Page 93 of Kings Against the World

“Proud, huh?” I gasp between the next breath I inhale. My calves scream, but I keep pushing, legs pumping like pistons, as if I can outrun the anger clawing its way up my ribs.

“Director Duchovny, would you like to acknowledge any of your agents today?”

I know what’s coming before he even opens his mouth.

“Detective Eduardo Rodriguez has been an invaluable asset. He’s the best agent who has ever been under my purview. His commitment to the bureau’s mission and his exemplary performance have set the standard for the rest of the team.”

My vision narrows to pinpricks. My hand flies out, fumbling for the remote, but my fingers slip against the slick plastic. I release a raw, guttural scream as the belt jerks beneath me and my knee buckles. I grab the side rail just in time to keep from being flung backward and slam my palm on the console to slow down the speed.

Eleven dwindles down to one, a casual walking pace.

It takes another few seconds for my balance to sort itself out.

For a moment, my heart hammers so hard I think it might rip through my ribcage.

I snatch the towel I slung over the side rail earlier and dab my face, my breath hitching in uneven gasps. My legs tremble beneath me as I stagger off the treadmill, shoulders tight with rage.

Three months of this.

I've spent three fucking months like this. Running until my muscles seize and the ache numbs the rest of me, inside and out. Either on this machine or through the cracked, sunburnt streets of Pomona, I’ve tried my hardest to outrun the emptiness that gnaws away at me.

For years, I assumed that bringing Boone down would bring me closure. It would finally give me the peace I was always searching for.

I could move on from what’s become a years-long crusade to get justice for Zani.

None of those things have happened.

If anything, in the aftermath of what happened in Vegas, I’ve found myself more directionless than ever. More numbed and hollow as I go through the motions everyday, running miles, sweating bullets, disappearing into myself.

I have nothing else. No one else.

…except Mom and Dad.

When Duchovny and the rest of the supervisory board put me on an indefinite LOA, I bought a plane ticket to California and rented out a studio apartment a few miles away from my parents’ house.

If only because it would give me something to do.

Cleaning up Mom and Dad’s mess has been a lifelong staple.

The towel hits the hamper with a heavy thud as I head into the bathroom and avoid my reflection in the mirror. Instead, I wrench open the medicine cabinet and seize the see-through orange pill bottle.

I toss the chalky, oval-shaped pill back and wash it down with water from the faucet. My meds keep me going, even if I’ve been left feeling more muted and lifeless than ever. Before it was okay because I had my FBI career to drive me.

But without it, I’m just a shell.

By the time I throw on jeans and a t-shirt and slide into the back seat of my rideshare, the sun dips low over the city. It’s completely set as the rideshare pulls into the front drive of my parent’s house. I’ve stopped by the grocery store on the way and picked up some groceries for them. If I didn’t bother, they wouldn’t either. They’d starve.

It’s a wonder how they’ve survived this long with only periodic checks from me.

Coming up on the walkway, I slow down as I notice the front door cracked open. My stomach knots and my pulse shoots into overdrive. I rush forward, dropping the bags on the porch, withdrawing my pistol from inside my shoulder purse.

“Mom?!” I call out, easing the door open, my pistol aimed safely at the floor. “Dad? Anyone home?”

The stench of cigarettes and rotting garbage smacks into me, revealing they haven’t bothered to take out the trash or even open a window since my last visit… which was only a few days ago.

I step through the short entrance hall and come up on the kitchen. A pot is boiling on the stove; what looks like tomato sauce splattering everywhere. I hurry over to twist off the burner and dump the pot in the sink.

This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve come by and found something forgotten cooking on the stove or burning in the oven. It’s a familiar throwback all the way from the time I was a kid coming home from school.

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