Page 11 of The Perfect Illusion

“Yeah. Why?”

“Your whole body is clenched up and it sounds like you’re grinding your teeth,” he said before adding with a smile, “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you if this guy gets handsy.”

She knew the crack was just an attempt to lighten the mood. Brady wasn’t in the kind of shape required to protect himself, much less her. He knew that. Besides, he was well aware of her self-defense training. She’d even taken a course with the FBI once. If she had to, she could kick Marcus Sullivan’s ass.

But despite Brady's attempt at humor, she wasn't amused. Sullivan had a comeuppance coming his way. A big part of her hoped he was their guy so she would have an excuse to get physical. As she processed that realization, Jessie realized she needed to rein things in.

“I just want to be ready for how this guy reacts when we come at him,” she lied. “I guess that’s making me a little tense.”

The truth was that she wasn’t tense at all. She was primed in anticipation of what she might get to do. And it scared her. If she could almost taste the pleasure she’d take in beating Sullivan down before knowing his guilt or innocence, what might she do if she had proof of his involvement?

Jessie closed her eyes for a second, hoping that by focusing on centering herself, she could get a grip. It felt like that grip was loosening every day. Of late, even small affronts had her clenching her fists or grinding her teeth. She feared that it wouldn’t take much to make her cross the line into acting on her bloodlust.

It didn't help that she didn't see any path forward to resolving the tension she constantly felt pressing on her from the inside out. Therapy wasn't helping. The side effects of medication made them a no-go. Treatment facilities didn't offer enough privacy for someone with her public profile. What other options did she have? It felt like the walls were closing in on her, and the only way out was to blow a hole in whatever got in her way.

The elevator dinged and her eyes snapped open. She noticed that Brady was staring at her apprehensively.

“You sure you’re good?” he asked.

“I’m sure,” she said with a conviction she didn’t feel as she stepped out into the hallway.

Though this office tower was impressive from the outside, the interior left a lot to be desired. The carpeting along the hallway was worn beyond repair. The wallpaper looked like it hadn’t been replaced since the 1980s. The whole floor smelled musty.

They walked until they reached the door for suite 807, which had a doorplate that read: Sullivan Events. Jessie wasn’t sure if that meant the guy did more than pageants or that he just preferred to keep things vague for an air of mystery.

Brady tried the door handle, but it was locked. Jessie pointed to the old-fashioned buzzer to the right of the door. Brady pushed it, and a static-y voice came through the small speaker box.

“Yes?” asked a scratchy female voice.

“This is Detective Bowen of the Los Angeles Police Department,” Brady said firmly. “We need to speak with Mr. Sullivan.”

After a brief pause, the voice returned.

“Hold on.”

Jessie looked at her partner for the day.

“Do you find it odd that a pageant organizer in a nondescript office in a decrepit building feels the need to lock his door?” she asked.

“What are you saying—that he gets a lot of angry walk-ins and this is his way of avoiding them?”

“The thought had crossed my mind,” Jessie said.

Before Brady could reply, the door opened to reveal a woman in her sixties with short, gray curly hair. Bifocals hung from a chain around her neck, and she wore a threadbare magenta sweater that looked like it was on its last legs.

“IDs,” she said in the same, unimpressed scratchy voice they’d heard over the speaker as she held her glasses up to her face.

They both held them up for her. She squinted at them, then, apparently satisfied, motioned for them to enter. Jessie stepped in first and looked around. There wasn’t much to see. The waiting room was comprised of the woman’s desk, three filing cabinets, two metal folding chairs, and another door.

“Mr. Sullivan is in his office,” the woman said. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

She walked the six steps to the door and rapped on it.

“What?” Sullivan barked from the other side.

The woman opened the door and poked her head in.

“Police,” she barked back. “They want to chat.”

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