Page 3 of Jax
I wore black.Not for drama, but for concealment. A high neckline to mask the bruises climbing my throat, sleeves long enough to hide what still throbbed beneath the skin. Sunglasses to cover the redness that clung to my eyes no matter how many times I rinsed them. Heavy makeup, to hide what clothing couldn’t. I had stitched myself into something that looked like composure—cotton, silence, posture, control—hoping that if I looked whole enough on the outside, no one would notice how hollow I felt inside.
The Truman courthouse sat in the middle of a pretty town square in downtown Independence, but I didn’t notice much. Horns and footsteps and voices all blended into an endless hum as I exited my car and walked towards the imposing brick building. People rushed by with coffee cups and phone calls,swinging messenger bags, or stuffing parking receipts into sun-heated dashboards. Life went on, like it didn’t know I was carrying evidence of a crime I hadn’t committed, and might not survive reporting.
I kept my head down and my steps steady as I entered the courthouse, the government-issued blandness of fluorescent lights and beige tile washing over me. My heels clicked across the polished floor, each sound ricocheting back into my ears like a shot. I forced my expression into something neutral. Unassuming. Forgettable.
The envelope in my hand felt heavier than it should’ve. Heavier than paper. Heavier than ink. It felt like an execution order, folded in half and sealed without apology.
The woman at the front waved me toward the second desk. A man in his thirties sat there, sleeves rolled, tie slightly loosened. Friendly enough. Nondescript. I handed him the envelope and explained why I was there with as few words as possible, praying my hands weren’t visibly shaking.
He flipped it open with casual efficiency and began scanning the documents. His fingers moved in practiced rhythm. His expression didn’t change at first.
“Shouldn’t take long,” he said without looking up, eyes still fixed on the paperwork. “Just verifying the transaction details.”
I nodded once, afraid my voice might betray me. Heat and cold warred beneath my skin, each surge leaving me more unsteady. My shirt clung to the sweat along my spine. Sweat slicked my damp palms. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. My pulse hammered in my ears, loud, fast, impossible to tune out.
Something shifted. Barely a flicker. His hand stalled mid-page. A subtle tension pulled at his brow. Lips pressed together. His gaze moved, paper to screen, screen to paper. One keystroke. Another. A pause, tiny, but out of place.
It wasn’t a disaster. Not yet.
But panic doesn’t wait for proof. It bloomed anyway, low and sour, curling in my gut like smoke.
“Give me just a moment,” he said, standing with careful ease. “I need to check something in the back.” He moved without urgency, disappearing through a narrow side door he left open behind him.
Check something in the back.
The phrase hit wrong. Too casual. Too practiced. It echoed louder than it should’ve.
I didn’t move. Couldn’t. Every instinct screamed to run, but I knew what that would mean—how it would look, what it would cost. So I held still. Spine locked. Breath shallow. In through the nose, out through the mouth. One breath. Then another. My knees ached from tension, but I didn’t sit. Didn’t flinch. I waited.
Thirty seconds. Then sixty.
When the door creaked again, the clerk held it open and gestured for me to join him. My stomach dropped, but I couldn’t afford to lose the facade of calm nonchalance I was clinging to so desperately. I stood, picked up my things, and followed him.
“My apologies, Ms. Evans. Transfers like this can take time sometimes. We just need to work out a few details, and so I wanted to offer you a more comfortable place to wait. Just through here, if you please.”
He showed me through a door and into some sort of meeting room. There was a mid-sized table with a few chairs around it, a TV on the back wall, and a water cooler beside the door. Nothing about the room was threatening, but I suddenly felt like I was entering an interrogation. My stomach was in knots, and I was sure I was sweating profusely. I gave the man a weak smile and took one of the chairs.
“Feel free to help yourself to some water, Ms. Evans. I will return as soon as I have everything straightened out. I appreciate your patience.”
“No problem.” I managed to get out. The clerk gave me a smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes, and shut the door behind himself.
As soon as I was alone, I squeezed my eyes shut and put my face in my hands. I barely held back full-on sobs, but I could not help the few tears that leaked between my closed eyelids.
What is going on? Is this just how it works, and I’m freaking out about nothing?
No, something wasn’t right. The clerk had seemed nervous. But maybe I was just projecting? I couldn’t be sure. The only thing I knew for certain was that I was trapped in this room as certainly as I had been tied to that chair in the concrete room. If I stayed, whatever the clerk was worried about might lead to everything being uncovered. If I ran, not only would they know I was up to something shady, but I wouldn’t complete the task that my captors had given me. And I didn’t want to think about what would happen if I failed.
So I sat and watched the clock tick by, feeling like every second was an hour. Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. Then thirty. I jumped nearly out of my chair when the door clicked open again, but it wasn’t the clerk returning.
Someone else stepped in.
Taller. Broader. Late thirties, maybe early forties. Dark jeans. Gray button-down, sleeves rolled. A badge clipped to his waistband, not concealed, not advertised. No radio. No holster. Not local PD. Not in uniform, at least. Not someone I could afford to trust.
His eyes found mine the second he entered—sharp, deliberate, brown like scorched earth.
“Stella Evans?” he asked, voice low and measured. It wasn’t loud.
It didn’t need to be.
