“Don’t be. Thanks for telling me in person.”
She was glad she didn’t have to get her coat and bag. All she had to do was turn around and walk right back out. She ignored her coworkers staring after her. Or, tried to.
What the hell, she needed a vacation anyway.
She swam sixty laps. Counted every one. Each number made a rhythm in her brain, beating in time to her strokes through the water. As long as she counted, she didn’t think about anything else.
In college, she’d gone back to swimming, her one successful childhood sport, because the water was soft and uplifting. Caressing. Made her feel like another creature, other than flesh. Today, she wanted to be tired. She wanted to be able to sleep without thinking.
She could hit the water as much as she wanted without consequence.
“You’ve reached the offices of District Attorney Kevin Bronson. Please leave a message.”
“Hi, DA Bronson? It’s Celia West. I’ve just been laid off my job. Or given a leave of absence. Whatever. That probably means I’m pulled from the case. I thought you should know.”
She called Mark next. He told her he’d call, but he hadn’t yet, which was why she thought he’d be sure to pick up. But the ringing rolled over to voice mail.
“Mark, I don’t know if you’re ready to talk to me. I don’t know if there’s anything I can say. But I wanted to let you know I’ve been laid off my job over this. I could use a friend right now. Bye.” Now, was he busy or avoiding her? She might never learn.
She spent all afternoon watching TV, dressed in flannel pajamas, eating ice cream out of the carton. She had a bubble bath scheduled for five o’clock, and then planned to order Chinese delivery at seven.
She watched the news to hear what they said about her. Conspiracy theorists had put out the notion that she was still working for Sito, that she was trying to sabotage the prosecution’s case from the inside. She found that one on the conservative talk show that aired after lunch. She supposed a lot of people were thinking that. Otherwise, she’d still be at work, and Mark and Analise would still be talking to her. Her father would let her look at the West Corp archives.
If she were lucky, maybe another bomb would drop at the trial and people would forget about her.
After the bath, during the evening news, the phone rang. The tone sent her heart racing, and she jumped a foot from her seat and floundered for the phone. “Yes?”
“It’s me.” Mark. If she could get him to feel guilty for dissing her maybe he’d bring her supper.
“Hey, hi. How are you? I mean, I’m glad you called. Thanks.”
He was silent. For a moment, she thought the connection had cut out. All she heard was a faint hiss. Then, he drew a breath. “How are you doing?”
“With that kind of skeleton in your closet, you shouldn’t be surprised.”
Of course not. That was why the records had been sealed and she’d kept it secret. “Mark, I really wish you wouldn’t judge me based on something that happened when I was a kid.”
“What else am I supposed to do? It’s … weird, it’s not right. The Destructor is evil, and you
She kept her breathing calm so that she could speak clearly, nicely, without shouting. “Actually, I’m a lot different. I’ve worked hard to make myself different. I wasn’t a happy person then.”
“Just answer one question for me. The Destructor. Were you his…” He paused, grappling for words. “Did you sleep with him?”
The assumption lay between the lines of every news report she’d seen today. It was the question that no matter how much she denied it, no one would ever believe her. Her father hadn’t believed her, not even after she let Mentis into her mind, let him see whether or not she was lying. She’d let him broadcast her thoughts to the world if it would do any good.
“No, I didn’t. He wasn’t interested.”
“Wasn’t interested? Does that mean you
She’d been seventeen, fond of miniskirts and too much makeup, fascinated by her own burgeoning sexuality and the ways it could be used. How did she explain that to a thirty-year-old police detective who’d already branded her a criminal?
He was angry at himself, she realized. Angry at himself for falling for someone with a past like hers. He hadn’t seen it, and maybe he thought he should have.
“Mark, I’ve been trying for years to redeem myself. I guess I’m not there yet. But give me a chance, please.” She shouldn’t have to beg. Damn him for making her beg.
“It’s just … it’s hard, looking at you now. Knowing what you did.”
She lost it. “I made a mistake! I
“This really is all about your parents, isn’t it? You really do hate them.”
“Have you even been
Which might have been why he hung up on her.
She threw the phone. It hit the wall by the kitchen, chirped, and thumped to the floor.
If she could, she would go back in time and warn her seventeen-year-old self:
The trouble was, the seventeen-year-old always replied,
She couldn’t remember what that had been like, wanting to seek out Sito, wanting to join him. Rather, she didn’t want to. She’d been a different person eight years ago. But the memories were still there.
She’d only put one foot inside the entrance of the eastside bar when a man with greasy hair and a scuffed leather coat put his arm in front of her, stopping her.
“Hey, baby, I’ll take you home. I got the cash.”
“I’m not a hooker,” Celia stated, frowning. He could possibly be forgiven for making the mistake. She didn’t even know if it was a mistake. She wasn’t for sale to him, and that was what mattered. She wore a short-short leather miniskirt, black stockings, high-heeled sandals, and a lace camisole. Clothing bought in secret and hidden at the bottom of her dresser drawer. Someday, she’d always told herself, she’d put on the outfit, walk out of the penthouse, turn into someone no one would recognize, and never look back.
She hunched inside her bomber jacket, glaring up with narrowed eyes. Something about her manner made the guy back off, even though she was half his size. If he’d wanted to press the point, there wasn’t much she could do.
It was all about attitude.
The smell overwhelmed her. Sour beer, sweat, the press of bodies. The place was popular. Tough-looking guys crowded around a pair of pool tables. No music played, only the rumble of voices talking low, punctuated by a few barks of laughter and a few calls for the waitress. This was a place to do business. That was why the guy had stopped her. There were other women around, dressed a lot like her. More vinyl, maybe, and more hairspray. Older women, worn around the edges.
She’d had to do research to find this place, looking through newspaper articles and public record arrest and investigation reports. She’d told the guys at the police station she was doing a report for school on law enforcement, and since she was Celia West, they ruffled her hair and said how proud her folks must be that she was following in their footsteps.
It was all worth it, because she found out that one of the Destructor’s informants set up shop at this bar. He was one of the guys who recruited for jobs, served as eyes and ears on the street. He might have been one of the
