The Heart Wants What It Wants

Chapter Four

I'm put in a small, comfortable room that feels like a cross between an office and a hospital waiting room. A young poster boy for law enforcement brings me a cup of decent coffee and tells me the vending machine has been fritzed since last week so there are no snacks, sorry. He sounds almost distraught, like vending machine visits are the highlight of his day. I empathize.

I've informed Roland, my direct supervisor, of the incident and he's promised to call back once he gets a preliminary report. There's nothing to do but wait until I'm needed for my statement, which means I'm stuck in this room with nothing to do but think. And I do just that. I go over and over what happened, trying to find a point at which I could have handled it differently. Every time, I come to the same conclusion—I couldn't have, not without escalating the situation or adding extra casualties. It was a good outcome, the perp is in custody and nobody is seriously hurt.

But Jennie was hurt.

Jennie. I can't stop thinking about her. I don't know if I should call her and check if she's okay, leave her alone, or what the hell to do. I don't know if she's here giving her statement or at a hospital or at home, wherever her new home is. I've almost decided on calling her when I remember I don't even know her number. She got a new one after our breakup and the only reason I know this is I tried to call her to let her know her mail kept arriving at my place. In the end I called Jennie's manager, Sarah, who took care of it. I could call her manager now. She should remember me, "The reason for all her troubles," as she once labeled me. As if having a closeted client was the worst part of her job and I was somehow responsible for it.

That number is disconnected and a quick Google tells me Sarah is no longer in the talent-managing business but moved to Barbados last year. Interesting. And frustrating. I'm trying to figure out what more I can do when one of the law enforcement guys pokes his head into the room to tell me they're ready for me to give my statement about my arrest of Vince Markle. Right. Work, not personal life.

By the time I've finished my interview and dealt with the masses of paperwork generated by taking someone into custody, it's almost eleven p.m. While I was waiting around, I used some apps to turn on lights in the house and release snack kibble from the auto-feeder to tide Buckley over until I can get home. But I haven't managed to get myself anything for dinner. My stomach has long passed growling or nausea and is now just an empty well that reminds me I haven't had anything but coffee since the lounge waiting for my flight from Chicago.

I take a twenty-minute detour to my comfort food truck to grab a burrito, and eat it one-handed while driving home, ignoring the filling spilling onto my pants. Today has already been a complete fucking mess so why not add another messy thing to it. A fleeting thought of a cold beer or five passes through my head and I take a few moments to acknowledge the thought, the reason for it, then set it aside. That's one mess I don't want.

My phone rings halfway through my very late dinner. Roland. I suck my burrito-y finger before I stab the speaker button. "Hi."

Roland launches right in before I can say anything more. "Sorry for the late call but I just heard from local law enforcement and wanted to check in." His naturally gruff voice softens. "You sure you're okay, Manoban?"

"Fine. Except with all the fracas I left my book on the plane." Not that I was actually reading it or would read it during a mission flight, but I might pick it up at home on a day off.

He laughs. "I'll buy you a new one. Nice work, by the way. I haven't seen anything on the news about this yet."

"Thank the Southern Air crew. They kept it locked down pretty tight."

He laughs again, this one deeper and mirthful. "Ah yes. Is there nothing they can't do?"

"Apparently not." Everyone in the field office knows about my obsession with the Southern Air crew, and every year when we run our stupid and shallow "Who's the best, a.k.a. hottest, cabin crew" pool, I'm the only one who puts Southern Air. "I swear they were even smiling while they handed me the restraints."