Page 4 of Bullet Unleashed

“You have to be careful, Hope. There are rapists all over the world now.”

“Mother! Why would you say such a thing? I wasn’t raped, nor did he try to. It was a pig fest. We were festing pigs all day, not searching for clues and DNA fibers to unsolved cases.”

Mama and I have moved past the point of a traditional mother-daughter relationship and into a friendship. I’m a professional adult, so there’s only but so much “mothering” I can handle at a time. I welcome her input, but there is a limit. Sometimes, I have to remind her I’m twenty-six, not six.

“I’m just saying. You can never be too careful these days. A beautiful young lady such as yourself, all alone out there in the big city? Primo target.”

An involuntary shudder runs through my body. Whenever Mama tries to speak Spanish, it’s cringe worthy to me. She doesn’t have any ties to any member of any community who speak the language, and the only words she does know are the ones she picked up by watching movies.

Also laughable is how she thinks the city of Sance is a big one. Sance isn’t big by any stretch of the imagination. It’s a small, southern town located on the plains with a quaint atmosphere and a fairytale-like look to it. It’s a major reason why I enjoy working here. The amount of room there is to discover human interest stories is vast. Okay, maybe not vast. Outside of the Pig Festival, which Sance was best-known for, there’s the museum and theater. It’s not much to go on, but it is home. Although, there are rumors of strange and unexplained disappearances over the years, most people outside of Sance attribute it to people moving away from this sleepy town for the greener pastures of big city life.

“Mama, you know this isn’t a big town.”

“Exactly, Hope. If it was a big town then you wouldn’t have as much to worry about. But, with it being small? He probably targeted you to get a cheap feel.”

“Mama.”

How did she turn it around like that?

“Hope, you know I worry.”

Wow. Two “I worry” statements in one conversation.

“I know, Mama. Listen, I’ll talk to you later, okay? And try not to worry, it’s not like I’m running off fighting in a zombie apocalypse. I’m a reporter in a small town where nothing ever happens. The danger level is much lower, and trust me, if the danger ever gets to a ‘world-shattering’ level, you’ll be the first one I call.”

We go through a round of ‘smooches’ and ‘love yous’, before Mama finally lets me off the phone, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the pain shooting through my knee.

“Of course, big city girl like me, all alone in my two-bedroom home with no antiseptic,” I sigh as I speak to absolutely no one and rummage through my medicine cabinet.

Shutting the mirrored door, I give the girl looking opposite me in the polished surface a once over, and stern talking to.

“Get it together, Hope. Who doesn’t have basic survival gear in their house? This girl, that’s who,” I say and roll my eyes at my reflection.

My home is...homey. A modest two-bedroom ranch decorated with earth tones which most people would describe as cozy. I describe it as mine. Not because I’m paying a mortgage, but because it’s more of a getaway for me than anything else. All day long, I’m chasing stories, trying to find the best angle, see beyond the surface—it’s good to come to a place where my mind can relax and slip into a state of ease.

Even if my body doesn’t. The pain in my knee demands my attention more than what I’d reasonably expect, so I exit my bathroom, slip on a white tee, some black leggings, snag the closest pair of running shoes I have and throw on my jacket. The same jacket I had on this afternoon at the pig fest when I fell to the ground with some help. My jaw tightens at the large dirt stain on the left side extending to the back. Why didn’t I notice that earlier? I keep my home spotless. From the guest bedroom to the one bathroom, formal dining room and living area, me and dirt are not friends. So, the grit from the dirt as it rubbed against my palm and through my first two fingers make my blood boil. Another thing for me to take care of—my knee, and my clothes.

Great.

The keys to the car are on the top shelf of a waist-high bookcase just to the left of the front door and outside of my formal dining room. The familiar jingle of the keys sends my knee pulsing in anticipation of some ointment or remedy. Putting them in my pocket, however, reveal an oddity. There’s another object occupying space in my pocket.

Okay, that’s strange.

It’s a silver cellphone and one I’m unfamiliar with as it doesn’t have the signature “Channel Nine” sticker on the back, or any of my familiar markings due to mishandling. I keep my home spotless, but my technology is another story. I may have dropped my cellphone once. Or twice. Or one too many times in my life to keep count. I like to hide things from myself for rediscovery later, like money or gift cards, as there’s nothing in the world greater than finding twenty dollars somewhere unexpected. But, I wouldn’t hide a phone from myself, as all of my work is self-contained on my laptop, and I don’t need a second one.

If it didn’t come from work, and it didn’t come from me, then where?

I know better than to blindly stick anything in my work computer. All of the security training we go through yearly discusses the potential hazards of hackers and the many ways they use to infiltrate people’s personal firewalls, so the work computer is a no-go. My laptop on the other hand?

“Curiosity killed the cat,” I say and march from the front door over to the laptop on the lightly stained coffee table in my living room. “Let’s see what feline lost the last of its nine lives.”

I know it’s stupid, but my reasoning is—if I get hacked, I’ll just buy another computer. No one said I ever paid attention to those security trainings, I just have to take them annually. There’s only but so many times I can hear some tech guru speak about various phishing attempts on an hour-long video before my mind wanders to actual fishing expeditions I’ve been invited to in my life. And if there’s a hacker living in Sance then that makes for one hell of a story and one easily pitched to Liam at the next production meeting. I can hear his husky voice now.

“You got hacked?” He’d ask me.

I’d shrug and feign ignorance about how “I thought it was my phone,” yada-yada-yada, or something to this effect.

He’d probably counter with something like, “What about the security training we’re required to go through? How could you fall for something like this? You knew this wasn’t your phone.”

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