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9
Annie
It was dark when I left the dungeon. Dark in a dodgy section of San Francisco, by myself. Unarmed, because it's not a good idea for a cop from another jurisdiction on a sort of questionable leave to carry concealed. Or even unconcealed.
There were messages on my phone. In the dungeon, after that first abortive call, they'd stopped, either because reception is never good underground, surrounded by concrete, or because the hulking menace who took my phone turned it off. It was off when I discovered I had it back. I didn't like the idea of someone messing with my clothes while I was out, even if the only ID I’d brought was my fake one.
My phone was real enough, though there were such a limited number of contacts in it no one would much be fooled by it. If they'd gone through my contacts, most of what they would have determined was that I was hiding something.
Like who I was.
"To sum up," I mumbled to myself. "I did something that made me actually hate myself a little bit more. And I learned nothing in the process."
Only I had learned something. I kept moving on the dark street, but my mind had come to a screeching halt.
What do you mean, hate yourself a little bit more?
When had I started hating myself?
I don't know when I started running. I was dressed for it, even if my back hurt under the jogging bra and the shirt rasped against sore flesh. By the time a voice out of the darkness stopped me, I was lost. That was okay. The city might sleep and most of its residents with it, but there were cabs and busses and probably scary Uber cars driven by what seemed to be teenage girls.
"Hey, babe. Looking to score?"
That stopped me in my tracks. My reaction plunged from No badge here, can't arrest to Holy shit, thank god.
"Depends," I said. "What've you got?"
I had money. Not that I was stupid enough to carry all of it at one time. But strangely enough, I'd carried enough to buy.
"What d'you want?"
To not play games on the street after dark with some punk. "China white."
He whistled. He was several inches shorter than me and missing quite a few teeth. But he was clean and well dressed and I wouldn't have pegged him for what he was without the missing teeth.
You learn to read clues, clothes, culture, conversations – all manner of things that lead to who a person is. It's a gradual knowledge and almost impossible to fake.
So how, exactly, had Kat made me so easily?
I brushed that aside. Good question for another day when I wasn't standing exposed and unarmed, waiting on a dealer. He might be shorter than my five-six, but he was also one of those lean guys whose wiry strength takes people by surprise, and he had a bunch of scars on his face and throat. Some people see scars as battles lost. Others see them like the the t-shirt that reads: You're stronger than the thing that tried to kill you.
"Know what you're getting in to?" he asked. He hadn't moved away from the wall his shoulders were propped against.
Not getting into, I thought. Already in the middle of. "Yeah."
"You know what it is?" He was looking me up and down, probably the way I'd sized up my driver.
"You want the buy or not?"
"All right, all right, don't get your panties in a bunch. Just saying."
"Well, don't." I almost waved the money at him, like he was a fast food worker who should shut the fuck up and get a move on with my order. That would have been foolish.
He stood with a hand in his pocket, weighing the situation. "You a cop?"
There's just something about the job that's hard to shake. Or fake. "Yeah."
He nodded like he'd known that, which he probably had. "Still are?"
