Eye of the Storm (The Mystery Squad)

4. Danger

Her bedroom was hardly deserving of the name, but there was a mattress. On a secretary's salary, Danger figured she was doing all right. An apartment on the Lower East Side, if only her brothers, all seven of them—no, six could see her now. Okay, she was no soldier, like they all were, but it was something... wasn't it?

A red light on her phone. Voicemail.

"Danielle? Jesus you never pick up the phone... It's Dominic. Look, we haven't been on the best of terms since... you know. I don't know what you're up to these days. I guess you must be busy with those detective sorts, hope you're not in any trouble. I wanted to invite you to David's funeral. I took some leave, all of the brothers came home for it. Mom and Dad will be there too, but... Just come, if you want. We'll have cake. Should've be pretty fun all things considered. Oh sorry, I know you two were close. Just um... behave yourself. I realize that's difficult for you. Just... try, okay? Hope to see you there. Oh, and wear a dress."

The machine clicked off.

She took her souvenir green 'Nam jacket off it's hanger. Wrapped it tightly around her. Pausing—pulling on the fabric. She was running late. The hours had passed by so quickly. She would go on to tell her coworkers—remember, they were only coworkers—that she'd overslept. A lie. She'd laid awake, wondering why her life had turned into this mess, where the only way out was hell and her brother was gone.

It's going to be one long-ass day.

Through gossiping neighbors she'd heard that a man was in town. Ralph Barrow, candidate for president. It felt so silly. For all she cared, he could be the worst man in the world, intent on destroying civilization, and it wouldn't matter. He wouldn't be in power until January. An eternity away. Between then and now, infinity and a second, she would still be here, or wherever, with nothing but her wits and her grief.

But Baxter, he cared. Oh, he'd pretend he didn't—talk about how all he was was a detective. He had everything to lose. Rosalyn was the same. He'd proved himself long ago, slid his way in to this mess of a world without a second thought, it came so easy to him. She wanted to say that they had it easier, that somehow they'd had the upper hand. They had—but it was no comfort. Forget age, privilege, all that junk, when it came right down to it—they had theirs, and she didn't. Their narratives were finished. Their arcs ended. Not hers.

She hesitated at the door.

"Don't," a voice in her head. Dominic. It was a habit these days. The voices. Ways to reason with the world. She didn't listen to him. She took the gun. She didn't need it to feel safe. She carried it for the exact same reason she wore her army jacket, or heard the voices—as a reminder of a place that no longer existed, but could again. One day, one day soon, when her story was written, she wouldn't need them. Today, she took the gun.

She slid the barrel into the back of her jeans.

She rolled up to the office with bags under her eyes. She should've been there an hour ago, but with two weeks left on the job, who's counting?

The office was deserted. No one was home.

Preparing her desk for a day of boredom, her wired eyes turned to Baxter's corner. It was too clean. The papers, normally a mess, were neatly stacked on one another. Asshole. He's trying to make it look like he doesn't need me. Thinks he can do the organizin' all by himself. Ha! He's dead wrong. She went over there, to his little desk, and made a real mess of things. She shuffled the papers. Pushed them around. Took files the rightly belonged in one folder and placed them in another. That'll show him. You'll have no order without your secretary, Mr. Baxter. When she'd satisfactorily destroyed his system, a solitary envelope stood out. She held the strange thing up to the light. She knew Baxter's handwriting, not this. The front read Barrow/Short—Urgent. A strange thing. The envelope was different, not one of his filings... Did he mean to send this? She read it again. Barrow. To who else than Ralph Barrow? And... Short. Who's Short?