle. Every reason thrown in my face not to trust her. Big meeting of the school board, and my mom's going to be there as a character witness._

I'm supposed to come and support her.

Or Jessica. Damn it, she's my best friend.

So's my mom.

This kind of thing should be easy.

Jessica clicked on the folder for 2009. Read a few more entries. Breezed thought them as the movie continued to unfold in a mute, black and white panorama. Glen Roberts getting fired. The personal fallout between Jessica and the rest of the world. Malik dealing with his parents, refusing to break up with her, even though she was little more than a Jezebel to them.

She stopped short on the night of February 14.

The night of Malik's party, celebrating his acceptance to Wesleyan.

**February 14, 2009.** _It was supposed to be a party. A celebration. I've never had that many people at my house. Never felt so on top of the world. Then Jessica dropped the bomb. Told me she knew about that girl I slept with. That one girl, one time. Can't make it better by saying it was only one time. Only one time is bad enough, I know that now._

That argument spilled out right in the middle of everything.

Jessica telling me my business in front of everybody. How she figured it out, too damn smart for my own good. Goddamn Facebook, I suppose it's damaged men better than me. Jessica just let it all out.

Caught that aunt of hers laughing at me from across the room.

What's a woman her age doing at a high school party, anyway?

Who cares?

Party was good as over, Jessica and I good as done with.

And then there's this.

My mom might be having a relapse. I came back to my room after the party. Searched my secret place. My drawer just a little out of place. Everything had been cleared out. My book of poems. The vials I boosted from Francis. My dumb little collection of stolen goods. And all the bottles were gone, too. All that I had taken from the lab. Not that there was any dope left for my mom, but maybe she was just that desperate. Took everything in there, no matter what it was.

Has it really been that bad for her, all this time I've been with Jessica?

Have I ignored her? Let her fall to the wayside?

This wasn't the first time she's been looking through my stuff.

Never thought she'd find my hiding place.

I guess I'm going to have to return the favor. For her own good.

**February 16, 2009.** _I found the letter. I found my mother's secret place, and there I found the letter. I guess it's that saying. The fruit never falls far from the tree? Who cares? I went looking for the rest of the stuff I stole from the lab. Went looking. Wandering through my mother's office. Found her box, her hidden place. Tucked in an air vent, no less. A good spot to remember, though I guess she'd eventually look for my shit in the same place._

Didn't find any chemicals. Maybe she dumped them.

Maybe I've got a whole damn house to search now.

All that matters is I found the letter.

I scanned it, hid it. Put it back where I found it.

And now, I feel like I want to throw up.

I know Dad hasn't been around. But this. This is just. I don't even know what it is.

Clarence and my mother.

If she wants to end the affair, how come she hasn't sent the letter?

I swear, I'm going to talk to her about this.

Jessica glanced up at the screen. Janet Leigh, blond as could be, was off on the road. On the lam, taking with her a good ten thousand dollars' worth of embezzled money. On her way to the Bates Motel, where her inner demons would prove to be no match for the grizzly fate that awaited her.

Time was running out.

**March 11, 2009.** _So what? So I'm off to college to do who the hell cares? I'm going to glide my way through my final exams, party with a bunch of people who laugh while they call Jessica a slut and a whore. I keep checking my mother's special hiding spot, keep finding that same letter, unsent._

My mom won't even look at me these days.

My dad's busy with class, his own damn interests.

Doesn't even know his woman's been making a fool of him. Serves him right. Here she is, still walking with a cane stuck to her hand. Her only passion in life gone, shut down by some nameless state bureaucrat. And the only girl I ever loved won't talk to me.

So what?

So what?

Jessica found herself relating to the sentiment with accustomed ease.

What she wasn't sure about was where this was all headed. She began to scan wildly, taking in as few words as possible as she skipped from entry to entry. Jumping ahead to June, picking the document two days after Jason Castle, Mr. Table Thirteen himself, was found mutilated in his own home.

It began with the same familiar words that had become a staple of Malik's entries.

**June 10, 2009.** _So what? So they've determined it was chloroform did him in. Easy entry. No witnesses. So the cops came by asking questions, so what? Jason Castle took away everything my mom had spent years building. I should have told the cops right there and then. Those two detectives, just casually knocking on our door, looking for eyewitnesses. I should have told them that bastard got what he deserved._

But if I had, they might have started to wonder.

Jessica saw the writing on the wall. Not just the spray-painted words of Angry Jonny, but the whole scene. Each and every movement. She pictured a door left unlocked, courtesy of Eli. He had snuck in first, hadn't he? Used the copied key to enter the Castle household. Maybe an angry Malik had followed suit. Maybe just planning to sniff around, same as Eli. Get a sense of the power that came with creeping through the house of a man who didn't know his fate rested in the hands of another.

She pictured Malik finding a pair of gloves in the garage. Taking the spray paint bottle. The wire used to tie Jason Castle to his chair. Rooting through his kitchen, looking for something sharp. Something that might serve his purpose. Still unsure what that purpose might be, but growing ever more certain of it as he walked up the steps. Opened the door to Castle's room. Stood by his bed, watching him sleep.

But where was the chloroform in all that?

Maybe Eli had been lying right to the very end.

Could Malik have entered Jason Castle's house, only to find his work done for him? The man who robbed his mother's clinic of funding. Bound to a chair, eyes gouged out. Tongue severed. Maybe suggesting a horrifying way to get back at someone far more deserving. A man who had slept with his mother, then gone out of his way to destroy his girlfriend's life?

Jessica scrolled down, clicking on a date leading up to Davenport's attack.

**June 25, 2009.** _I found the pictures. I found the pictures. Me. Pictures of me. I wonder if anyone would even believe it if I told them that was me. Is this the kind of thing Jessica had to go through with Glen Roberts? It's just a boy. A six-year-old boy in a bath tub. Pictures, that's all. Could be any kid, not like anyone else would know. But would I want them to?_

I feel sick.

Remembering all of it now.

I know that bathroom. I know these memories.

I remember the two of them. Glen and Clarence.

Close my eyes, and it doesn't change anything.

I've found the pictures. And I'm starting to get sick again. I'm scanning them now. God, just looking at myself. Naked. I'm six years old AND I'M NAKED. What else? What else did they do to me? What else did they do that all the happy pills and honor rolls on the planet won't change?

I have to get these pictures back before anyone realizes they're missing.

Oh my God.

What am I supposed to do?

Jessica was feeling sick herself.

The flavorless contents of her dinner began to claw their way out of her stomach. She fought them down. No good, wouldn't do any good. Not when she was so close. Clutching her abdomen, she glanced up at the television. Saw Anthony Perkins handing Janet Leigh the key to cabin number one.

Mr. Norman Bates.

Too close.

Jessica took careful breaths, conscious of the microphone pressed to her chest.

She closed the entry, moved down to Malik's next entry.

Dated two days after the attack on vice-principal Clarence Davenport.

**June 29, 2009.** _I think I've done a bad, bad thing. I know I've done a bad, bad thing. And what's worse is. What's worse. There's other people. If this is just the start, if I make myself believe this is just the start. Then what about the other people who have done my mother wrong? I can go to sleep, thinking there was just this one time. But can I wake up and ignore all the rest? I think, I really do think I've done a bad, bad thing._

After that, there were no more entries.

The rest of the summer too much for Malik's fragile mind.

Jessica closed the file, backtracked.

Found herself confronted with two folders.

CHRONICLES and PICTURES.

She clicked on the latter.

Found a series of jpegs. Most of them pictures of her and Malik. Some of them just plain Jessica, taken during their salad days. She scrolled down, searching.

Found a folder labeled SCANS.

Double-clicked.

There, along with the original Angry Jonny letter, was every last letter sent to the Observer.

Just scans. No original paint files. A series of word documents, each one entitled NOTES, joined by a sequential date. She was about to click on the first one, when she spied a jpeg marked LETTER TO CLARENCE.

Jessica opened it, eyes darting.

This was the letter Malik had written about.

The affair between his mother and Clarence Davenport. It read like a breakup letter. Paragraph after paragraph of their most intimate moments. The usual talk about how he had been there while her husband busied himself with better things. The content made her ears burn. She couldn't begin to imagine how Malik must have felt.

But it had turned out that Malik had a far worse history with Davenport.

She backtracked.

Scrolled down and found yet another folder.

This one simply marked with the letter X.

She opened it.

And there were the pictures.

Proof positive. Jessica had to force herself to open each one, every picture a graphic, nubile fingerprint. Baby Malik no more than six years old. Standing naked, ankle deep in a tub of water. Disoriented, confused. Full frontal against the flash of a camera, dimensions that looked to be those of an old Polaroid camera.

She closed the flash folder and dug her fists against her eyes.

Black hole within her widening, only now realizing its full potential for anger.

Malik had found Davenport's stash. Found his pictures. Found out, flashed back. Woken up, broken free of his illusions. And then what? Jessica had beaten Carlton Walsh to a pulp for taking advantage of Dinah, a full-grown woman who had given her body in exchange for her niece.

Was there any limit to what Malik must have wanted to do to Davenport?

What he eventually did?

And once that demon was released? Why stop there?

Faced with his own monstrous act, why _not_ go after Dr. Lazenby? The man responsible for his mother's accident. Looking back, the one who started this whole chain of events. If it hadn't been for that one intersection, that one crash, Malik's mother would have never spent all those months trying to walk again. Davenport never would have been in the picture. She would have been around to fight for the clinics that had become her life's work, her one oasis of purity. The only victory she could have ever claimed against a world so vicious it turned people out in the streets, rewarded the guilty while punishing the innocent.

She never would have had an affair.

Maybe Malik would have never found those pictures.

Maybe he never would have met Jessica Kincaid.

Malik Council.

Better known as Angry Jonny.

"How you enjoying the movie?" Donahue asked.

Jessica had to pinch her cheeks, force a smile. "Just wish I had some popcorn."

Up on the screen, Janet Leigh was sitting in the parlor with Anthony Perkins. Taxidermy birds staring down at them from all angles as they shared what had to be one of the most unsettling late-night snacks ever filmed.

"A boy's best friend is his mother," Donahue said, preempting the line seconds before the muted picture of Norman Bates had the chance to mouth it.

There was no doubt about that.

Jessica had it all before her.

Damning evidence that Malik was the one they were after. Not Jessica, not her aunt. She could end it all just by saying her thoughts out loud. Call off the sting. Tell Donahue that it was over. _Pack it in, Malik is the one you're all looking for. Malik is the reason there's a team of policemen stuck in a van while I sit here pretending to watch a bygone classic_.

But it wasn't over.

Malik hadn't stopped at Davenport, and Jessica could not bring herself to stop at this.

Not after all that she had been through.

Not with a raging storm outside, wind monsters beating at the windows. Urging her to go on, to let them feed. Everyone had gotten what they wanted from Angry Jonny. Castle, the fraud. Davenport, the child molester. Dr. Lazenby, the insurance puppet who must have had his fingers crossed on both hands the day he took the Hippocratic oath. Even Scott Stoppard would be sent to prison knowing he had taken his revenge on the man who had conned him and his wife into a house they could never hope to afford.

And then there were the others.

The Cult of Angry Jonny.

All the Angry Jonny wannabes taking to the streets. Dancing in the dark, reveling in the chaos. Living out their innermost fantasies while the rest of the world sat back and simply let it be.

It was her turn to take back her piece of the pie.

It was Jessica's turn to be selfish.

Too late to turn back.

# ***

She was maybe a minute or so behind schedule.

Jessica rolled onto the floor. Guided by the black and white telecast, she crawled on all fours to her book bag. Took out the keys to room 214 and 323. Slipped them into her pocket. Scuttled her way to the door separating her room from Chaucer's. Opened it and crawled next door.

Carrying the sounds of the movie along with her iPod.

Bearing in mind the acoustic effects of the bathroom tiles, she reached through the open door.

Grabbed hold of the waste basket and brought it into the darkened bedroom.

She glanced at the windows. Curtain's still drawn, no way to let the outside in.

She removed the plastic lining and extracted her implements.

Fitted herself with a pair of vinyl gloves.

Slipped on the shoe covers.

Tucked her brown curls beneath a shower cap, then slipped on the face mask around her neck.

Took the wine key out of her pocket. Unsheathed the tiny, razor-sharp blade for practice.

Jessica reached into the plastic bag and pulled out the bottle of chloroform.

Slipped it into the oversized pocket of her oversized housekeeping pants.

Stood up and walked towards the door.

"Good scene coming up in a few minutes," Jessica said softly. "This one moment made some real history."

"You have no idea," Donahue replied. "No idea how scary this is when all you can do is listen."

Jessica could hardly believe it.

Far as Donahue was concerned, she was still in her room. Lying in bed, held rapt by the classic 1960's horror flick. Even as she stood before the door to room 214, everyone listening must have thought the same. Captivated by what was next, even if they had all seen and heard it before.

The perfect alibi.

Jessica could see herself fulfilling the rest of her plan. Slipping out of Chaucer's room. Heading down the hallway. Eyes downcast in her housekeeping uniform. Face hidden behind her mask, the color of her skin passing for that of a Venezuelan or Dominican. Unconcerned with anyone she might meet on the way; nobody paid any attention to domestics.

There she was, quietly sneaking up the stairs to the third floor. All the while, the movie in her breast pocket would just keep on playing, transmitted straight into the microphone clipped to her bra.

She saw herself standing before room 323.

Waiting for one of the most startling moments in cinematic history to happen.

Janet Leigh, stabbed in the shower by an unknown assailant.

Screams that could peel paint. Angry violin strings, notes clashing with every swing of the knife.

That would be the moment.

Jessica could see herself opening the door to Jerome Keanen's room. Stealthily shutting the door behind her and shuffling to his bedside. President of Daedalus Incorporated, lying helplessly in the middle of an inebriated dream. Chloroform-soaked rage pressed against his lips and nose, maybe a reactionary struggle as he awoke, only to find himself falling back asleep. Let him twitch, let him cry out through Jessica's gloved hands.

It would all be lost to the soundtrack as his body finally went limp.

Just a moment to wipe the spare key card free of prints, slipping it back into Jerome Keanen's nightstand.

And then, Jessica would go to work.

Maybe offering a comment or two as she dug her blade through his eyelids.

Didn't have to do such a clean job as Angry Jonny might have.

Cutting out his tongue, maybe leave it lying at the scene.

Smashing the bedside clock, ripping out the batteries and tossing them on the floor.

Making sure the investigating officers knew exactly what time it had all gone down.

Then it would be as simple as heading to the bathroom. Stripping off the gloves, tossing them into the wastebasket along with the weapon. Tying up the lining and heading for the door. Opening it with the aid of her shirt, no fingerprints to be found. Sneaking back downstairs; once again, another nameless chambermaid nobody would bother remembering.

Slipping back into Chaucer's room.

Stripping away every last trace of evidence; the shoe covers, shower cap. Placing them in a plastic bag along with the wine key, chloroform and sullied gloves. Setting that bag on the bottom of the wastebasket, then covering it back up with the lining. Putting the wastebasket back in the bathroom. Knowing that when housekeeping came by the next day, they would simply dump everything into another, larger trash bag. One room out of a hundred, and which one of them was going to notice anything?

It was all garbage.

Just another fact. Something to be ignored.

After that, all Jessica would have to do was remove the duct tape from Chaucer's door.

Shut it closed behind her.

Close her own door, sit back, and enjoy the rest of the movie.

Wait until it was clear Angry Jonny would not be showing up that evening.

Jessica's destiny flashed before her eyes in a matter of seconds.

Still plenty of time left.

She raised her hand, vinyl stretching out over her fingers like a second skin, and placed it on the doorknob.

Ready and willing to follow through with Angry Jonny's vision of a perfect world.

# **Chapter 72:** **Doomsday.**

It was halfway to midnight.

The television was turned off.

Jessica sat on the edge of the bed in her sweatpants and white tank top. Elbows on her knees. Hands shaking. Head bowed as she struggled to keep her breath steady. She opened her eyes, all alone in the dark save for a thin sliver of light from beneath the entrance. The windows rattled behind her, a strange wind turned urgent, howling to be let in.

Her earpiece began to emit a low whine, followed by Donahue's voice. "It's eleven-thirty. Standing by."

"Standing by," Jessica whispered.

"Don't copy, Jessica. Say again?"

"All good up here."

There was a full minute of radio silence before he replied. "Jessica, we're starting to have some problems with the sound, here. I think the storm's messing with the signal."

Jessica nodded, hearing scattered gaps in the transmission. "Yeah, sounds like."

"I had to pull our guys back from the tree line. We've still got our –" a massive gap this time, timing out near the end of Donahue's sentence – "at the bar. But I don't like how this is shaping up."

"I'm still in it, Detective."

"You say the word, Jessica. Anytime you like, and I'll end this. Ain't nobody going to think any less of you."

"Don't give a damn what anybody thinks. Now let me sleep."

Jessica's eyes slowly began to adjust. The minutes were inching along now, and it was time for her to put an end to her little stage play. She stood from the bed, weighed down by the presence of her own heart. Blood slowly filling her veins, her whole body reuniting with itself. Dull throb behind her eyes as she packed up what little was left.

Computer. High heels. Makeup kit. Black jeans and a white dress shirt. Keys to room 214 and 323 bundled up with the rest of the evidence, quietly resting at the bottom of the wastebasket in Chaucer's bathroom.

Every last detail taken care of.

"Checking in," Donahue whispered. "Quarter to twelve."

"Steady as she goes."

Jessica picked up the flash drive. Felt its contaminants seeping through her skin. Her own brief history with Malik embroiled in the dirty riddles of his childhood. A lifetime of lies, illogically summarized by the truest thing he had ever said to her.

People need their secrets.

But sadly, Jessica needed this to end. Between Malik's flash drive and the case against Eli Messner, the police would be occupied for months. The combined headlines alone would be sure to exonerate Dinah in the court of public opinion. Get her working again, get the world off both their backs.

Bring everything back to how it was before.

"Five till, Jessica..." Donahue's voice was cluttered with digital debris, an electronic mess. "We're having some real –" stop " – tree branches – " stop " – might not show up."

"Screw it," Jessica said, feigning frustration. "You're right. Let's pack it in."

"Don't copy."

"I said _we're done_."

"Copy that."

"I'll be down in ten minutes."

"Got it. I'm calling in the –" His voice died in Jessica's ear.

And there it was.

She slipped on her sneakers and laced up. Took another look around the room. A glorious waste of two hundred fifty dollars, just as she had found it. Sneaking away in the aftermath of a shameful one night stand.

Jessica picked up her book bag, slipped the flash drive into her pocket.

Heading for the exit as the clock struck twelve.

Silence cracked by three thunderous knocks at the door.

Jessica held perfectly still. Brought her chin down to her chest and whispered, "Donahue?"

No answer in her ear piece.

Six more knocks, louder this time.

Followed by the frantic cry of a familiar voice. "Jessica! Jessica, are you all right?"

It was Malik.

He continued to pound against the door. Out of breath, frightened. "Jessica! Jessica! Please, Jessica, answer!"

Jessica stepped closer. "Malik?"

"Jessica?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, thank God..."

She put her eye to the peephole. Saw Malik's face distorted through the fisheye. "What are you doing here?"

"Are you all right, Jessica?"

"I'm fine."

"We need to get out of here, right now."

"Is that it?" Jessica asked. "Or do you need to get in?"

"Jessica?"

She hadn't heard anything from Donahue, but that didn't mean he couldn't hear her. She tucked her chin in once more with a steady whisper. "If you can hear me, I'm fine. Malik is here, and I'm letting him in. Do not move in until I give the word."

She opened the door and grabbed a hold of Malik's Pantheon jersey. It was damp with sweat, almost slipping through her fingers as Jessica pulled him in. She left the door cracked. Hallway light dimly revealing the depths of her room.

Malik didn't seem to notice. He stood by the bed, glancing around with paranoid eyes, a possible ambush coming at him from every corner. "Jessica, I need you to listen to me –"

"I know, Malik."

"What?"

"I know." Jessica crossed her arms over her abdomen, careful not to muffle the microphone. "I know everything."

Malik continued to breath heavily. Head askew, as though listening for phantoms flying just outside the windows. "What?"

"I know about what Jason Castle did to your mother. I know about Dr. Lazenby and the car accident, the failed lawsuit. I know about the Chloroform, how it went missing –"

"Jessica, wait." Malik held his hands out, fingers trembling. "It's not what you think."

"I know about your mother and Davenport. I know about the affair, I read the letter myself... I know you found the photographs. You know the ones I'm talking about. I know you found them."

"No, don't," Malik pleaded, eyes shimmering in the murky light. "You have to understand what my mother has been through, what those men did to her. What Clarence _did_ to me."

"I know exactly what he did to you, and I know exactly what you did to him –"

"She couldn't help herself, she had to do _something_ –"

"What _she_ had to do was..." Jessica trailed off. Sensed their confrontation drifting from the goal line. "Wait. What are you talking about?"

Malik tilted his head again, equally confused. "What are _you_ talking about?"

"Oh my God..." Jessica reached down, unconsciously touching the flash drive through her sweats. "You just said _she_."

"No, I didn't."

"You said _she_ couldn't help herself, that _she_ had to do something –"

"I meant me." Malik licked his lips. "It was me, Jessica."

"It _was_ Patricia, wasn't it?"

"No. Me. It was me the whole time –"

"She was going to break off the affair with Davenport..." The collection of shapes began to coalesce, adhering like drops of liquid mercury. "You found the letter February sixteenth, a letter she had always planned to send. But before she could, she found his stash of pictures. Somewhere in the back of her head, she knew what Davenport and Glen Roberts had done to you. Maybe something you said in your sleep, all those months on those happy pills. She didn't want that kind of shame brought on you, couldn't go to the police until she'd found the pictures they had taken of her little boy. And she couldn't _find_ those pictures unless she kept on seeing Davenport –"

"Jessica, stop –"

"Hell, she _never_ planned on going to the police," she pressed ahead. "She kept sleeping with him. Going over to his house as an undercover lover. Took whatever opportunity she could to root through the pictures, God knows what she must have seen there. She finally found the pictures and hid them along with the letter. When you wrote in your journal that you found the photographs, you meant you found them in her _special hiding place_."

"You read my journal," Malik said, voice flattening.

"You knew she'd raided your stash. Taken your chloroform while looking for anything to feed her addiction. Jason Castle was just a practice run. You probably didn't even suspect your mom until Davenport was attacked. And when Dr. Lazenby surfaced on the same day your mother arrived late for her own Fourth of July party... That's what you're doing here. You read the most recent Angry Jonny letter in the paper, saw that it had been mailed from Wilmington. It couldn't have been too hard for you to crack the code, you know a thing or two about sending anonymous letters –"

Malik's fingers curled into fists. "Jessica, you need to shut up. Now."

"You never had anything to do with it, Malik. You wrote the first Angry Jonny letter to _help_ me. To get my internship back. You practically confessed it the day before at the Prescott when you told me, _I'm going to fix this_. The letter was already in the mail, but you never in a million years thought that Davenport would end up as Angry Jonny's next victim, your mother's next victim."

"I can't let you do this," Malik said, slowly advancing. "You come into my life, walk out leaving nothing but a mess. You break my heart, you spy on me, _read my journal_. You're a sneaky little girl, Jessica, and that's all forgivable. It's why I love you. But not this, Jessica. I can't have you doing this to my family, _no chance_ – "

Jessica held out her arm, palm flat. "Caterwaul, Malik."

Malik stopped short. Legs bent, preparing to lunge. "What?"

"Caterwaul..." Jessica lifted her shirt, revealed the microphone hooked to her bra. "I'm wired, Malik."

"I don't think so."

"Doesn't matter what you think."

"You're right about that," Malik replied casually. "Because if you were wired, we wouldn't still be having this conversation."

She wasn't given the opportunity to consider any of it.

Malik charged.

Jessica had just enough time to turn before he slammed her against the door.

It closed shut, blotting out all light.

Jessica's face had crashed squarely into the hardwood door, sending bright starbursts from out of the darkness. Molars biting into her cheek, blood spurting from her mouth as the air rushed from her lungs. She felt Malik's arm slither around her waist, pressing into her from behind. His free hand reached up, caught beneath her shirt. Fingers clawing at her throat.

She pressed her palms against the door and shoved, twisting her body to the left with enough force to fall backwards and crush Malik against the adjoining wall. He let out a soft grunt, breath hot against her shoulder.

Not enough to break his grip.

Fingers getting a hold of her neck and _squeezing_. Actually lifting her inches off the carpet. Darkness swirling with shades of undiscovered red.

Gasping for air, Jessica raised her arm and brought her elbow hard into Malik's stomach.

Followed through twice, felt his hold weaken.

She writhed wildly, slipping free, running towards the bed.

Malik's hand slid down her body and he wrapped his arms around her leg.

Jessica squirmed, turning as Malik tried to hook his hands on her waistband.

She reached out into the darkness and plunged her fingers into his hair. There was a lot to grab a hold of, and Jessica rocked his head back, bringing it back down on her knee with a barely audible crack.

Malik cried out from the black, an enraged shriek that told Jessica she was going to have to kill him before he'd ever let her go.

Jessica kicked, hard. Sent him stumbling backwards, heard him crash against the door.

Her next breath would have to be either a scream or another attempt at escape.

Jessica opted for number two. Turned and took a blind leap over the bed, knowing she didn't stand a chance with Malik posting the front door. She tore at the curtains, brass rings chiming dully as she ripped the lace. She threw the doors open to a ravenous blast of barbed wind. Tiny hailstones whizzed past her face, striking her shoulders and arms like frigid insects.

She threw one of her legs over the railing, ready to lower herself down on the blue awning below.

Glanced up too late to do anything about Malik. Barely enough time to see him rushing from the depths of the room, a dark mask of blood and teeth, arms reaching out. He stumbled at the last second, and his shoulder plowed into her...

The world snapped a tether, went spinning, her left hand latched onto the rail. Wrist rubbed raw as her body swung off the balcony, down and around. Hip shrieking as she bounced off the balcony's concrete base. The impact reverberated through her entire body, all the way up to her fingers.

She let go.

Falling back, arms spread.

All the heavens revealed to her, clouds the color of corroded battery acid.

It was only a few feet. A couple of seconds.

Hardly enough time to pray that the awning could handle a hundred and ten pounds of earthbound teenager.

She hit the canopy, felt the thick fabric stretch beneath her.

Still stretching as she began to slide down, head first towards the ground. She kicked her legs up, abdomen bunching. Flipped around just in time to go soaring over the edge, feet first into a thicket of bushes. Not that it helped soften the body shock. Felt it in her shins. Teeth rattling, arms shielding her face as she carried the momentum forward, rolling several feet onto the golf course.

Jessica struggled to her knees, slipping on icy ball bearings. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Malik swing down from the balcony. Wasn't about to wait around and see how the awning would hold up under his weight. She began to run across the golf course, right knee painfully scraping at the joints.

And then she stopped.

Looked out over the grassy expanse, golf course disappearing into the darkness.

Nothing but death out there. "What the hell am I _doing_?" she cried out.

She turned back to the floodlights.

Malik had slid down the canopy, already looking to make a landing.

Just beyond that lay the outdoor dining area, where the faces of the remaining restaurant staffers had gathered to see what the storm had blown their way.

Jessica ran, legs pumping. Gathering velocity, a kinetic freight train as Malik took hold of the iron rung and swung down. Body swaying to the left. Then to the right.

With her teeth bared in a wicked sneer, Jessica launched herself at him.

Crashed into Malik in midair, both bodies flying over the bushes and landing hard on the concrete.

Rolled, bounced along, skin scrapping as they crashed into a stack of metal chairs.

Classical music playing on outdoor speakers.

First chance she got, Jessica was going to grab that boy's head and crack it against the nearest object.

Reached out, hand skimming the ground. Fingers wrapping around a large stone used to prop open the dining room doors. Jessica took hold, raised it above her head.

Lost beyond the moment, mind humming along with Mozart, at one with the music.

"FREEZE!"

The order was followed by a deafening gunshot.

Jessica was pulled away from the furthest reaches of the universe.

Let the stone fall to the ground. Threw herself against the cement and covered her head.

She heard a voice, female voice barking orders to _stay right there!_

Keep your hands where I can see them! Right up in the air!

Jessica's hands weren't anywhere near the air.

She rolled onto her back.

Presented with a sight that had her convinced she had finally gone insane.

Malik was on the ground, arms behind his back. Straddled by a sturdy, pony-tailed blonde in an elegant blouse and gray designer slacks. Flanked by two dames in sophisticated eveningwear. Guns drawn, pointed right at him with red lipstick snarls.

" _Th' fuck?_ " Jessica mumbled, blood rushing to her head as she stood up.

She promptly sat her ass back down.

"Jessica!"

She shook her head, clearing the way for Randal and Donahue to come running.

"You pat him down?" Donahue asked the blond, getting an affirmative nod as she cuffed Malik. "Read him his rights and bring him round back, we've got two cars coming. And someone get me an ambulance!"

Randal pulled out a walkie-talkie, began rattling off instructions.

Donahue crouched down next to Jessica, put an arm around her back. "Easy there, super girl. Easy."

"I'm fine."

"You don't know that yet. You try moving everything? No broken bones?"

"Nah, it's all good..." Jessica spat out a stream of blood, wiped her lips with the back of her hand. She saw the blonde undercover leading Malik away. "Did you get any of that, Detective? Was the microphone on?"

"We lost all communication right before midnight."

"It was his mother... Patricia Council. She was the one. Castle, Davenport, Dr. Lazenby... It was always her." Jessica reached into her pocket and handed Donahue the flash drive. "It's real ugly, Donahue. Clarence Davenport had taken pictures of Malik. His mom found out..."

"Don't worry about it," Donahue soothed, taking the flash drive. "We'll get your statement soon as we can."

"I just want to go home."

"We'll get you checked out, then we're going to need you down at the station."

"Give me a break, detective..." Jessica felt the wind was the only thing holding up her head. Or keeping it attached. "I know you need to get my statement while it's still fresh, but come on... how fresh do I look?"

Donahue went searching for a polite reply.

"I'm just talking a few hours of sleep time," Jessica said. "Come pick me up at six in the morning if you like. I'll tell you everything you need to know, just, c'mon. Please..." Jessica looked into eyes, his strong, worn features showing their age from so close. "Please just let me go home."

Donahue removed his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. "You let the paramedics take a quick look at you and we'll call it even."

"Deal. Help a girl up now."

Easy going, far as standing went. They began to shuffle along the patio, astonished faces still staring from beyond the windows. Jessica gave them a wave. They hesitantly returned the gesture. Mouths agape, unable to fully process the procession.

"They never knew you had it in you," Donahue commented.

"I know that guy..." Jessica mumbled, pointing. "Tipped him forty bucks tonight."

"Just keep walking, lady."

"Oh, I ain't much of a lady."

"I ain't much of a detective," Donahue admitted, as the cry of an ambulance began to emerge from somewhere beyond the building. "I won't tell if you don't."

Jessica spat some more blood, and kept walking.

# **Chapter 73:** **Who I Am.**

It was one in the morning when the squad car pulled up to Camelot apartments.

"Looks like they're tearing this place a new one," Donahue commented.

"Mm."

"I'm going to walk you to the door, all right?"

"Yeah."

Detective Donahue escorted her up the steps, along the brick path that cut through a twisted landscape of potholes, severed branches, and gaping windows. Anybody who happened to be passing by would have simply assigned blame to the passing storm.

Jessica knew better.

They reached the front door.

Donahue handed Jessica her book bag. "You want us to keep a patrol car around? Malik's mother ain't in jail yet, you know."

"Don't bother... Dinah's got to be home by now."

"Yeah, send her my regards."

Jessica's tiny chuckle rang hollow in her ears. "Sure."

"Get some sleep. I'm picking you up at the butt-crack of dawn."

"You Latin men, with your poetry." With monumental effort, she opened the door. "I will see you at the butt-crack, then."

"You really did do good tonight, Jessica."

"Sure I did."

She let the door swing shut behind her. Trudged up the steps, bile rising as she breathed in the stale smell of weed and wet dog. Three flights up, finally home to apartment K3A.

Home to an empty apartment, it appeared.

Lights off. No signs of life.

Jessica called out for her aunt.

No reply.

Still on edge from her work that evening, Jessica went from room to room, turning on all the lights, lowering the blinds. Postponing her inescapable dive into dreamland. Now completely in tune with her bruised and battered body. Arms covered in scratches. Wrist wrapped in gauze. Knees aching. Right cheek swelling, tongue pressing against the welt in her mouth.

Jessica put the kettle on and readied a cup of tea.

She wasn't sure how long she'd been gone. All those weeks of agonizing hatred, floating above everything, detached and half-dead. And now she was home.

Unable to rid herself of herself.

She poured the tea, scooped in an unbearable amount of sugar.

Jessica stole to the living room, took a seat on the couch. Just a cup of tea, and her trusty book bag. She took a sip of chamomile. Too hot to handle just yet.

And yet she went ahead and took three large gulps.

Scorching her tongue, throat. The bloody pulp that was once her inner cheek got the worst of it, and still Jessica continued to drink. Downed the whole damn thing, realized that she was starving. Not for food, not for water. It wasn't just an urge that came from what she had done that evening, what would come with the following days. She'd done everything she could. Explored every avenue, turned to every last comforting thought.

She sent her eyes across the room.

Over to the sewing machine.

Assorted liquor bottles, curves calling to her the way boys couldn't seem to stop talking about tits.

Instinctual, almost carnal.

A gravitational pull begging her to stop running away, accept who she was.

What she was.

Jessica reached for the ceramic mug, forgetting she'd already gone down that road.

Tore into her book bag. Laid the laptop on the coffee table, popped it open and turned it on. No greater distraction on God's green Earth than the Internet. As the computer began to boot, she dug deep, taking out her cellphone. Pressed the power button. It's welcoming chime seemed to mock her, the cruel taunt of a schoolyard bully.

She was alerted to a couple dozen messages.

All from Dinah, minus one call from an unknown number.

The phone buzzed in her hand, all but decimating Jessica's fragile nerves.

Incoming call from Detective Donahue.

"Is it six already?" Jessica asked, hardly able to carry the joke across the finish line.

"Just thought you'd like to know," Donahue said, voice dim against the hectic background of the station. "We've got Malik's mother."

"Yeah?"

"Just turned herself in. Don't know how, but she heard we'd picked up her son. Stormed right into the station, confessing to the whole thing... Want to hear something funny?"

"How funny?"

"Walked straight through security and up to the front desk without her cane... All of a sudden, it seems like she's doing just fine without it."

Jessica thought back to the pictures in Chaucer's file. Photographs of Malik's mother, in her backyard, out on the town. The red markings, lengthy ovals always positioned to the left of Patricia's body. Highlighting not what was there, but what was missing. More mobile than she had cared to let on.

The wonders of modern physical therapy.

"Yeah, that's real funny," Jessica said.

"We're processing her right now."

"Case closed?"

"I'm still going to need you in a few hours."

"OK."

"You all right?"

"No..." Jessica felt her heartbeat accelerate, head throbbing uncomfortably with every last bit of good news coming her way. "Donahue, I'm not doing so good. I don't know if it was what happened tonight, or what but... I feel so _heavy_. Like I'm paralyzed, like I can barely move."

"You've been through a lot, Jessica. What happened tonight doesn't even begin to cover it."

"I know, but –"

"Look. Tomorrow, after you give your statement, I'm going to have you meet with our psychologist. Her name is Ann, she does great work. It ain't like _Lethal Weapon_ around here, people really do respect this woman."

"Going to let a civilian talk to a police therapist on the taxpayer's dime?"

"Screw the taxpayers. They wouldn't be happy if we served up Bin Laden's head for Thanksgiving."

"Fine," Jessica relented. "I'll talk to her tomorrow. In a few hours, whatever."

"Get some sleep."

"Yeah."

Jessica hung up.

Headache promoted to full blown migraine.

Her hands began to shake. Legs trembling, heels bouncing against the wooden floor.

Jessica shot up from the couch, unable to help herself. Took two sweeping steps over to the makeshift minibar. She planted her hands on either side, a preacher at the podium all set to grace the bottles with a good old fashioned dose of scripture.

Instead she grabbed one of the mini vodka bottles.

Close to tears as she'd been in a long while, Jessica unscrewed the cap.

"Fuck it," she proclaimed. "It's who I am."

The cap offered little resistance, practically jumped into her hands.

Jessica brought the bottle to her lips and tilted back her head.

In an instant, she knew that something was wrong.

That this wasn't vodka, or anything close to alcohol.

Seven ways from ambrosia.

The vile liquid was halfway down her throat when her gag reflex sent orders to choke it back up. The rest of the bottle poured onto her face. Streaming up through her nostrils, mercifully missing her eyes as she breathed in the noxious fumes.

She stumbled back.

Bottle dropping from her hand.

Vision swimming, brain turning sluggish as she collapsed on the floor.

Inhaling the sweet smell of freshly cut grass as she faded to black.

# ***

The first thing she realized was that she couldn't move.

Jessica was sitting, she knew that much.

In a chair, that was the second bit of information that came swimming up from the depths.

With the same effort it took to bench press a Volkswagen, she forced her eyelids open. Only halfway so far, but enough to catch the soft light of the living room. Vision blurry. Eyes burning in a pool of chlorinated water. Slow, everything seeped in molasses.

Jessica felt her gorge rising.

Vomited soupy chamomile tea all over her lap.

It seemed to do some good, shocking the world back into half-focus.

Jessica was still in her living room.

No sign of the renegade bottle anywhere, halogen lamp in the corner set to the same dim level.

Shutters drawn shut over the windows.

Another quick assessment, paralysis explained.

Someone had tied her to one of the chairs. Not tied. Ankles duct-taped to wooden legs. Arms forced back through the rungs, bound tight. Didn't account for her utter lack of movement, and then she glanced down. Saw her entire torso enveloped in the same gray spider webs, strapping her to the chair.

Her mouth was parched.

She ran her tongue over her lips, felt the skin around her mouth burn.

She dry-heaved, chest pressing against the tape.

Nothing left to throw up.

She heard the door to the kitchen open, close.

The sound of keys falling on the counter, footsteps heading down the hallway.

A less subdued Jessica might have feigned sleep. Dropped her head into an act of pure unconsciousness. But she was either too drugged or too curious to play possum.

Eyes trained on the entrance to the hallway as her aunt walked in.

Dinah caught the frightened rainbows in Jessica's eyes and shook her head.

"Oh, shit." Dinah ran her hands through her hair and drifted into the room. "I really thought you'd be out for much longer. Given all you just tossed back. Maybe all that vomit..."

As though urged by the power of suggestion, Jessica felt herself slipping under. Shook her head, refusing to succumb to sleep. Took a good bite out of her cheek, pain blazing a trail towards a half-conscious.

"Blondie?"

"Jess, what the hell were you thinking?" Dinah picked up another mini-vodka bottle, swirled its contents around. "Here I thought I'd picked the perfect hiding spot. Plain sight, this whole time."

"Huh?"

Dinah took a seat on the coffee table. Pulled a white dishrag from her pocket. "Don't worry about it. This will all be over real soon."

"It _is_ over," Jessica insisted, words directed at herself more than Dinah. "They got Malik down at the station. His moms is there too, she confessed to everything."

"What a long, strange trip it's been," Dinah mused. "But you know the truth now. I mean, look where you are. Can you really keep lying to yourself?"

"I don't understand."

"Well, come on, baby... Who you thought it was?"

"No..." Jessica shook her head. "No, this can't be right."

"Hey, inside voice," Dinah teased. "You don't want to wake up the neighbors."

"Blondie –"

"I went to Jason Castle's house that night, I swear, with no idea what I was going to do..." She smiled, a dark grin recollecting some childhood prank. "Got his name from the credit card receipt at Spiro's. Did a little online snooping, found out where he lived. Took the chloroform with me, thinking I don't know what. Never thought I'd get so far as the front door. But the garage door... open and unlocked. Kudos to Eli Messner for taking care of that for us."

"For you," Jessica slurred, struggling to keep awake.

"For both of us, and you know it." Dinah stood up and brought the dimmer down on their lamp. "Now Eli didn't know it, but I had seen him that night. I was in the shadows. He made the mistake of stopping right in front of a window, caught in a pool of streetlight. Our scared little scarecrow."

"You knew this whole time."

"Didn't think I was ever going to do anything about it... Didn't even think I'd ever have to bring Angry Jonny back. But then Davenport had to go just one step too far. The night he attacked you in the parking lot across from the pool hall. That was a sign from God."

"So what? You loaded everyone at the bar with GHB, set up a tab you thought was airtight."

"You can thank your ex-boyfriend for the drugs. I picked those up along with the chloroform. Found them in his special hiding spot. The drawer in his desk."

Jessica ordered herself to break free.

Put up a real fight, at the very least hoping to rock the chair on its side.

Wood splintering, yet another chance at freedom.

She drew in a breath, tried to scream.

All that came out was a sad trembling moan.

"That's right," Dinah said. "You were so positive Malik had cheated on you. You told me he'd kept a journal. You told me about his special hiding place. That night of the party, Jessica. Valentine's day. Celebrating his acceptance to Wesleyan. I crept upstairs and went looking for that journal. Didn't find it. Just a notebook full of third-rate poetry, a few bottles of chloroform and some vials of GHB. At the time, I didn't know that wasn't his journal. I swiped it all to make it look like someone had raided him for everything he had. Stashed it all in my car. Came back to the party to find you telling him off in front of everybody..." Dinah flashed a disfigured grin. "That was a proud moment for me, Jess. The way you just stuck it to him. The same way we always should have; taking the fight to the cheats and liars, police and thieves."

What really frightened Jessica was that this could have been any conversation.

Any night of the week. Late hours spent in dangerous fantasies, wishing the worst of fates upon the worst of people. It was all within the usual boundaries.

Even Dinah's movements, emotions, explanations.

None of it came across as the mad rants of a psychotic criminal.

As far as this situation went, they were two reasonable people, sharing their grievances before the sun returned to show its face once more.

"No." Jessica shook her head, sending the room into a whirl. Unable to cope. Certain she had fallen asleep soon as she had walked through the door. Any moment now, Donahue would be calling. Lifting her from this nightmare to drag her tired ass down to the station. "Malik's mother. She confessed. She's down at the station right now, _spilling her guts_."

"Yeah, when I got back here and found you passed out, I called Donahue. Checked to see how things had gone. He told me all about it."

"Checked how what –"

"Parents and their kids just don't talk anymore," Dinah said shaking her head. "That's what makes us so special, Jessica."

"Wait, slow down..." Jessica's voice was losing what little was left.

"Don't you see? They were covering for _each other_. Malik's mother thought he had done it. All that talking in his sleep, you don't think he said something that eventually just clicked? We both know why Malik thought his mother did it. All that sneaking around, all that spying. The two of them never once confronted each other, too busy assuming the worst. Come tomorrow, day after, the cops are going to figure that out. In the meantime... "

"In the meantime what..? What are you going to do to me? Now that you've _bragged_ about it, rubbed it in my face. Going to put me under again? Cut out my eyes, my tongue. Maybe slit my throat, make sure I don't tell nobody about this?"

With a wounded expression, Dinah brought herself down to Jessica's level. Rocking on her haunches, blue eyes overdosing on righteous sincerity. "You really think I would do that to you?"

"You got no other choice."

"I think you know there's always a choice... But I've gotten good at thinking on my feet. Gotten smarter. Hell, you were there the whole time, helping me on my way. I learned from you, Jess. The way you caught my every move, forced me to up my game every time. After Malik sent that first Angry Jonny letter, I thought why not. Let's keep the tradition going. Those other letters, they were all mine, Jess."

"You still haven't answered my question," Jessica said. Tongue rasping against the roof of her mouth. "What happens now? Now that I know what Angry Jonny knows?"

"Well, first thing's first. Soon as we're done with our little chat, I'm going to step out of our apartment. Kick the front door open. Put you under again. I'll let out a blood curling scream, then do myself the same favor. When the cops come, they'll find us both passed out. And guess who we have to take the blame?"

"Eli?"

"Well, they found his DNA on Dr. Lazenby, didn't they?"

"How did that happen?"

Dinah smirked. "You'd be amazed what you can lift off a man when you've got your fingernails digging into his back."

"Oh, Jesus, Blondie..." Jessica held back her gag reflex, searching for a way to buy some time. "Why Dr. Lazenby? Why him, what did he have to do with either one of us?"

"Nothing. That's the point. Two Angry Jonny cases, both linked to us. The third one had to be a nowhere man. Something to throw the cops off the trail. I didn't think I'd be arrested the day after, but as I already pointed out... I've gotten better. I've learned."

"So you just picked some random nobody?"

"I actually got the name from one of Malik's poems. Didn't take too much research to put it all together, but you're missing the bigger picture."

"There is no bigger picture. You tortured him just to cover your tracks –"

"No bigger picture?" This was where the quintessential maniac would have taken to the room. Pacing back and forth with wild abandon. But Dinah remained cool, too certain of her own designs. "Dr. Lazenby _was_ the bigger picture. A man who cashes his checks helping insurance companies extort money from the sick and dying. Dr. Lazenby is a _murderer_ , Jess. In the same way that Castle was dirty, in the same way that Davenport was _fucking little boys_ , right along with his partner Glen Roberts. There's nothing random about it, these men were _guilty_."

"Welcome to the cult of Angry Jonny," Jessica mumbled, lips like cement glue.

"No need for irony, girl."

"I may be digging my own grave here, but knocking me out ain't gonna do you much good. What if I wake up and remember all of this?"

"I've still got a good amount of GHB..." Dinah began to head for the hallway. Paused at the entrance. Leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. "Enough to put all these memories to rest. Hell, just from the chloroform alone, I wouldn't be surprised if you aren't already blacking out just a bit."

"And how are you going to pin this on Eli?"

Dinah laughed. "Don't move... And don't even think about screaming. It'll just make things all the more believable."

Jessica was left alone.

She began to squirm, rocking back and forth in her chair.

No time to beat herself up over how stupid, how blind she had been.

In a few minutes, she would be waking up to find the paramedics hunched over her body, yet again. Only this time, she wouldn't be able to tell them how she got there. Nothing but a void in place of the truth.

Jessica continued to breathe, still smelling the remnants of imitation vodka on her lips. Curled her fingers upwards, fingernails cutting into the duct tape around her wrists. Struggling against all odds, unable to kid herself into thinking she'd be free by the time Dinah got back.

Unable to stop.

And there was her aunt, once again.

Her caregiver, guardian angel, standing before her.

Arms behind her back. "Try not to be too grossed out, Jess."

It was a tough request to comply with. At first, Jessica thought her eyes must have been playing tricks. That there was no way Dinah was holding a used condom hanging between her thumb and index finger.

"Yeah it is," Dinah affirmed, unabashed. "Kept it in a small Tupperware container, nestled in my mini-fridge, and... well, the less I have to explain this one the better."

Jessica didn't think she could take another bout of sickness. Her whole stomach would have to come lurching out of her mouth this time. Come to rest at her feet in a pulsating, bloody mess.

"No worries," Dinah said. "I'm not going to slap any of Eli's babies on your face or anything. When the cops arrive, they'll find us both passed out and..." She emptied the contents onto her blouse, spread it around a little with her fingers. "Yeah, that _is_ kind of gross. Let me just dispose of this."

She disappeared down the hall.

Jessica heard the sound of a toilet flushing.

Dinah came back in, picked up the dishrag and mini vodka bottle. "OK, enough of that. Let's get this show on the road."

"You don't have to do this, Blondie."

"At this point in any mad rampage, I pretty much have to."

"Of course you have to do _this_ ," Jessica rolled her eyes. The very act brought gray swirls to her vision. "No choice, I get it. But you don't have to _drug_ me. I'm talking straight self-preservation here. I could overdose. I could die. What if I just woke up and went with it all? What if you just trusted me?"

Dinah put the bottle down on the coffee table.

Laid the dishrag alongside and perched on the edge.

Broke out with a kind smile, the same one that had anchored Jessica to every day for the past three years. The real Dinah, the true surrogate who had carried her from the gates of hell, saved her from annihilation just to bring her right back.

"Sad thing is, Jess..." Dinah sighed. "You're not really lying. You know what I'm going through. Anger's like a drug. It releases hormones, pheromones. Goddamn saxophones, right. I know there's a side of you that never left. The raging alcoholic. The pissed off, frustrated young woman from Louisville. See, I _know_..." Dinah tapped Jessica's temple with her fingers, each rap sending a thunderous pain through her skull. "I know there's a part of you that's psyched to be a part of this. Think about it. Our names cleared. An end to this whole affair, and who do we have on the hook?"

"Eli Messner."

"Or Arnold Brennan, whoever the hell he was in the past. Some slimy, disgusting sex offender behind bars. Maybe not sentenced to fry, but gone. Locked up forever, Jessica. I know there's a part of you that sees the beauty of it all. Can you look me in the eye and tell me I'm wrong?"

Jessica didn't need to look her in the eye to let her know she was right.

A muted nod was all it took.

Arms and legs growing numb.

"But there is that other part of you I'm stuck dealing with..." Dinah sighed, pulling at her hair. Blond curls bouncing as they released themselves from between her fingers. "Tonight. I know you had the chance. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to teach Jerome Keanen, Mr. Daedalus himself, a real lesson. Angry Jonny style. And that other part of you simply... failed. Choked. Gave it all up for reasons that are just beyond me."

Jessica's shouldn't have been surprised by anything at this point.

Dinah's apologetic frown suggested as much. "I've been reading your journal. It's done nothing but help me, you can bet that much. I was knocked down. Bowled over by your plan, Jessica. So goddamn brilliant. Come tomorrow, the cops would've found his body. And all it would turn out to be is just another horrible misunderstanding. Here they were, guarding you with their lives, when all the while Angry Jonny was planning on taking care of an evil land developer..." Dinah laughed, then quickly remembered how it had all played out. "But you didn't do it, did you?"

Jessica didn't answer.

"You didn't, Jess..." Dinah stood, kissed Jessica's forehead. "I can see it in your eyes. And that's the other part of you. The one I just can't trust to do the right thing."

The walls were closing in.

Time running down to zero as Dinah stood, picking up the dish rag and chloroform.

"How'd you pull off Dr. Lazenby?" Jessica blurted out. "Independence Day. How the hell –"

"We're done talking," Dinah said, opening the door.

"Blondie, please..." Jessica managed to squeeze out one last second. Got Dinah to turn before heading into the hallway. "Forget justice. Forget judgment. Just, please, tell me. That night you were standing in Jason Castle's house. Not even knowing what you were doing there. You can't tell me that didn't set the stage for every night this summer... Come on, now..." Jessica's voice had been filed down to a whisper. "Why did you do it. Really?"

"What do you want from me, Jessica?" Dinah shrugged, spelling it out with slow, deliberate words. "I... Was... Angry."

Dinah stepped out into the hall, closed the door.

Jessica began to thrash around in her chair.

A dying fish stuck to the bottom of a rowboat.

One kick.

Two kicks.

Three kicks against the door before the wood splintered.

Burst open.

And there was Dinah standing in the doorway. Bottle in one hand, dishrag in the other.

"Can't wait for you to wake up," she said, smiling. Eyes alight with what could only be described as, inexplicable, pure, incendiary love. "I've got some amazing things to tell you."

In a cold instant, Dinah had the dishrag pressed against Jessica's face.

Jessica didn't even know why she was still fighting, but something refused to let go so easily. Jerking her head from side to side, unwilling to let Dinah clamp down.

And then, they both stopped.

Momentarily distracted by the sound of the kitchen door swinging open.

The sound of someone running down the hall, all questions answered in the form of Eli Messner.

Spare key clenched in his fist.

Green eyes taking in the whole scene, trembling with fury. "Read the papers today, Dinah?"

"Well, well..." Dinah declared, grabbing a fistful of Jessica's hair. "This is actually far more convenient than I could have ever planned."

Eli sprinted across the room.

Dinah let out the bloodcurdling scream she had promised and met him head on.

Jessica watched from her prison cell as the two of them spilled onto the floor. Felt her wrists slowly coming loose, adhesive losing its battle to Jessica's sweat-soaked body.

Eli and Dinah went rolling against the coffee table. A mess of arms and legs, cries and muted grunts that could've easily been mistaken for a round of rough sex. Didn't matter. Any moment now, someone would have to come running out from their apartment to find...

... To find what, exactly?

The very same question must have passed through Chaucer's mind when he appeared in the doorway.

Steel-plated Colt held in both hands, ordering everyone to _fucking hold it!_

Dinah shot up from the ground, bursting into tears.

Eli, not so quick on the draw. Stuck to the floor, reaching up to grab hold of whatever he could.

"Oh, thank God, Chaucer!" Dinah sobbed, backing up against the windowsill. Half sitting on the radiator. Tears flowing freely. "He just burst in here. I think he was... I think he was..."

"No..." Eli managed to stand up, stumble to his feet. "She's lying. I just got here, it was her –"

"Hold it right there, son," Chaucer warned, drawing his sights on Eli.

"He broke in here, he tried to kill us both!" Dinah cried.

"She's lying, Braswell!" Eli yelled. "It was her all long. _She's_ the one!"

"Shut up or I will destroy every last one of you," Chaucer barked.

Eli turned to Jessica. "Tell him! Tell him what happened!"

"Tell him what happened, Jessica!" Dinah cried, eyes enveloping the better half of her face. "This is it, right now!"

"Jessica –"

"Tell him right now!" Dinah screamed. "Tell him! Tell him what he did to us, this fucking pervert! _Tell him what he did, you ungrateful bitch, I've been like a mother to you!_ "

There was no avoiding it.

One of them was going to jail that night.

"It was Dinah," she said flatly. "It's always been Dinah."

There wasn't a person in the room, Eli included, who had been expecting Jessica to say that.

Chaucer took another step into the room, trained his gun on Dinah.

"Ah, hell," Dinah said. Something inside of her collapsed, face aging a thousand years. "Fuck all of you."

Jessica closed her eyes as Dinah rushed Chaucer.

Expecting to hear a gunshot, bullet ripping through Dinah's heart.

Instead, she heard Dinah's body falling to the ground.

But the gunshot never came.

When Jessica opened her eyes, she saw Chaucer dragging Dinah across the room. Kicking and screaming, Gash on her forehead. Gun holstered, he pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and fastened her to the radiator.

Dinah continued to scream, practically speaking in tongues.

The vile, guttural sounds of demon possession.

Chaucer glanced up at Eli.

Eli nodded, handed Chaucer the bottle of chloroform and the dishrag.

Seconds later, it was over.

Dinah slumped on the floor.

Arms raised above her head, metallic jewelry cutting into her wrists.

Chaucer plopped himself down alongside her. Resting his back against the radiator. Chest heaving, he motioned towards Eli. "Where you been hiding?"

"Been spending my days with a beagle named Mega Weapon."

"Well you'd better get back to him, son. Right now."

Eli shook his head. "I need to tell her –"

"I know all about what they did to you," Chaucer said. "I'll tell her everything. Come find you and we'll get you out of this town..." he dug into his pocket and tossed his money clip on the floor. "Got a couple hundred dollars there. Just go. Go now. You've got maybe five seconds."

Eli didn't hesitate.

He scooped up the cash, stuffed it in his pocket.

Turned to Jessica, eyes wet with tears.

Then Eli ran out of the room. Down the hallway and out the back door.

Jessica felt herself fading from existence. "You sure took your sweet time."

"Shit, girl..." Chaucer shook his head. "Told me to look after Dinah until you called to say otherwise..."

One of the neighbors finally poked through the busted front door.

Jessica could hear her brain demanding laughter.

Those wide eyes. Horrified expression all covered in an oversized bathrobe.

"Call the police..." Chaucer ordered, scrounging for the last remaining notes of authority. "Tell them we've got Angry Jonny."

The Good Samaritan took off, feet flying down the steps.

"You going to get me out of this chair?" Jessica asked. Upper lip losing its stiff streak, tongue melting. "Or you just gonna sit there with your thumb up your ass?"

Chaucer laughed.

He crawled over and began to wrestle with the tape. "I followed Dinah back here. Parked out front. After a while, thought I saw someone sneaking around back. Came to investigate and..." He freed Jessica's left leg, wrist flapping as he tried to rid himself of the sticky adhesive... "And I saw Dinah throwing some shit in the trash. So I went dumpster-diving. Old habits..." There went the right leg. He set to work on her wrists, all those cigarettes resurrected in a painful wheeze... "Then I heard the scream. Came running. Found you here, and Dinah and –"

"Chaucer?"

"Yeah, honey?"

"I just don't care that much anymore."

Her wrists were free now.

Jessica felt herself falling.

Falling into Chaucer's arms.

Room running on carousel batteries as she closed her eyes.

Falling asleep for good this time.

# EPILOGUE

# August 31

"It's not too late to turn back."

Nobody there to hear it this time.

Jessica stared through the towering windows, peering past her reflection and into those old battlegrounds. She could just make out the tables. Scattered wait staff laying down the silverware and folded napkins. Empty chairs tucked beneath the bar. The neverending dance that came with setting up first shift.

Shouldering her book bag, Jessica opened the door and stepped into Spiro's.

There were only a few familiar faces to be found. Turnover rates for food service appeared to be one of the few things unaffected by the recession. Jessica wandered into the middle of the room. She stopped by table thirteen, absently stroked the tablecloth. The waiters and waitresses exchanged harried, caffeinated looks. Each one waiting for someone else to inform her that they didn't open till eleven-thirty.

Before she could ask, Jessica heard a familiar voice calling from the bar.

"If it isn't Jessica Kincaid."

Guy motioned for her to come over and grab a seat.

Same carefully maintained facial hair adorning a slick, winner-take-all face.

It appeared there was a bit of clockwork left in the universe after all.

Jessica sat herself at the bar. "How you been, Guy?"

Guy scooped some ice into a pint glass. "I'd ask the same, but I'm a little afraid of you."

"Yeah." She smiled weakly. " `Case you're worried, I'm not here to ask for my job back."

"In case you were wondering, we'd be happy to have you back."

He pumped some tonic, placed the glass in front of Jessica.

"That's kind of what I wanted to talk to you about."

"I'm not sure I get it."

"I just wanted say..." Jessica took a sip of tonic water, felt the bubbles burn in her throat. "I just wanted to tell you that I wouldn't come back to work at this dump if you paid me."

Guy's smile hit a speed bump. "Well, technically, we would kind of _have_ to pay you."

"What I'm trying to say is... I just don't understand you. I don't understand much of anything. I don't get what would make a person want to be a manager. Or a doctor, or a teacher. Venture capitalist, small business owner. And that's _my_ problem, no one else's..." Jessica's hands tightened around her drink. "And even though I don't really get what I'm doing here either, I just wanted to say that it's not your fault I can't stand you."

"Well..." Guy tried on a couple of different smiles. Set his lips to neutral. "Thanks, I guess."

No, he didn't get it either.

"Well, it looks like I'm going to have to work on my delivery..." Jessica drained her tonic in a single pull. "I should get going."

"What's next for you?"

"Moving guys are coming to my apartment at one."

"Yeah? Where you headed?"

"To see a detective about a car." Jessica hopped down from her seat. Picked up her book bag and sent a respectful nod in Guy's direction. "Have a good one."

"Yeah, you too..."

Without a single sentimental song in her heart, Jessica walked on to her next destination.

Several steps remaining, no doubt about it.

# ***

Detective Donahue drove Jessica out to the impound lot.

He parked by the courthouse, no need to put money in the meter. The two of them walked around the building and headed down a long set of steps leading to a tall, chain-link fence. Coils of barbed wire snaked around the top. The back entrance was tended by a lone security guard, sitting in a tiny booth, leafing through a used paperback.

Donahue handed him a slip of paper.

The guard signed, handed Jessica her own form.

She signed off, got a yellow carbon copy for her troubles.

The sun beat down on the car lot of deviant vehicles. Donahue took random lefts and rights, unashamed to admit he didn't know where he was headed.

"Not like that piece-of-shit Mustang should be so hard to find," he added.

"That car's a classic, Detective."

"Classic piece of shit..." He loosened his tie, wiped the sweat from the back of his neck. "The only reason we're giving it back is because we're too embarrassed to put it on auction."

Jessica pointed two rows down, where the mustang's faded hood poked out a good foot past the rest. Its massive front bumper gleamed brightly between patches of rust. She ran her hand over the roof, memories burning her palm. The same ungainly boat that had driven her to school every morning for the past three years.

"Guess this is it," Donahue said.

"So you really are a detective."

"I'll be sure to put that in my report."

"Seems like only yesterday..."

Donahue nodded. He glanced around, as though looking for an excuse to stick around. Scratched his nose, rapped his knuckles on the trunk.

Jessica leaned against the car, thought she'd throw him a bone. "What's the word on Malik?"

"Oh, yeah, him," Donahue said casually. "We're going to let him stay under doctor's supervision until the arraignment. District Attorney has agreed to three years' supervised probation... if you still feel like vouching for the guy who tried to kill you."

"You love your mother?"

"My mother's a saint, lady."

"So, yeah. Malik loves Patty, and I still got his back."

Donahue joined her by the car. "You seem to be... I don't know, displaying a certain amount of forgiveness."

"I don't want to talk about it..."

The detective let it slide. "There is still something I have to ask."

"Go ahead."

"You heard from Arnold Brennan?"

"You mean Eli Messner."

"I mean Arnold Brennan."

"I don't know no Arnold Brennan." Jessica shook her head. "And even if I had, I wouldn't tell you."

"Let's get something straight..." Donahue switched his seat to the car parked next to them. An Oldsmobile low-rider painted some hideous shade of green. "That kind of talk is fine as long as it's just you and me."

"It's fine no matter what."

"We let a wanted sex offender slip through our fingers. What am I supposed to tell the media about that?"

"How about the truth?" Jessica crossed her arms, stared down at her sneakers. "How about telling people that Eli was just a victim of circumstance? That he was unfairly prosecuted, and didn't deserve what happened to him?"

"Yeah, you want to know why America has the harshest sex offender laws of any rich nation? It's because there's always a politician looking to look tough. And to look tough, you've got to go one step ahead of whatever laws are already in place. And anyone running against this politician isn't going to risk looking weak by comparison... What makes you think I've got any more leeway than those poor bastards?"

"You could just say –"

"Truth is, I'm not concerned with what you think I should do. All I care about keeping you in mint condition."

"That's weird."

"It's been a weird, weird summer..." Donahue said. "But all of this is far from over. When Dinah goes to trial, your testimony is key. DA can't have you taking the stand only to have the defense come forward with evidence that you withheld information that could have helped the police catch a wanted statutory rapist."

Jessica tugged at her shirt, letting the air in. "Guess you and I will never be friends, will we?"

"Please. Just _looking_ at you gives me a headache."

"Guess that's my cue..." She unlocked the door, and slid into the front seat. The aging seat covers were smoldering like diner grills, wheezing with the smell of burnt dust.

Donahue stuck his foot in the door before she could close it. "One more thing."

Jessica grimaced. "I'm getting kicked out of my apartment at midnight tonight, detective –"

"Yeah, well I ain't too thrilled about this either." With a pained expression, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded slip of paper. "This is for you."

"What is it?"

"A check for ten thousand dollars."

Jessica felt no shame in snatching it from his hand. She stared down at all those zeroes, courtesy of the Verona police department. Never thinking the state would have actually come through with it.

"The press has been driving us ape shit asking about whether you're going to get the reward for helping us apprehend Angry Jonny..." Donahue put on his best scowl, ever the bad cop. "Don't think for a moment that I think you deserve any of it."

Jessica smiled. "Don't I have to sign something before I can deposit this?"

"We'll be needing you at the station tomorrow anyway," Donahue said. He closed the front door and leaned in through the open window. "We still got a long way to go."

"I know."

"Drive up to the front gate, show the guard your receipt." He knocked on the roof three times. "Now get out of here."

Jessica watched him walk away, out of sight.

She slipped the key into the ignition.

The engine sputtered to life with the thankful growl of a loyal dog.

"Let's see what this baby can do," Jessica whispered.

She stuffed the check into her pocket and cautiously pulled out.

# ***

It was almost five by the time the movers had cleared everything out.

Jessica wandered from room to room. Marveling at the classic beauty of those old apartments, kissing the walls with misty eyes, nothing left to suggest she had ever lived there. She took a few thoughtful laps around the living room. Hardwood floors wishing her all the best. The sounds of construction work floated through the windows, fell dead before reaching her ears.

The last call to end all last calls.

All that was left was the Internet router, green lights flashing in their last throes.

Jessica reached into her book bag, pulled out her laptop.

Sat on the windowsill and logged in.

There was the email, one week deep in her inbox.

A message from Eli Messner, care of Mr. Disney Owens.

She breathed in the last day of August and read the letter for the last time.

Dear Jessica.

Please don't hang up.

Before Chaucer helped get me out of town, he slipped me this email address and his password. I don't know if he told you I would be writing. I don't know whether or not he told you about me, or if you went ahead and found out on your own... I just wanted this chance to say goodbye.

I didn't want you to spend the rest of your life thinking all the horrible things you must have thought about me. I wanted to tell you the truth.

My name is Arnold Brennan. I was born and raised in Atlanta, GA. My parents both died, if you can believe it, in a plane crash. A rather famous one. A flight headed for Tel Aviv in 1992. The Internet can tell you the rest. I was delegated to my uncle. Not the world's best surrogate... But I guess that's not what you want to know.

Long story short, I fell in love with a girl named Laura.

Short story long, she was two years younger than me. I guess you can figure what happened next. She was fifteen. I was seventeen. Funny thing is we never even had sex. Our first time rounding third base, her parents walked in on us.

I was taken to court on statutory rape. The official charge was "sodomy". Back in '94 that was how Georgia law interpreted third base. Jason Castle was looking to make an example of me. I didn't even get to talk to my lawyer till the day of my trial, and only for five minutes. He told me to plead guilty. I was seventeen, and didn't have much of a choice. I was put on three years' probation. I was put on the Georgia sex offenders registry. Anybody who wanted to could have looked me up and found my name, photograph, address. What they wouldn't have found were the facts surrounding my case. All they would have seen was that I had pleaded guilty to statutory rape and sodomy.

Less than a month later, they tried to put me away for a technical violation of my probation.

No chance I was going to jail, so I skipped town. What's one more offense to a registered sex offender? I went to New York to stay with a friend. As if you didn't have enough names to keep track of, I spent those years going by Henry Smith; the name of the first fake ID I purchased from some thug at Time Square.

So there I was. Couldn't get a job. Couldn't get an apartment. Once you're on the registry, you're on it for life. There's a good amount of dangerous people on that list, but there's also people like me. Just a stupid, ignorant seventeen year old messing around with a stupid, ignorant fifteen year old who meant the world to me.

Poker became the perfect means to an end. I lost ninety pounds, dyed my hair blond. Jumped around from place to place. And all those years I spent gathering the money, I spent them thinking about nothing other than Jason Castle.

About a year or so ago, I finally had enough money to head on down to Florida. Through a series of shady connections, I had been set up with a man in Key West who specialized in creating new identities for desperate men and women such as myself. Cost me ten grand to bring Eli Messner back from the dead. I definitely got what I paid for. They erased all records of his death, gave me a full dossier on the life of Eli.

No identity is completely foolproof, though. I was warned that no matter what I chose to do with my new life, I should keep a low profile.

I guess you know how that worked out for me.

Maybe if I'd had the courage to tell you all of this when I had the chance... well, it's a meaningless what if at this point.

I can't tell you where I am right now. Can't tell you where I'm headed.

All I can tell you is I will always be your friend.

I'm not angry for what you did.

And I never will be.

Don't try writing back. I've sent word to Chaucer, and he's probably already shut this address down.

I wish you all the luck in the world.

I'd ask you to stay out of trouble, but we both know that ain't going to happen.

At the very least, try and be good.

Yours always.

-Arnold Brennan.

Without thinking, Jessica hit REPLY.

Didn't even get past _Dear Eli_ when she realized it was well and truly over.

Detective Donahue was right.

With a silent _Godspeed,_ Jessica closed the window.

The blank desktop stared back at her. She went to her pictures and brought up the jpeg of baby Jessica in her mother's lap. Set it as the desk top background. Bathed in the juvenile serenade of the same dogged ice cream truck, she reached out and ran a gentle finger along her mother's face.

"I miss you," she whispered.

Her mother continued to smile up at her from the distant past.

Jessica slid the mouse down to the Windows menu, all set to shut it down, when something caught her eye. She leaned in close, zeroing on an upright lamp next to their chair. From the stained, yellow lampshade, a tiny object hung at the end of a small, pink chain.

She returned to the jpeg, opened it in Windows' Photo Gallery.

Used the zoom function and scrolled over to the lamp.

Followed the chain down to a small, brass unicorn.

Its single, tiny glass eye winked at her.

This was the second time she had come across the curious creature.

The first had been in Chaucer's room, while searching through his dresser drawer. Convinced that there was more to this unexpected father figure than he was letting on.

Jessica closed the laptop and took a good long look out the window.

Now more certain than ever.

# ***

Jessica leaned against a telephone pole outside of Pinecrest Cemetery.

Watched from across the street as the wrecking crew went about their business.

A rogue soccer ball came rolling to her feet. From a couple of yards away, an enclave of pintsized humans were jumping up and down on the lawn outside their squat tenement building. Brilliant smiles just days away from the rigors of classroom life. Not a care in the world other than retrieving their ball, waving their arms in encouraging semicircles.

Jessica gave it a solid punt, put the ball back into play.

She wiped the sweat of another day off her face.

Still working on her final farewells when the Eldorado pulled up across the street.

Chaucer got out, cautiously trotting across the street. "Where are the movers?"

"Long gone," Jessica said. Regarding him carefully, as though this were their first time meeting. Taking in the dented acne scars, graying hair. Tall, well-maintained body giving away its age beneath a black T-shirt and faded jeans. Calloused hands. Muddied eyes that insisted on uncovering all that lay beneath the surface. "They already moved all my stuff into the new place."

Chaucer seemed hurt by the news. "You said they were going to start at four –"

"So I lied. You're an old man, old man. These men get paid to do what they do, and I didn't want you getting in the way."

"That's cold, Jessica."

"Just what summer called for."

That was worth a laugh in Chaucer's book. He situated himself on the other side of the telephone pole. Hands tucked into pockets. Lapsing into a respectful silence as he watched one of the window casings come tumbling to the ground.

The time was drawing close.

"What are you up to for the rest of the day?" Chaucer asked.

"Going to settle in with the help wanted section and find myself a job."

"You're hardly going to need the money once Castle's wife coughs up the bounty she promised. Fifty K, last time I checked."

"I don't think she's convinced this is the real deal. For all she knows, it could be Scott Stoppard all over again. Another false alarm, another game of collusion."

"She'll pay," Chaucer assured her. "You're a hero, Jessica Kincaid. Mrs. Castle knows it, well as everyone else in Verona. This time, they _got_ themselves Angry Jonny."

"I almost went to visit her yesterday."

"What happened?"

"Started shaking all over the minute I thought about it," Jessica said. "Same reason I canceled our little trip to Wilmington to see Malik and his parents. It's all just..."

Chaucer didn't need to hear more. "It's been less than a month. Take your time."

"You're just full of advice."

"Jessica –"

"Goddamn it, Chaucer," Jessica burst out, surprised by how childish she sounded. "Are you my dad or not?"

It took a lot to rattle a pro.

Either that or Chaucer had been expecting the question for a good long while.

He shook his head. "No."

"We've been dancing around it ever since..." Jessica trailed off. Got hold of her momentum once again and forged ahead. "We've just kept on pretending, playing spy versus spy. You know I searched your files and took Eli's out of there. I know you know it. So let's just _do_ this already, I _found_ the brass unicorn in your dresser."

"I'm not your daddy, Jessica."

"Then who are you?"

"I'm a guy who used to be a detective," Chaucer said. "Long time ago. And once, even longer ago, I knew your father. He was an army buddy of mine. I went to visit him in Louisville shortly after you were born, and that's how I met your mother."

Jessica leaned her head against the telephone pole. "You knew my father?"

"Better than I would have liked..." Chaucer mirrored Jessica, resting his own head against the splintered wood and looking back on it all. "Don't want to say he was a bad man, but... he was incomplete, is probably the best way to put it."

"And my mom?"

He smiled. "Kendra was a wonderful woman. Bright. Kind. Compassionate. Untamed. We grew very close. After your father cut out, I spent a good year or so traveling back and forth between Wilmington and Louisville. Checking up on her. Checking up on you."

"I don't remember you. She never once mentioned –"

"Things didn't end so well between us."

"What does that mean?"

"Jessica, I can only..." Chaucer sighed, pulled a pack of Dunhills and lit up. "One thing at a time. And we've got lots of time. I'm just not ready to talk about what happened. Not yet."

"You have to tell me _something_ ," Jessica said.

Chaucer took a pull of his cigarette. Followed the trail of smoke. "Your mom's alive, Jessica."

Jessica swallowed. "Alive where?"

"I don't know."

"Please don't fuck with my head, Chaucer."

"I swear on my life, Jessica, I'm done with that."

Jessica's lips twisted, folded in between her teeth. "OK."

"A couple of months ago, a man came to see me on behalf of your mother. A lawyer. He had a letter. From your mother. Came with that silver unicorn I gave her way back when. I promise you, Jessica, I'll show you the letter first chance we get. For now, I'll just say that she was calling in a favor. Kendra wanted me to check up on you. Make sure you were doing all right. A little reconnaissance, followed by a full report."

"Why?"

"I don't know. When I came down here, I didn't know what was waiting. But what was I supposed to do? With every week that passed, there was always something new. Something unresolved. I couldn't just cut out, tell the lawyer to tell your mom that, _yeah, Jessica is healthy, beautiful, smart, and stuck in the crosshairs of a psychopath who calls himself Angry Jonny_."

Jessica forced a laugh, still fighting the facts. "When you put it like _that_."

"You weren't even supposed to know about this. But you turned out to be far smarter than I could have ever imagined. I used the Disney Owens handle to help you, didn't want to let you know just how much of a stake I had in making sure you would come out this the other end. I used Anita's car to keep watch as many nights as I could. I have spent the better years of my life doing this kind of thing, and there's only been a handful of people who have gotten wise to me."

Jessica nodded, her word turning inside out yet again. "So how do I find my mom?"

"You can't."

"You mean _you_ can't."

"I tried, and couldn't. This _lawyer_ who came to visit me wasn't even a lawyer. I tried to get a bead on him, and the firm he claimed to work for had never heard of him. I've searched the letter for clues. I've called in favors from every last connection I have. All I got is a PO box number in New Orleans, that finally turned out not to even exist. Whatever her reasons were for contact, she never intended for me to send her any kind of report."

Jessica tried to keep herself from crying. "I swore to God I'd never say this again after I sobered up, but this isn't fair."

"I'm sorry, Jessica. The trail is cold, your mother is in the shadows. But I know she is alive."

" _How?_ "

"I just know it..." Chaucer walked up to the gutter, dropped his cigarette into the sewer drain. "And when you read the letter, you'll understand. She's alive and if she could see you right now, she would be proud. So unbelievably proud of what a fine young woman you've become."

Jessica felt as though her lungs were capsizing. "I don't think I'm doing so fine."

"I think you are, Jessica. I think you're doing far better than you think."

"Prove it."

Chaucer turned to face her. "Why didn't you do it?"

Jessica frowned. "Why didn't I do what?"

"Why didn't you take out Jerome Keanen when you had the chance?" Without pausing so much as to let Jessica flinch, he revealed his source. "I read your notebook."

"Yeah. Who hasn't?"

"It was there in the dumpster that night. One of the many things Dinah had thrown out while covering her tracks. I flipped to a random page, swore I must have been staring at the diary of a lunatic."

Jessica tried to blunt the topic with a shrug. "Not my finest work."

"Are you kidding me? It was foolproof. I didn't even get to the entries where you spelled out your plan until later that evening. Went to the bathroom to check the wastebasket. Sure enough, housekeeping had dumped all the evidence. I almost had to pinch myself. Went and checked the Internet just to make sure I hadn't somehow missed the news of Jerome Keanen's brush with Angry Jonny."

He took a look around, convinced he could continue with impunity. "I won't lie, it was almost frightening. That letter was just stunning. Using the initials J.K. was a stroke of genius. Jerome Keanen, registered under the name John Galt. Cops have never seen that coming. And the double meaning of the room numbers? That one line? _Past a west Broadway area_... You made the cops think it referred to something temporal. Back when 213 was the area code for all of Southern California. When what it really meant was the area code just outside downtown, just _past_ Broadway."

"Area code three-two-three," Jessica agreed glumly. Sickened to find the plan still retained all its dark beauty, even after it no longer mattered. "Same as Jerome Keanen's room number."

Chaucer turned to stare her down. "You had it. You could've wasted the man who's responsible for _all this_..." He motioned back towards the gutted apartments. "This future site of yet another off-campus dorm for over-privileged drunks... but you didn't."

Jessica turned her back to him.

Her home had been taken away. Her once dedicated boyfriend was on parole for an attempt on her life. She had blown the whistle on an unfairly prosecuted man, sent him back on the lam to be hunted like an animal. And the woman who had spent the past three years tending to her every need was awaiting trial in a Verona jail cell.

But Kendra Kincaid was still out there.

Her mother was alive.

Jessica had to believe that much was true.

The air was pierced by the angry beeps of a truculent bulldozer. Trampling the grass, looking to get a better angle on the last remaining tree stump of a once full-grown magnolia. High up in their metal crow's nest, overworked men methodically chipped away at the windows.

"Why didn't you do it?" Chaucer repeated, gently taking hold of her chin.

The children continued to play, soccer ball bouncing from foot to foot. Their joyous cries tickled the skies, blissfully unaware that just a few feet away stood a young woman who could have gotten away with murder.

Why not, indeed?

"I don't know," Jessica confessed, lips trembling. She stared up into the world-wary eyes of the last man standing. "Don't that beat all, Chaucer? _I still don't know_..."

She buried her face deep into her palms.

Eyelashes fluttering against her lifelines as she gave into it and finally let herself cry.

# ###

# ***

# **Connect With Joaquin Emiliano** **Online**

# Official Website: http://joaquinemiliano.com

# Facebook: <http://facebook.com/Joaquin.Emo>

# Tumblr: http://joaquinemiliano.tumblr.com

# Twitter: <http://twiter.com/joaquin_emo>

# ***

# Props, Shout Outs, & Secret Crushes.

Without the following people, there would be no Angry Jonny. Blame them.

First and foremost, none of this would be possible without the minds and maintenance behind Smashwords. If you are reading this, you know what's what. If you know anyone who doesn't, start spreadin' the news.

A paralyzing tirade of props to my big brother, Rodrigo – creator of websites, cinematographer, and postproduction genius behind all promotional motion media. A busier man there never has been, and he managed to turn a twenty-four-hour day into twenty-seven without a second thought. Of all the projects we've worked on together, I don't believe he has ever been more accommodating, easygoing, and supportive than this time around. There should be a naked statue of him in the Louvre (and for all I know, there is).

Eternal reflexive thanks for my mother and father. I may not have asked to be born, but I also doubt I could have asked for more supportive parents.

Robin was there from the very inception of Angry Jonny. She put up with a lot and didn't get nearly enough in return. She nudged and guided, allowed for the possibility of the impossible, and coaxed what miniscule good there was in me to get us through it all... Also, she introduced me to the healing powers of blueberries, kale, and beets. There's a good chance those are the only things holding this abused body together. Heart you.

Thanks to my sister in-law, Melissa and my lovely, insane nieces, Isabella and Catalina. This trio of women/ponies are a constant source of invaluable strength and levity. If I could grind them into a fine powder and sprinkle them in my drink, I'd probably be arrested soon after. Smooches to all.

Angry Jonny was written largely on a balcony belonging to one Marybeth. For years, she gave me shelter, dealt with empty bottles and overstuffed ashtrays, and let me use her front lawn to gradually sell everything I had. If Hemingway were alive today, Marybeth would be kicking his ass up and down the Florida Keys.

On the subject of shelter, writers aren't known for their real-estate savvy (actually most writers aren't known at all). Beyond the realm of Marybeth, I would be remiss if I left out Robin, Harris, Natali, David, or Rachael. Each one of these individuals, at one point or another, kept me safe from the elements. Thanks for putting me up, and putting up with me.

Commas exist. Semicolons exist. Clauses and tenses also exist. I'm simply never sure where they do. For this reason, I could not be deeper in debt to Raul Clement. He singlehandedly proofread this work, and transformed it from Frankenstein's monster to Frankenstein's Angry Jonny. Never has there been a better punctuation wrangler. Never has there actually been one to begin with. He is amazing.

Book covers don't just happen. Jeremy is a stellar designer and a hell of a friend for coming through in the clutch. He is also quite an APP creator, so think of him every time your smartphone informs you how your big toe feels about the films of Ang Lee.

Jonah had better things to do than to help me with video promotions and research questions. Yet he did. What a jerk.

Did you know that societies have laws? A king's ransom worth of props to Seth for sharing his vast knowledge of criminal law, procedural investigations, and the random knowledge he keeps stored in that enormous head of his.

Mad props to my journalistic inside woman, Bailey. When it comes to research and fact-checking, she handles it as magnificently as she does all things – kicking wide swaths of ass. She is an invaluable, irreverent, and inimitable piece of work... just don't piss her off.

Promos can be a pain to shoot, especially for those who work around their jobs and busy schedules to step in front of the camera at my request. Thanks to Seth (again), David (again), Achiri, John, Alonzo, and Cristina for breathing serious life into the abstract.

On the subject of actors and actresses, an extra loud shout-out to Anna; very few high school seniors would let a strange, thirty-four-year-old writer duct-tape them to a chair in a creepy basement for the sake of art. And if you are a fan of the book cover, her beautiful mug may just be one of the reasons why. (An extra-special, transitive shout out to Jacob for keeping her company during the entire ordeal).

Promos can also be a pain to score, especially for those who have jobs and one of the best bands in the universe. Fat whole-notes of pure gratitude, then, for John Booker and Rachel Hirsh of _I Was Totally Destroying It_. Three years is a long time to remain excited about a project, and they maintained their resolve far longer than would be expected of anyone with far better things to do. (Added props to J & R as early guinea pigs for the first draft of Angry Jonny – thanks for being either psyched, or dishonest about what you read... I accept both in lieu of actual confidence).

Props to Sara Rose for allowing me to exploit her connections and for pointing me in the right direction whenever needed.

On the subject of making connections, Danny put me in touch with two very key people involved with this project. He vouched for me without much reason to, and not a lot of people named Danny would do that for me. This one did. Much peace and much love.

Rachael; there's not a whole lot of ground this lady didn't cover throughout the process. From her meticulously improvised skills in the realm of makeup, to guiding me through the bizarre world of social media, to offering me a smoke-filled room to edit the shit out of this novel, to offering enthusiasm and constructive criticism in the closing hours of this project, to informing me what my favorite porn stars were posting on Tumblr. Most of us spend our lives in a corner. When she's in yours, there's not a hell of a lot you have to worry about.

A fat set of kisses (XXX) to my illustrious coworkers, whom I shall allow to remain anonymously sexy for their own protection. A finer group of adult retailers there has never been. They covered for me when my own selfish pursuits took me from the glories of selling adult DVDs and sex toys. Also, I have a boss, and he hired me... without an actual source of income, all I would be eating are these words.

And a final shout-out to all my followers on every last form of social media in which I swore I would never indulge. No telling yet, but there's a chance you have made all the difference.

Peace out, y'all. I'll be bothering you again soon enough.
