Running Wild Novella Anthology, Volume 1 by Various

Author:Various
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-10-08T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER NINE

I needed to find that wigmaker. It was on me, since I interviewed Joni Rafferty, gotten the details.

What stopped me, then, from following those same steps Joni had laid out, thumbing “real hair wigs” into the search bar? As always, things that seemed like good ideas under the cover of a waning moon seemed terrible by the light of day. If Suzanne’s vehicle usage was being tracked and monitored, likely my phone activity would be. In fact, since we were held to stricter standards in Residential Security than Enterprise, a reprimand on my record might even carry heavier weight.

My schedule was also a problem. I had a full shift today, barely any time to complete my check-box reports, much less run a questionably legal search. That would be two strikes.

In each neighborhood, though, all I could see was Brooke Alberini screaming, blood-soaked, on the Hills’ front lawn. I’d been aware of people’s fear of me, but for the first time I felt their fear as my own. I could threaten liens on their houses all day and it wouldn’t make a difference: what they feared was the inability to rearrange their budgets to make the payments, or some other situation that would get them arrested. Having seen what happened to Brooke last night, I could no longer believe that anyone “deserved” a corporate penalty. By the end of the day I was so pissed off that my walk home nearly became a jog that might, if I let it, carry me far from the rising tide and all that went with it.

For once, Suzanne left work on time and was already home, I saw when I walked up the block. I was so fired up from dealing with the corporate puppets that I didn’t bother going home first. I sprang up her steps, banged rapidly on her door.

She took a few seconds to answer. When she did, I stepped back. She looked like hell, eyes sunken, red from crying, lips chapped raw. Skinnier, even. “You’re sick,” I said. “I’ll come back.”

“I’m not sick.” A wave of self-loathing washed over me, in contrast to the invitation of her open door. “Come on in.”

I followed her in. She turned the tap off, as she had earlier in the hospital, but its effects lingered: revulsion for who we were, what we’d become. I shut the door behind me, stood in her cool summery living room, trying to ground myself. “Did you even go to work today?” I asked.

“I went.” Her back to me. She padded into the kitchen, returned with a mug of steaming beverage. “Offer you something?”

“I’m good, thanks.” I could’ve killed for a beer, but alcohol was reserved for the establishments’ paying customers; bigger profit margins than from employees. I still hulked by the door. “You look — really, I can come back.”

She sat on her couch, curled her legs under her, the mug in her hands like it had been sent from heaven. “I could use the company.” She pointed her chin at the opposite end of her couch.

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