On The Run: Part Two

Chapter Nineteen - "Disorientation"

Jake

 

Have you ever missed somebody so much that it physically hurt to think about them?

The worst part was, I couldn’t avoid thinking about her. She was everywhere.

On my TV.

In the papers.

In my mind.

In my heart.

“Finchley, did you hear me?” Fowler snapped.

I looked up suddenly. How long had he been standing there?

“Sorry sir. I’m sorry, I didn’t.”

“Jeez, when last did you get some sleep? You look terrible,” he said, his face contorted in disgust.

I probably did. I was hung-over and hadn’t caught a wink of sleep in the last two days. I was throwing myself into the case, and even though the burden didn’t entirely rest on my shoulders anymore, I didn’t feel any stress being relieved off me.

“You were saying?” I asked.

“Oh yes. I was saying you and Devon should go and update the congressman on our progress. I’d do it, but I have to question the foster parents of Eddie Garcia. Clean yourself up a little though. You look . . . Just clean yourself up.”

I nodded and got up, grateful for having something to do.

“Devon,” I called across the room, “Pick me up at my place in an hour.”

He gave me a thumbs up as he leafed through files.

I made my way down the elevator and to my car, wondering how things had gone so wrong so fast.

I drove as fast as I could to my apartment and slumped right onto my couch. I’d barely spent any time in it over the past couple of weeks; it was starting to feel a little strange to me. Or maybe I was projecting the emptiness I felt.

I pulled out my phone.

Scrolling through my contacts, I wondered if there was anyone who could possibly fill the void. I knew who I wanted to talk to, but there was no point in reopening wounds that were just barely starting to bleed a little less.

I stopped on ‘Samantha,’ and then, remembering that the number was now out of service, I felt my heart clench for the hundredth time that day.

Maybe I should have left with her when I had the chance.

My parents had been calling me constantly to ask if I’d heard from her, but I’d been avoiding their calls thoroughly. I had no idea just what to say yet.

Then, I got to ‘Sarah.’ I resisted the urge to press ‘call.’ But she’d made it all perfectly clear; we were done.

It was the day we’d taken in those two Jackson boys she was representing. We’d finished the interrogation and had just let one of them go; she was supposed to have left twenty minutes earlier, but she hadn’t. She was standing in the break room, staring hard at the coffee maker.

“What, six months and you already forgot how to use it?” I joked, walking in.

She looked up and shook her head, “No. I’m just wondering if I ever will.”

“So, that went well,” I said, leaning on the table next to her.

She frowned, “What’s your definition of well?”