Page 21 of Concealed

It’s true that we sign up to protect our fellow man, and that most people wouldn’t take the risks we do or live the lifestyle we have.

But no one signed up to die, and we fight for our lives every day.

The least we could get is a little appreciation instead of stereotypes.

When I get home, Rebecca is sitting on the couch watching a reality television show that she immediately clicks off. It removes the harsh glow and bathes the room in natural light from the setting sun.

“Sorry,” she says, starting to make her way toward the stairs, “I’ll get out of your way.”

“You’re not in the way,” I tell her, “And you don’t have to rush off. You made my house livable, so the least I can do is give you control of the remote.”

She’s unpacked everything, and even though I have no idea where to find anything, I’m incredibly grateful because I wouldn’t have found time to do it. Since I don’t plan on hosting anyone here, I likely would have lived out of boxes for the next six months.

And I definitely wouldn’t have been coming home to food that makes my stomach grumble and mouth water.

“What did you make?” I ask. “Not that I’m picky. I’ll eat whatever it is and be thankful you made it.”

She gives me a small, tentative smile, and we’re right back at square one. Maybe I should break out the wine again.

“Just something simple. Salmon, brown rice, and Greek salad.”

“Sounds like heaven,” I reply. “Smells like it, too.”

“You must be tired,” she says.

“I’m pretty used to erratic schedules, and I’ve never needed much sleep.”

I make my way to the gun safe and safely stow my weapon, removing all the other tools of the trade from my duty belt and setting it on a table that I specifically decided to use for this sole purpose.

“An unpredictable schedule would make it really easy to…” she pauses, as though realizing what she was about to say and reconsidering it.

I turn to face her with a frown. “Easy to what?”

“I don’t know. Just… Do whatever you want to do without consequence, I guess.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” she repeats, but it’s clear from her pained facial expression that she has something in mind.

“You mean, like pretend to be at work when I’m not?”

“Yeah. Cheating on someone, neglecting responsibilities, that kind of thing.”

It’s a strange thing to say, but I’m making allowances because she’s out of practice in social settings. She was just as isolated in Vegas as she is now. Or maybe, she just doesn’t like me and doesn’t care if she offends me.

“I guess so,” I reply, “If you were inclined that way. I’m not, by the way. And if someone was, then they’d find a way regardless of their job.”

“A cop who follows all the rules. Hm.”

“What do you have against cops?” I demand.

She looks away. “I’m sorry. I just… I had a bad experience with the Vegas PD. They… Didn’t help me with my ex when they should have, and they made me feel like a crazy person for reporting domestic abuse.”

“Well, I’m sorry that happened. But we’re not all the same.”

It’s clear as day that someone hit Rebecca, but if the cops didn’t take her seriously, then either they were incompetent or her story didn’t add up.

And I intend to find out which statement is true.

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