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“No, Mr. Tillerson, my dad’s fine. Though he told me he’s looking forward to getting revenge on you for the last round you two played. Heard you really kicked his ass. But that’s not why I’m calling. I’m calling because I’ve got Officer Burt Abrams here on the line with me and he wants to tell you something.”
“Hey there, Miles,” Officer Abrams says. “Look, I’ve been considering things, and I don’t want to go through with charges against Emily Mitchell or Maggie Simmons for that incident the other day.”
“Are you fucking serious, Abrams?” Miles Tillerson says. “This far into the process and you get cold feet?”
"It's not cold feet," Abrams replies, his voice tense. "I've just realized that pursuing these charges isn't in anyone's best interest. It's a waste of resources and time."
There's a long pause on the other end of the line. I hold my breath, my heart pounding in my chest.
"Fine," Tillerson finally says, his voice clipped. "I'll file the paperwork first thing in the morning. But this better not come back to bite us in the ass, Abrams. And Jay, tell your father I'm looking forward to our next game."
The call ends abruptly. Jay looks at me, that unsettling smile still plastered on his face.
"There you have it, Emily. You're free."
I stare at him, unable to process what’s just happened. He’s never done anything nice for me, but now I have proof of him swooping in to save me from my biggest nightmare.
"Why?" I ask. "Why are you really doing this?"
Jay leans back in his chair, taking a long swig of his beer. "Let's just say I had an epiphany. Life's too short for this bullshit, you know?"
His words leave me speechless, and I take another long drink of whiskey while I try to find my tongue.
But before I can even speak, Jay finishes his beer, pulls out his wallet, and puts down a thick handful of bills that are more than enough for me to have a second drink and still leave a generous tip for the waitress.
“It was nice seeing you, Emily. Have a good night.”
They’re pleasant enough words, but I’ve never felt colder than when they wash over me.
For a while, I just sit there, pondering, unspeaking — except to order another drink — and wondering why.
Why was he so nice to me?
I still don’t have an answer by the time I finish my drink and leave. The entire drive home, my head spins around that question — why?
I pull into my apartment complex, still reeling from the encounter with Jay. My hands shake as I turn off the engine, and I sit there for a moment, trying to collect myself. The whiskey buzz has worn off, leaving behind a gnawing unease in the pit of my stomach.
Why was he so nice? It doesn't make sense. Jay's never done anything without an ulterior motive. What's his game this time?
I force myself out of the car, my legs wobbling slightly as I make my way to my apartment. The entire way up the stairs, I can't shake the feeling that something's terribly wrong. Jay's smile, that unsettling, knowing smile, keeps flashing in my mind.
As I reach my door, I fumble with my keys, nearly dropping them. My heart races as I finally unlock it and step inside.
The moment I cross the threshold, I know something's off. The air feels different, disturbed. I flick on the lights and gasp.
My eyes take in the sight and my brain wants to reject the utter destruction before me; clothes lie across the floor, drawers pulled out and emptied; picture frames lie shattered on the ground, glass crunching under my feet as I take a tentative step forward; my television sits cracked, the victim of a single punch to the center of its screen; my plates and cups sit on the floor, reduced to shards of pottery and glass; the guts of my couch cushions lie spilled and strewn everywhere, as if someone cut them open with a knife and threw the foam in impotent rage.
"Hello?" I call out, my voice shaking. No response. Not even a sound except the riot of a heartbeat pounding in my chest.
I move deeper into the apartment, my dread growing with each step. When I reach the little cubby that passes for my study area, a frightened yell leaves my throat. My desk sits ransacked, papers torn to shreds and scattered everywhere. My books lie in tatters, pages ripped out and strewn across the floor.
With trembling hands, I open my laptop, praying that at least my research paper is safe. But as soon as I log in, my heart sinks. The file is gone. Deleted, along with every file event remotely relevant to my paper. Months of work, countless hours of research and writing, all vanished in an instant.
I collapse into my chair, tears welling up in my eyes. My breath comes in sharp, pained gasps. This wasn't a random break-in. This was targeted. Personal.
And suddenly, Jay's kindness makes perfect, horrifying sense.
The tears flow freely now, sobs wracking my body as I survey the destruction around me. Everything I've worked for, everything I've fought so hard to achieve, lies in ruins at my feet.
