Page 8 of Aftermath
I stood up and searched for my phone.
It was absurd.
Every decision I ever made was based on logic.
I picked up the phone, scrolled to Grey’s contact, and hit dial.
It was a minute before he picked up, and I half expected it to go to voicemail.
“Yeah, Beck?” he answered.
“I want time off,” I said hesitantly into the phone.
Was I actually doing this?
“I need time and space away to clear my head, and when I come back, I will put all my efforts into becoming a field agent again.”
It was a lie, but one I knew he was too desperate to see through. He’d dragged me back here from my lowest point. Grey showed up at my trailer that night and hadn’t given me any other option. I knew he wanted me back in the field.
Enough to believe my words.
“I agree. Maybe some time and space is best,” Grey said into the other end. “When will you be leaving?”
“Tomorrow,” I answered before I could stop myself.
If I thought a minute longer about the decision, I would have talked myself out of it. I was never meant to work a case again, so why this one? What about this case could I not let go?
I finished with Grey and immediately pulled up information on Briarport. I found the first flight to Portland, only an hour from the coastal town, then a rental home with plenty of availability that I booked for a few weeks. I had no intentions of returning, not until I chased away whatever haunted me about this case. I needed to put my demons to rest, to move on with my life, once and for all.
2
LENNY
The glass doorsto the museum slammed shut behind me, closing out the brutal summer heat. I walked past the small desk that housed will-call and the service desk. No one was sitting there, but I didn’t expect them to be. It was only 7:00 a.m., and I was always one of the first to the museum. We didn’t open until nine, and I liked having the extra time for personal research.
A clash rang through the small museum, and I startled, realizing on this particular morning, I wasn’t alone.
“Shit!” someone shouted from the back right corner of the space.
I hurried through our set up of exhibits: portraits from local artists, facts about our town, and in the back corner, an exhibit showing off the one famous actor who grew up in Briarport, although I could never recall his name.
Mickey L.
Michael L.
Unimportant. Potential murderer breaking into the museum should be my focus.
Boxes were toppled, and a random assortment of documents were spread across the carpeted floor.
“Barren?” I called, seeing the older gentleman gathering papers from the floor.
He jumped at my voice and dropped the papers he had just picked up.“Lenore,” he said, the surprise on his face fading.
“What are you doing here so early?” I asked. “Your shift doesn’t usually start for another few hours.”
He scrambled to pick up the documents, and I knelt beside him, gathering as many as I could hold.
“Francis will have my head if I don’t finish organizing these boxes today,” the older man said. His blue eyes darted around, like the museum director might materialize in the middle of the exhibit.
