I know I’m not letting go.
I just haven’t decided what I’m going to do about it yet.
Chapter Five
STEVIE
I’m still wearing the underwear I ruined in court.
That’s what I’m thinking about as two federal agents hustle me through a back entrance of some government building I don’t recognize.
Not the trial. Not Dario’s face when I pointed at him. Not the way his eyes went dark when I came on the witness stand while testifying against him.
The underwear.
Soaked through during my courtroom orgasm, now cold and uncomfortable against my skin, a physical reminder that I’m the kind of disaster who gets off while destroying someone’s life.
Someone else will find the empty chocolate box on my counter. The cookie containers in my sink. The evidence of my complete unraveling scattered across an apartment I’ll never see again.
My brain grabs the small wrong thing because the big right thing has teeth.
The agent on my left is short, balding, the kind of face you’d forget mid-conversation. I’ve been studying him for six minutesand I still couldn’t pick him out of a lineup. Beige suit. Beige energy. Wedding ring he keeps touching like a rosary.
I wonder if his wife remembers what he looks like when he comes home. If she has to check his badge to confirm it’s the right beige man.
The one on my right is taller, darker hair, somehow even more forgettable. They could be the same person wearing different amounts of hair. The federal government’s photocopier running low on toner.
I’m pretty sure there’s a class at Quantico called “Introduction to Forgettable” where they practice being nobody until it sticks.
Balding keeps a hand on my elbow like I might bolt. Where would I go? Back to my apartment to change my underwear? To the courthouse to ask Dario if he noticed when I came?
I catalog him anyway because my brain is a broken slot machine that only pays out in inappropriate observations and crippling anxiety.
The way his thumb presses harder when we turn corners. How he smells like drugstore aftershave and the specific anxiety of someone who’s done this before and hates it every time. The scuff on his left shoe that he either hasn’t noticed or doesn’t care about.
Details. Endless, useless details.
Tall Guy walks ahead, scanning doorways like we’re about to get ambushed in a federal building. His posture says military. His haircut says budget. His complete disinterest in me says you’re cargo now, sweetheart, and I’ve got three more shipments today.
“Where are we going?” I ask, just to hear my own voice. Just to confirm I still exist.
“Temporary holding until processing,” Balding says.
Processing.
Like I’m evidence. Or a chicken at a factory. Stamped and wrapped and shipped out before I’m even cold.
They take me down a hallway that smells like floor wax and broken dreams. Through a door that requires a keycard. Into an elevator that hums with the particular emptiness of government buildings after hours.
I count the seconds between floors because if I don’t count something I’ll scream.
One, two, three. Always three.
The elevator opens onto carpet that’s seen better decades. Past a water cooler nobody’s refilled. Past a bulletin board with notices so old they’ve yellowed into archaeological artifacts.
And finally, a door.
Balding opens it. Gestures me inside.
