Page 35 of Whistleblower

“Linc, let me make this clear.” Her soft, kind eyes narrow. She almost looks intimidating. “No human being should be treated that way. I don’t care if they’ve done worse, rightful consequence is different from cruel vengeance. They didn’t deserve anything. Someone has to break the cycle. The most intelligent philosophers in history already warned us that fighting fire with fire means the entire world will burn.”

My heartbeat slows to the point I can inhale and exhale between the beats. A flood of adrenaline washes through me, but it decelerates everything instead of quickening it. What is this?

Is this…shame?

I’ve killed so many men who deserved to die, and yet this, almost, stranger sits in front of me, rocking the entire foundation of my existence. Am I helping or merely contributing to the fire?

“My turn,” I say with an exhale. “Who is Jorey?”

“Pardon?”

“Jorey Abbott. He, or she, was on your answer sheet for the icebreaker game.”

“You drew mine?” I nod in response and she continues, “Jorey is my dad.”

“You only wrote down two answers. The assignment required three.” I hold up my pinky, ring, and middle finger together.

She rolls her eyes so quickly, I almost miss it. “If I could talk to anyone, especially about the past year of my life, it’d be my dad, who passed away. And I put down War and Peace for my ‘something fun,’ because it’s the book I promised him I’d read, but never got around to. If I’m being completely honest, I mostly like Chick Lit in my free time, but now that Dad’s gone, I really wish I would’ve made time to read the damn thing. He would’ve loved to talk about it together. Now, we can’t.”

I have the urge to reach out and touch her, to comfort her, but I stuff it down. Instead, I scoot back into the couch, letting the plastic-feeling cushion mold to my back. “What is Chick Lit?”

She cocks her head to the side. “You know…like women’s fiction…for women. It’s…uh… books for women…about women.” She’s flustered as she tries to explain herself and I think I know why.

“Ah, you mean romance books.”

“Sometimes.”

“Girl on girl?”

“What?” She balks and I widen my eyes in surprise.

“You just said books for women, about women.”

She’s blushing wildly, lighting up her entire face. I’m almost hoping for a flirty shriek, or a suggestive joke, but instead, Eden lobs her pen at my head. I dodge just in the nick of time.

“That almost hit me,” I say, laughing.

“I realize,” she says, giggling right back. “I meant fiction along the lines of women’s coming-of-age stories. Stories about adolescence to adulthood, learning life lessons, overcoming impossible situations, and learning to stand on their own two feet. Not lesbian porn, if that’s what you were insinuating.”

“I wasn’t.” I absolutely was. “But, anyway, you didn’t complete the assignment. What makes you feel safe?”

Her humorous expression sobers and her eyes drop to her lap. “Jorey for both. The person I want to talk to and the person who makes me feel safe.”

“But you said he passed away?”

She nods curtly but then turns her head to the door as if she hears someone knocking. It’s just for show, no one’s there, but her eyes are starting to glisten. I’m quickly learning Eden likes to hide her vulnerability. When she’s satisfied that she’s composed, she turns her head and locks onto my stare.

“I haven’t felt safe for years, Linc. Not since he died, and especially not in the past year.”

“Why?” I ask as if I don’t already know the answer, thanks to Lance and his snooping.

“It’s my turn for a question. You just asked three in a row.”

“Fine.”

She waits so long that I’m tempted to fill the silence myself, but right as I open my mouth, she says, “Did you think less of me because of how I reacted to those photos?”

Twice now, she’s caught me off guard with these pointed questions. “Did I think less of you because you were disturbed by a very disturbing scene that wasn’t meant for your eyes?”

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