Special Agent | ✓

Twenty-Five

"Yeah. Yeah." Quinn told herself it wasn't tears pushing to the front of her eyes, burning in her irises.

"Of course, you can come. When are you here?"

"24 hours, tops." Quinn's eyes shifted, tracked the crowd moving past the payphone.

And not a second more. Not if I can help it.

"I have recital tomorrow, ending at five. You know where the extra key is?"

"I can't recall," answered Quinn, then listened as her friend listed its location through the other end. Lifting a hand, Quinn pressed one palm into her eyes, willing herself to calm down. She didn't want to have a moment — she needed to collect herself, to will herself to be strong. Tough.

"Make yourself at home," said the voice again, before adding in a careful voice: " — and be careful."

"Of course. I will. Thank you."

Quinn heard her friend hang up, then listened to the monotone beeping for a minute, before shaking her head violently. She paused, nails biting into her palm as she inhaled deeply.

You're getting out of here Quinn.

But Quinn knew that first, she needed to make another important call, to another number she knew by heart. Rolling another few euros into the payphone, Quinn dialled the familiar number. The phone trilled again, before another voice picked up, one tinged with authority.

"Chief Adina Tibble. To whom am I speaking?"

Now, Quinn couldn't hold back the tears. One, two slipped out, rolling down her cheek before she could bat them away with the flowy sleeves of her weird, stolen dress.

I'm a mess.

"Who is this?" The voice had sharpened, though Quinn smiled at it.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Chief Tibble." It was all Quinn could muster without more emotion bubbling up, and she really didn't want to break down on the phone with her boss, " — I've been, uh, caught up."

"Quinn," Tibble sighed. Either Quinn was crazy, or there was a tangible relief in Adina's voice when she spoke next: "Are you alright?"

Staring at her reflection in the glass panes of a facade nearby, Quinn frowned. There were bruises littering her skin, and she had a bullet graze in her bloody shoulder. She'd bandaged it up with stuff she'd stolen from the apothecary in town, sure, but even through the haze of stolen painkillers she could feel it thudding.

"Aside from the fact that I was shot, I'm bloody fine," Quinn suppressed the floaty, desperate laugh that threatened to erupt.

"You were what?" Not even a few thousand miles could hide the incredulity painting Tibble's voice.

Quinn cleared her throat again, shaking her head as if her boss could see it:

"A graze. I bandaged it up. It's a bloody mess, Tibble." Quinn tipped her head back to the wall, closed her eyes briefly, "A bloody mess."

The exhaustion was heavy in Quinn's voice. Tibble frowned on the other end of the line, worry drumming in her mind.

"Where are you now? Is anyone with you?"

"Portogruaro. I'm alone."

Once more, that might be the best case scenario for me.

"What the bloody hell happened, Quinn?"

And so Quinn found the opportunity to use her palms to stop the press of tears once more, recounting the events of the past 24 hours with a cold, detached logic that would prevent her from realizing her entire existence had been upended in less than a day.