Page 51 of Shadows of Justice

“Well, that sounds like the best idea you’ve had in a long time, Schaeffer.”

Jennings’ voice is hardly audible over the running water of my bathroom sink. “I’ll approve the PTO request right now,” he finishes.

“I agree, sir,” I say, shutting off the faucet and bending over to towel dry my soaking wet hair. “I think I just need a little vacation to clear my head. Get some perspective. I’m thinking Yosemite.”

“That sounds very relaxing. Have a safe trip. We’ll see you when you’re back.” He clicks off of the line.

I now have the next five days off—no call, no shifts, so nothing gets in the way of my focus. I flip my head up, the newly darkened strands slapping against the bare skin of my back.

It’s only temporary dye, but I’ve never dyed my hair in my life. I only did streaks, and it’s not even dry, but I already look strikingly different. I blow my hair out roughly, planning to let the majority of the strands air dry and frizz. I don’t want to appear put together.

That’s sort of the point.

I shoot back the last of my whiskey, the burn fueling the guts I need to pull this off while pleasantly dampening my nerves. I should definitely eat something, but all I have in my fridge is expired orange juice and pickles. My burner phone rings—again—and I ignore it. I can’t let Leo know where I’m going just yet, or I know he’ll try and stop me. He’s already showed up and banged on my front door, no doubt tracking my iPhone with some crazy spy shit, which also probably means he knows that I didn’t go to the precinct like I said I would first thing this morning. It tore at my heartstrings to pretend I couldn’t hear his pleas from the other side of the door, but I managed to ignore his knocking until Mrs. Gonzalez asked him to leave.

That woman probably thinks I’ve got a soap opera scene list of relationship drama.

I sloppily line my eyes with the darkest and thickest charcoal liner I could find at Walgreens, adding in some smokey eyeshadow and overly darkened eyebrows. I finish off with a burgundy lip stain, a fake nose hoop, and finally check my appearance in the mirror.

It’s giving Christina Aguilera circa 2002 vibes.

This’ll do nicely.

I head into my bedroom and tear into the shopping bags from Tease, an exotic dancewear store. I tear the tags off of my new army green leather skirt, so short it looks more like a sweatband fitted over my ass. Next I pour myself into the white leather corset, my boobs about ready to pop out and introduce themselves. I unbox the fishnet leggings and head to the kitchen, grabbing my cheese grader to distress the threads and make them look worn. I even grab a little potting soil from my hanging Devil’s Ivy and dirty them up for good measure. I do the same to the heeled combat boots, scuffing them on the rough cement flooring outside my apartment door so that they don’t look too new.

Last but not least, I don the crucifix I lifted from Leo’s work lab, letting the beaded chain hang inside my cleavage and hide down in the corset.

I chance a look in my floor-length mirror, trying not to look as nervous as I feel.

The whiskey can only do so much.

I’m terrified.

“Something is missing . . .” I mutter, all the leather creaking as I fidget.

Before I can lose my nerve, I dart into my closet and grab a leather belt. Then I head into the kitchen and down another swallow of whiskey straight from the bottle. I open my silverware drawer and shuffle the contents around until I find what I’m looking for. I hold up the meat tenderizer, and my tiny, distorted reflection looks back at me in the metal. We eye each other for a moment, and I wonder if I’ve completely lost my mind.

I stick the belt in my mouth and bite down, turning my head to the side. My breathing is so fast I feel like I’m wheezing. A tear slips out before I even feel the pain, my nerves swallowing me whole.

Only one shot at this. I’ll talk myself out of another swing.

Using about 85% strength, I slam the tenderizer onto my cheek, right near my jaw. My teeth pierce the leather, the sounds of my cry muffled by the belt as I crumple to the floor.

I’m not sure how long I lie there, clutching my face as my tears further the messy application of my working girl makeup. After the shock begins to fade, I pull myself up onto my towering heels and hobble to the mirror to assess my handiwork.

The skin on my face is red and already swollen, but no skin was broken. I work my jaw a few times and consider popping some Tylenol, but stop myself. Prostitutes don’t take Tylenol. It’ll look more believable if it noticeably hurts.

The grooves of the tenderizer have imprinted on my jaw, and actually kind of appear like the lines of the bottom of a boot.

How serendipitous.

I wipe underneath my lashes, smearing some of the eyeliner. My eyes are bloodshot. If I didn’t know better, I’d say I was strung out.

Maybe this’ll actually work.

It’s 10:45 PM—almost time. I look out my window at the cars lining the street. I spot an older model Chevy Malibu, the exhaust pipe emitting smoke as it idles. I send a text through the burner phone, officially stepping past the point of no return.

I’m at your place. We need to talk.

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