When she opened the door, a young woman stood tapping her foot impatiently, the box propped on her hip bouncing with each tap. She wore a brown uniform with an unfamiliar logo, her blonde hair swept up in a tight ponytail. Before Mel could say anything, the woman shoved the box toward Mel and said, “Delivery.”
Mel accepted the box, but said, “I’m not expecting anything. How did you get up here? Deliveries are at the desk.”
The girl only smirked and held out her wrist. On it, a small tattoo of stylized wings in simple black ink marred the skin. It was just like the logo on her shirt. “Valk Enterprises always delivers on time.” With that, the young woman spun on her heel and marched down the hall like she owned the place.
Mel watched her until she rounded the corner into the elevator bay, then looked down at the box. It was big, about the size of a file box, and it had her name neatly printed on the label. Shaking her head at yet more weirdness, she took the box to her tiny dining table that was never used for anything except work, and dropped it onto the surface.
Rather than open it, she examined it carefully, then shook it. It rattled a little, and the sound of plastic brushing the interior of the box made her squint at it. No one opened unasked for boxes anymore. It wasn’t safe.
Even as she thought that, she grabbed the pair of scissors on the table and slit the wrapping. The brown paper fell away to reveal the very last thing Mel expected to see. It was an evidence storage box, clearly labeled with the New Jersey police logo, case name, and file number.
“Holy shit,” she breathed and spread her hands away from the box. “What the shit?”
The old red sticker that showed the box was sealed had been slit and a newer version hastily slapped over the old one. That one was still intact and it had a date from 2039 on it.
“No, no, no,” Mel chanted in denial, walking in a tight circle around the small open area of her equally small apartment.
This box being delivered to her by some random shipping company she’d never heard of invalidated every single piece of evidence inside. The chain of custody was broken. No, not just broken. It was shattered into pieces and no judge would allow it into evidence, not even one sponsored by the same companies that sponsored the police.
Plopping down into one of the rickety dining chairs, Mel blew out an exasperated breath and looked at the box. She didn’t need to read the labels again, but she did anyway. Deering, L. Original case number from 1977. There were scribbles beneath it for each year something had been done with the case.
“Well, shit,” she said to the box.
Picking up the scissors again, she did what she knew she shouldn’t. She slit the tape. Inside was exactly what she thought would be there. Faded and stained clothing in plastic bags, a brown belt neatly coiled into a newer evidence bag, assorted smaller items like keys and a wallet in their own bags. Evidence. It was all the evidence that led back to Baby and that tiny bit of DNA found on the belt that matched hers.
Mel’s head started aching. There was something she should remember, but when she tried to think of it, it felt like a fire poker being shoved through her head. Pushing through the pain, Mel focused on the belt. The plastic crinkled in her hand as she squeezed it and fought the red hot, searing sensation in her brain.
It came to her like a flash of lightning. Her eyes wide on the belt, she remembered. Baby did this. No, Baby said she did this. That’s a different thing altogether.
The pain faded and Mel paced, holding the plastic in her hands. Baby was wrong. Baby was making up a story or telling a story made up just for her. But how? How could she know about the belt, the DNA, the fat man in the field?
That came to Mel too and it made perfect sense. It was the grant and the DNA and Baby’s way of coping with the truth. Perhaps whoever took her did give her a part of that story, but Baby had added her own twist to it. And that would explain how Baby got traded like she did.
If whoever had cloned her had the resources to do that, then they had the resources to keep track of DNA. When the grant put the DNA of whatever woman killed Leonard Deering into the databases, her captors had been forced to change things up. Why they didn’t just kill Baby and hide her body, Mel didn’t know.
Somehow, some way, Baby had discovered the truth. Maybe she heard someone talking or her buyer had loose lips. Maybe it was as simple as that. And Baby already had a fairy story in her head and this was how she was coping, by making that story something more than it was.
But…her eyes had been green…
Another pain pierced Mel’s head and she veered away from that train of thought. It was stupid to think like that. Stupid and useless and she would never mention such a silly thing to another person. They’d lock her away in the nuthouse. At the very least she’d lose her job.
Stalking back to the box, Mel tossed the belt inside then slammed the lid back onto it with enough force to dent the lid. For good measure, she pushed the box off the table, scattering the objects and all the papers piled onto her table with it.
What she needed was sleep. A shower and some sleep. That’s what she needed. The rest would wait. No more thinking about anything except sleep. The pain receded just as suddenly as it had come. Yes, sleep.
The End of the Tale
“How are you today, Mel?” Baby asked as they
