Page 6 of Knot Innocent

“Damn.”

It’s too late to do either.

That’s why this shit is done in a specific order, Birdie. I roll my shoulders and think through my options. You picked a secure, public place. You could meet the guy yourself. You’ll be wearing multiple cameras like you always do. This op will be just like any other sting except that you’ll have to interact with the asshole and act like you’ve changed your mind instead of the police dragging the dirtbag away—no big deal. Once you reveal he’s caught, Predator Tom will probably piss himself in his hurry to get away.

Returning my attention to the simulation game, I answer Tom’s latest sext and excuse myself to go to volleyball practice. That’s when my nerves get the best of me. “What if he doesn’t just leave?” I ask the little Naked Man blooms.

Neither the orchid nor the dick pot answer me. For a hot second, I consider calling Sadie to back me up, but then I’d have to tell her why. I don’t see that conversation going well. She doesn’t know about my vigilante-justice hobby.

Ultimately, I decide that between my taser and the public location, I’d be safe enough. That means I’ve got two hours until time to meet this guy—alone. I’ll show up half an hour early to allow plenty of time to get set and settle my nerves.

So now, it’s time to transform Birdie, the twenty-eight-year-old intel analyst, into Birdie, the fifteen-year-old high school student. I replace my practical phone case with a sparkly one, add a bunch of noisy and fluffy accessories to my keychain, and take off all my jewelry. I jump in the shower to wash my hair so I can straighten it with a flat iron.

Finally, with ten minutes to spare, I leave my room wearing leggings and Chucks, a Harvard sweatshirt, and my slick hair in a pony. Most importantly, I’ve applied a makeup style to look like a fifteen-year-old trying to look like a twenty-one-year-old.

Before I leave, I return to the office and add a special onyx necklace. The stone is a fake, outfitted with a camera. My phone case contains another camera, so I can record a subject up close while playing a game on my phone in case anyone looks at the screen.

A mini taser disguised as a lip balm is chained to my keys, as well as a kitty cat fluff ball hiding a locator. To activate the locator, I simply pull the cat’s tail to send a distress signal to my boss. I’ve never had to use it and hope I never do because I’d have to explain to Knot why he received the alert.

All these measures are overkill, but I’m not taking any chances. Hell, if I could, I’d make sure every teenage girl in America had these things for protection. Then maybe I’d get more sleep at night.

Half an hour later, I’m parking a block from the small plaza on Main Street in this little city center of one of Norfolk’s many suburbs. Exiting my car, I remember to keep my steps light and swingy, plopping down on a bench nearest the garden plaza entrance that lets me see up and down the street. Then, I do what any other fifteen-year-old would do, pull out my phone and ignore the rest of the world. After starting all my recording devices, of course.

Bastien

Stepping out of the neighborhood pub, I pull on my ball cap and scan the street, a habit I haven’t been able to shake since my time in the SEALs. Main Street in this picturesque town boasts beautification award signs on both ends, with every shop owner showing pride in the prime location.

In the middle of the popular shopping and entertainment district is what I call a thinking park. It’s a small, reclaimed lot where a bakery burned down years ago. Thick masonry walls protected the adjacent businesses from fire spread, and the damaged structure was cleared away. Instead of building back, the owner sold the property to the city, who decided a better use of the area would be a garden.

A large fountain takes the place of honor in the center, and the city commissioned local artists to create the smaller water sculptures set at the four quadrants. Even the custom benches are part of the art installation. I’ll pass the garden on my way home, which is about three blocks beyond the last storefront on Main.

The town is nice enough if you like the yuppie scene. I can’t complain. I like having restaurants and pubs within walking distance of home; well, where I currently live, anyway. This place will never be home. After my mother was killed, the Navy became my home, but that was taken away from me, too. At least in this town, nothing reminds me of my childhood, which is why I chose to live here.

I turn north and start toward my house, scanning both sides of the street as I walk—another habit from my Navy days. The sun is beginning to set, meaning it’s almost seven p.m. The falling temperature is cool on my bare arms, chasing away all but the restaurant crowd. Once warmer weather is here to stay, this place will remain busy until deep into the night.

Halfway down Main Street, a familiar face in the thinking park catches my attention. That looks like Birdie. She’s sitting on one of the benches beneath a streetlight that hasn’t come on yet.

A park in my tiny suburb seems an odd place to run into her. My brain could also be playing with me since Birdie’s been on my mind a lot lately. Still, except for the odd way she’s dressed, I’d swear that’s her. Slowing my stride, I cross the street to get a better look.

Even though the girl/woman’s face is glued to her phone screen, the closer I get, the surer I am that this is either Birdie or maybe a younger sister. I don’t even know if she has sisters. I don’t know anything about her except that she’s wicked-smart, smells of vanilla and chocolate, and has the softest hands. And I’ve only noticed the last two since that day in the woods.

At fifteen feet away, I figure I’m close enough to check my suspicions without scaring the girl if I’m wrong. I call Birdie’s name, but the young woman doesn’t respond. Guess that’s not Birdie after all. I should have known. This girl looks like a kid and isn’t even wearing glasses.

Maybe you just wanted it to be Birdie—no point in lying to myself. Every time I look at my knuckles, I feel Birdie’s hands on mine. I’ve been avoiding getting close to her at work but walk where I know she’s been to catch her scent.

“Damn you, stop it,” I mutter to myself. “Stay away from Birdie and any other woman. You’re a ticking time bomb, remember?”

When I’m ten feet from the garden’s entrance, the streetlights blink on and illuminate the woman’s face enough for me to see a triangular freckle formation on her right cheek, exactly like the one Birdie has.

Shit. That is Birdie. What the hell is she doing here? Dressed like that? Though the style choice is curious, I’ve never seen her outside of work, so for all I know, she always dresses like that. But why isn’t she wearing her glasses?

Birdie’s hands begin to shake as I close the last five feet. That doesn’t make sense. She’s never been afraid of me before. Besides, she hasn’t looked up or done anything to indicate she’s noticed me. I call her name again, softly, barely more than a whisper this time.

Birdie’s shoulders droop slightly, and she sighs before lifting her head. Her smile is forced, but her voice is deceptively bright. “Oh. Hi, Bastien.”

Birdie looks from my face to scan the sidewalk and fidgets with a sparkly flip-flop attached to a keychain. Everything about her, from her clothes to her nervous behavior, is markedly un-Birdie-like. She’s not just nervous. Birdie is downright skittish.

My body responds by going into full alert mode. Glancing in the direction she just looked, I reply, “Hi, Birdie. What’s going on?”

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