D.C. wasn't as busy as Justin expected.
It was still 'busy,' sure. Cars still clogged the streets like a diseased artery in the heart of the city, leaving bikers struggling to eke by; pedestrians cluttered the sidewalks, skipping and sidestepping around litter and beggers and small children wandering from their parents' grasp. But it wasn't yet rush hour, and the interluding traffic was nothing he hadn't seen before in Seattle.
Still, he'd never been to D.C. before, so he'd seated himself by the window to be sure he could soak in the sights. It wasn't likely he'd be here again anytime soon.... Even if they won the lawsuit, Justin wasn't certain how much would be left after student loans... then the other debts on the car, the house... then probably a nicer car and house - ones that didn't break down every 15th mile, or let water slip through the roof every thunderstorm.
Not to mention the therapist his mother would hire for him.
Justin tried to shake away the thought, but it stuck. He'd tossed the idea back and forth like Playdough for months.... Sometimes it sounded nice to talk to someone about it – run through the whole ordeal day by day, scene by scene.
Other times, it made him want to vomit.
A man in a trenchcoat and trilby hat crossed the street before him. With a deft hand Justin swiped up the newspaper by his latte and unfolded it, covering his face.
Paranoid. You're still paranoid....
The news coverage had died down over the last few months, waiting for the action to pick up again; trials were more exciting than pre-trial hearings. But Justin still felt he could never be too careful. He had read the stories with an absorbed, maybe unhealthy interest... but he was far from interested in seeing himself on the cover of The Washington Post. He was comfortable living in the printed word... faces were too personal.
"Still hiding, huh?"
Justin smiled, put down the newspaper. He found Ella at his right, arms crossed and settled on the counter. Her hair had been pixie-cut, extending the view of her scar all the way around her jaw.
She gestured up. "Well?"
Justin chuckled. "It looks... good."
"'Good.' Thanks, Justin."
"Well, it does!"
"I know it does," she laughed. Then she leaned forward, falling into Justin's arms in a sideways hug.
"How are you?" she asked, and he knew that she meant it. She was the only one he'd kept in contact with after last summer. They'd grown close.
"Great," he lied.
She leaned back into her chair, smile fading.
"Ok, not great," he confessed. "But good."
"That's better." She sighed, looked around. "Anyone else here yet?"
"No," he answered. "I'm not surprised, though. I mean, if our host was late...."
Ella laughed again. She had changed subtly over the last year in curious, often mischievious ways... but her laugh had not. Still high and light. Like a bell.
"Just because I suggested it... that doesn't mean I'm our 'host.'"
"Well then. As our guest," he gestured to the register behind him, "please go and enjoy the complimentary coffee. ...For a small fee."
YOU ARE READING
The Henhouse
Mystery / ThrillerFor $5000, recluse Justin Ledford would do almost anything. When he's invited by the CIA to a month-long experiment in "The Henhouse," he hesitantly accepts - joined by 7 other high-schoolers from across the country. Together they're asked to comple...
