Page 10 of The Shadows We Keep

I realize as I finish the last sip of my coffee and reach over for the pot to refill my mug that she’d likely been at work. New York is New York and there are bound to be people around regardless of the time of day. I hate the idea of her traveling to and from work at odd hours. I never take advantage of the private car my parent’s continue to keep on hand in the city, even though their visits are few and far between. But I want her to use it.

I want to know where she’s going and when. I want to vet the damn person driving her, and know the car won’t break down—like what happens occasionally with the subway. If only I could gift it to her somehow, without it being weird—or her knowing who it came from.

I pause as a harebrained idea forms in my mind. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, and I’m becoming slightly delusional, but it could work.

I have her email from her work file and what do I have to lose?

The worst that could happen: she’ll think it’s spam and send it straight to the trash file.

Snagging my laptop from beside the leather chair, I move to the kitchen island and plop onto the metal stool. Picking through the company’s website, I steal their logo and affix it to the top of my email. I type up my draft, making up a dummy no-reply email address, throwing in a couple stock images and a link to the “giveaway” sign up form.

By the time I’m through and scan over the email one last time, a smile tugs at my lips. It’s ridiculous how easy it was to do this. It might be well below my typical standards, but this is personal, not business. And she’ll be safer, anyway. Without a second thought, I click send and snap my laptop shut.

The metal, artistic clock against the opposite wall tells me it’s already six and I have a meeting up town at eight. The third cup of coffee finally kicks my body in to gear and I can feel it pumping in my veins. If I don’t burn some of it off, I won’t be able to focus when we sit down and discuss software analytics.

My laptop might be my lifeline, but that doesn’t mean I let my skills dictate my appearance. My fingers are talented against the keys of a computer, but they're even better with a pair of throwing knifes, or anything sharp really.

Heading for the gym, I open the glass cabinet lined in black velvet and take out my working knives. They’re not the pair I always keep on me, but I’d rather not send those flying into the wood post. Those I’ll save for a special occasion, like a body—if ever necessary.

The cold metal against my skin is so familiar, an extension of my hand that allows me to whip them free and hit target after target. It doesn’t matter if I’m standing still or working through the choreography that mimics an attack. The knifes thwack against the solid wood dotted with markers, always meeting their intended targets.

Thirty minutes later, the sweat drips down my body and I’m slightly out of breath. Rammstein blares over the speakers. If it wasn’t for the soundproofing I did in this room, my neighbors would hate me. Reaching down, I pick up my discarded shirt, swinging it over my shoulder. With the knifes put back in their case, it’s time to shower and get to my meeting.

Out on the street, I pause before heading for the subway. Looking up, I can barely see anything as the sun reflects off the black windows of the building. But her curtains are still shut. If I’m lucky, they’ll be in the same position by the time I get back, and she’ll still be in there.

* * *

I sitin the conference room of Black Meg Tech—a small app developing company I’ve been running analytics for trying to help them see where they’re hemorrhaging money every month. I’ve got a couple of ideas, but as I lay them out for their CFO, he isn’t listening. Instead, he’s shaking his head in denial, but the number trends don’t lie.

“Sir, I’m sorry to be blunt about it, but this app needs to go. It’s not bringing in nearly as much money as it needs to keep up with what you’re putting into it.”

He stares down at the papers I’ve placed in front of him, eyes skimming over my fully detailed report. His face scrunches his eyebrows in concern as he finally runs a hand down his face. “You found nothing else we could off-load to make up for it?”

“No sir, nothing that would make a notable enough difference in the time frame you need,” I tell him.

“Very well,” he says.

He doesn’t say thank you. He only stands, gripping the rolled-up report in his hand and heads for the door.

You’re welcome, asshole.

If these kinds of jobs didn’t allow me to live in New York on my own dime, I’d have given them up months ago. After a meeting like that, I need a drink. I look down at my phone. Okay, maybe not a drink, considering it’s only noon. But my body doesn’t realize that since I’ve been up for over twenty-four hours.

It’s going to take me forever to get back to Brooklyn from here. The sidewalks are packed with people on their lunch breaks, taking the couple minutes they’re allowed to themselves. I swerve in between men in their three-piece suits and women in reasonable heels.

If we were playing Where’s Waldo, I’d be Waldo. It’s no wonder the security guard patted me down a little longer than necessary. My look screamsdoes not belong, but that’s on them. I do half the work for twice the pay by freelancing, and I haven’t had to give up my leather jacket for a suffocating blazer.

By the time I make it back on to my street, it’s one thirty. That’s late enough for a beer, at the very least. Strolling down the sidewalk toward my favorite local burger joint, a notice catches my eye.

This block’s been cleaned up. A rope extends down the street from a heavy red wooden door outlined in gold. A faint beat thuds rhythmically, but I can’t make out the song. As I close in on the top of the rope, a bouncer walks out, and the music rises.

“Hey man, is this place open yet?” I ask.

He eyes me. He’s taking in my appearance, judging whether I’d be a good fit for this place. “Yeah, opened last week.”

I nod and keep moving, my mind on a frosty beer. I might just have to check it out; could be a good place to meet up with clients depending on their vibe. Since this is Brooklyn, that’s always a crapshoot.

“What’ll you have?” the bartender asks as I sit.

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