The Supposed Terrorist

Chapter 7

Artem's POV

A day after the hearing, Charlotte had contacted us and asked us to meet at a small cafe in 3 days. About time she did because I was in need of some information or evidence to go on.

The smell of coffee wafted in the air. Only a couple or two and some friend groups hung out on the afternoon of weekend. Rico languidly scrolled on her phone. I looked over and she was reading something titled The Eyes of the Skin.

I had noticed that earlier she would randomly read news or internet discussions about herself, but then after one point, she stopped doing that completely.

Which was smart. Things like these were bound to prick you, no matter how thick the skin, if you feed yourself on them long enough. The Internet was cruel. People online threw their opinions on complicated things, without much thought. And for what? To experience the satisfaction of some supposed moral superiority they had over the other.

I nudged her, getting bored. "What are you reading?"

"Yeah?" She said, attention still on the phone.

"I expected better presence of mind from you," I tsked, shaking my head in utter disappointment.

She put the device down and gave me a disdained look. "What is it?"

"What are you reading?"

"The Eyes of the Skin by Juhani Pallasmaa."

I considered myself a decently versed person in literature, but both the names sounded slightly alien even to me. By the name of it, maybe a thriller novel? Philosophy?

"What's it about?" I asked.

"It's basically two extended essays about architectural theory."

Architecture? Not one of the first things I had expected.

"You are into architecture?"

"Yep, always have been."

I noticed her focus divert back to the book again, which irritated me for some reason because my mind was going like I am right here, talk to me!

What was happening to me?

"Do you prefer reading digitally?" I asked. 

"No," she said. "But I can't buy physical copy right now, so."

"Which part are you at?"

"Acoustic intimacy."

Sounds fancy.

She closed the phone and lounged back into her chair.

Maybe I annoyed her enough to cave in to talking to me.

"If I make it out alive, I might consider doing it, you know? Architecture, I mean. I have always wanted to," she said. Her eyebrows furrowed together and I could see thoughts swirl in her head. "But on second thought, maybe I won't."

"When," I corrected. "This case isn't going in that direction." I will make sure it never does. "And why not? If you have always wanted to."

"Leave it," she smiled lightly. "So–"

"Why not?"

The smile became more faint. "Maybe in the far future, I might. I don't even know if and when I can get my own house, you know? Following a long winded road to some old interest sounds far away. I guess money will come first."

In the short three years as a lawyer, there were moments sickening and hard that reminded me how unfair life was to some people. For no good reason.

This was one of those moments.