Clarine's POV
It's a universally known fact that if you're in the police force and can't fight crime, you end up fighting the copying machine when the toner runs low.
Quentin Sperling sat my sister and me on his lap every day before going to work and would tell us, "Clarine...Hyacinth, you're my little girls. Always will be." He was the only one that treated us equally special—as if both of us had something the other couldn't offer the world, and that made us different.
But let me be the first to tell you that being a fraternal twin to someone twice as talented and charismatic was absolute hell. The story of us was disgustingly cliche: what I lacked in talent, she made up for in everything else. I wasn't the ugly twin or the twin that got the bad genes—I had blonde hair while she had red hair, and we both shared brown eyes—but it was definitely Hyacinth that stood out in a crowd. My father was a man that could find qualities in me—sympathetic, sincere and underestimated—that were not present in my sister—and he never told her those qualities for my sake.
I would watch him every morning as he swirled his coffee with a teaspoon. It always struck me as curious, how he handled the little silver utensil with such care despite it being inanimate, but as I grew older I realized that because Felicity Sperling—maiden name Johnson; daughter, mother, wife, sister, aunt and human rights activist—had died while escorting a village of children to a refugee camp in Sierra Leone when I was only twelve, it made sense that he was trying to compensate for her loss for all us—himself included.
Three years ago I stood at the podium on my high school graduation day. My speech consisted of three simple sentences: "Being scared and not being ready are two different things. Though I may be scared, I know I'm ready. Thank you to everyone for helping me realize the importance of being earnest."
My father asked me what I had meant. While my sister flailed around her acceptance letter to a journalism internship in Toronto, I showed him my acceptance letter into the police force. He pursed his lips and cried, but the tears that fell from his eyes were not ones of pride.
I think he thought I'd end up like my mother.
Now, at 8:43 at night, I sat at a grey desk—fourth down from the vending machine and six left from the closest bathroom—with a picture of my sister and my father placed specifically in the left hand corner so that when I looked up, I'd be able to see them. At least I wasn't in the line of fire—the only thing I'd be fighting was the traffic to the coffee machine during breaks.
I sorted through the stack of case files left on my desk, all titled "Evans, Bria Abigail". It was a hefty pile that already made me want to beg Tomislav for another shot in the field. I knew he wouldn't allow it though; destroying a precinct car and two news stands, on top of calling in the wrong code for a crime (I called in a shooting instead of a break and enter, which landed me in a very sticky situation) and accidentally shooting a team mate in the foot, was more fault than could be tolerated.
Upon sifting through her information, I noticed that Bria was closely associated with a man named Harry Styles. The name rang a bell—I heard it on the radio in the afternoon. Something about prison break and nudity, if I recalled correctly. The picture in his file was that of a tired young man, spectacle-clad eyes encompassed by purple-tinged circles, with tattoos littered across his bony torso and a glare that scared even myself. His hair was straight, dark black, went down to his shoulders, and a thickening beard grew on his face. He looked so distinct that I wondered how he even managed to escape without being recognized by the authorities.
Bria and Harry were very much a dynamic duo, carrying out cons in disguises such as event planning, lottery tickets, and even Girl Guide cookies with fake names and card numbers. The list was quite impressive up until Harry was thrown in jail after being caught speeding down the Interstate 5* towards Washington. After that, Bria went off the grid with no trace of her or her known aliases. It was only logical to assume the two were going to meet up again now that he was out of jail.
"Sperling?" Tomislav's voice called from his office a few paces away. My head shot up from what seemed to be the fiftieth file I had analyzed that night to see a weary old man, tie loose and jacket unzipped, walking towards me. "It's eleven o'clock. Go home."
I looked at my watch and indeed it was true.
"Sorry sir. I'll pack up now."
He sighed and took a seat upon my desk.
"Sperling," he started, "I talked to the chief and...look, I'm sorry, but until he thinks you're a better cop, you'll be stuck here."
"Oh," was all I could say. Being a police officer was the only thing I imagined myself doing, and I'd just landed myself in every cop's nightmare: to be a glorified pencil pusher.
"But I think you're a good cop. You know that?"
His attempts at making me feel better were useless.
"Not in the conventional way, but in a way that I wish more of the officers would act. You're a good person."
I laughed slightly as I paused my packing.
"Being a good person and being a good cop are two different things, sir."
"You're right. Good cops aren't necessarily good people. But good people make good cops."
He sent me a closed smile and was on his way without another word. It never occurred to me that Tomislav, the man that everybody in the precinct feared to some extent, was a motivational speaker. I picked up my belongings and left the building before I could force myself to think about what he said any longer.
The TriMet was the easiest way to get around Portland, especially when one of the stations was situated a block away from my home. It consisted of monorails and buses that travelled through the city and eventually led everybody downtown at one point or another. My ride home was silent; people stayed distant from the rest of the passengers, purposely disconnecting themselves as to shut away their existence from each other. A bit depressing, really, but it was human nature after all.
Upon arriving at the station and paying my fare, I couldn't help but to feel a chill in the air—chillier than most nights had been this week. I hastened my pace towards the third block in the row of condominiums, fumbling with my keys to try and get out of the cold as soon as I could. As the door opened I shook the cold off my shoulders, felt my way around in my darkened foyer, and groped the wall to find the light switch—I was still slightly afraid of the dark.
"More to the left," a husky, English voice instructed from my sitting room area. I shrieked and slammed the light switch on with my palm, illuminating the small area to reveal a man laying on my couch with his hands locked behind his head and his ankles crossed. He was only wearing a tight pair of jeans, allowing my eyes to take in the sight of his bare torso littered with recognizable tattoos. Though his hair had grown out significantly, nearly reaching the middle of his back, and his beard had been shaved off, I knew exactly who he was. My mouth went parched, leaving me speechless and standing in my doorway trying to convince myself that the person currently relaxing in my living room wasn't actually there.
"Oh, I helped myself to a shower by the way. Hope you don't mind," he added, sitting upright and staring at me from across the room. I stood dangerously still, afraid to move. He sighed and got to his feet, causing me to back into my door and fervently feel around for the knob.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he shrugged, advancing towards me. He stopped at the table lamp a few feet away and stuck his hands in his pockets. "Say something."
"S-Styles..?" I stammered. My feet seemed glued to the floor. Clearly my training had been kicked back into my unconscious because it certainly wasn't working now. He chuckled and scratched his nose, then looked back at me. The picture in his file didn't do him justice—he was even more frightening in person. His piercing green eyes and chiseled features (not to mention a body that had grown in terms of muscle over the years of being behind bars) made for quite an entrancing display.
"And you're Sperling," he nodded his head. "So now that we've got introductions over and done with—"
"I'm calling the police!" I blurted.
"You are the police."
Well...he wasn't wrong. Without thinking, I pulled my gun from its holster on my hip and aimed it directly at him. He snickered, leaning back on the side table and crossing his arms.
"You're not going to shoot me, Officer Sperling."
His voice was so pretentious and snarky—although I knew full well that I wouldn't shoot him, I really would've liked to.
"You broke out of prison today—"
"Nice, right?"
"—and it's my job to protect people—"
"A little hard to believe since you swerved onto the sidewalk—"
I shifted my aim and pulled the trigger, a bullet flying past him and into the far wall. Harry immediately threw his hands up.
"Fucking listen to me!" I yelled. I really didn't know what I was doing, but he stayed quiet. I inhaled and kept my aim on him. "Why are you here?"
"To ask for your help," he replied plainly, his hands still in the air.
"Why?"
"I know you got bumped down to a desk job—overheard your supervisor at the bank—"
"How were you at the bank?"
"Fake name, Sperling, try to keep up," he patronized. I pursed my lips but let him continue. "Anyway, I know you were supposed to look over Bria Evans' file. Right?"
"There's nothing you can do to make me help you find her—I hope you know—"
"Would you let me finish?" Harry snarled. He waited for my response, and I raised an eyebrow to get him to continue. "I want you to help me find her; I want you to help me throw her in jail."
"Do you think I'm an idiot? I may not be the best cop on the force but I know when someone's lying!"
"I'm not lying, and I'll prove to you why I'm not, okay?" he began. "I am undoubtedly the best con artist in the country. I can find anything out if I wanted to—including where she is."
"So?"
"So it means that if I really wanted to be reunited with her, I would've already done so. I need your help to put her in jail, Sperling."
"Why should I trust anything you say? You broke into my home—how the hell did you find out where I live? That's stalking, I'll have you know."
"Because," he seemed exasperated and ignored my question, "I'm not the one that can put her behind bars—you can. But you need my help to do so, and frankly no one else will listen to me."
"That's because you lie for a living."
"I've done my time, Sperling—"
"Technically you have a year left—"
"I've done my time," he repeated through gritted teeth, "and now I'm here to make sure she does her time too. She's the reason why I got locked up."
"Why should I help you? I'd be harbouring a fugitive."
"Because of your job. You want to get back onto the field? You throw her in jail. Simple. You want your job as a ditzy little cop and I want her to pay up for what she's put me through; we can help each other out."
"I don't need your help, and I certainly won't help you."
"What's stopping you, huh? It's not like I've tried to rob you or sell your liver on the black market. You need my help to find her—trust me, I can read people like you."
"And what is that supposed to mean?"
"It means that you don't think like a crook. You don't think like one of us," he said calmly, and I knew he was right. "Look, I know that trusting me isn't your best option—"
"It's not really an option at all—"
"—but both of us want the same thing: to put Bria Evans in jail. And you know what? I'll even let you slap your cuffs onto my wrists once we're done. You can hand both of us to the authorities. I just want to see her locked away."
I bit the inside of my cheek and weighed my options. On one hand, everything he proposed was a danger to me: I'd be trusting a con man, for crying out loud, not to mention that I'd be breaking several laws while doing so. And what if I refused to help him? What would he do? He wouldn't just leave me alone and let me tell Tomislav or anybody else—no, no, he knew where I lived and would probably take me as a hostage or stage a ransom video, using me as leverage. Would the police even pay the money to get me back? It wasn't as if I was of much value to them anyway. He could even kill me for all I knew—the man broke out of prison; there was probably much more he was capable of.
But on the other hand, the benefits were glorious. I would have my job back and probably get recognized for catching one of the most successful con women in the twenty-first century. She wouldn't be able to harm people any longer. And the slight chance that he might have been telling the truth about letting me hand him over as well was a bonus—killing two birds with one stone. He was correct in saying that if he really wanted to start trouble again, he would have already done so. Hiding him would be the only issue; his face would be all over the news from tomorrow onward, and I had to be cautious in public. He seemed charming enough, though my father always told me that those were the ones you had to distance yourself from.
"Let me make one thing perfectly clear, Styles," I began, stepping closer to him. "I am not afraid of you, and I will not hesitate to shoot you and drag you to the precinct if you try to run or do anything to jeopardize this...this mission we're going on. We are finding Bria Evans and that is all."
He nodded in agreement, slightly confused at how assertive I made myself out to be.
"You can take the couch," I said as I lowered my gun, walking hastily past him and trekking up the stairs. "And put on a goddamn shirt!"
***
Harry Styles was sitting in my living room.
Harry Styles was sitting in my living room.
And I put a bullet in my wall, which I would have to fix eventually.
In the moment that I agreed to take Harry on as a partner, I knew I had, in turn, made myself his accomplice. I felt more of a criminal than he was.
The knob on my bedroom door was locked, and a chair was leaned up under it to stop him from breaking in should he feel the need to snoop. I hid my cheques, credit cards and any money I had around. I promised myself I wouldn't let him make me a pawn in his game of chess.
After a quick shower and slipping into a pajama set that covered more than I was used to, I tiptoed downstairs to see him—now with a shirt on—looking at the picture frames on my bookshelf.
"You didn't have to hide your money, you know," he said as if he'd been in the room while I was doing so. I gulped and stepped down into his sight, but he did not turn to look at me. He pointed at the picture of me and a red-haired little girl in bright pink pants and a sunflower t-shirt. "Who's this?"
"Why are you so interested in my pictures?" I asked, knowing I sounded more than a little hostile. My family was none of his concern—the picture was of my niece and the least I could do, given my situation, was keep her safe. He turned to me and thought about my question, then sat down at my dining table before pulling a chair out for me. I hesitated, but complied.
"I'm interested in your pictures because as much as you're observing me, I'm observing you."
"Well I'd prefer it if you didn't."
"Why not? You've got to take time to get to know your partner and unfortunately for me, I don't have your file at my disposal."
I couldn't help but to get caught in the sound of his voice—it held so much mystery and allurement that for a moment, all I did what repeat what he said in my head.
"I haven't looked at your file."
"But you're going to."
I pursed my lips and kept quiet. I was beginning to believe that he had an annoying habit of being correct.
"You're a few arguments short of belligerent, Sperling. Any particular reason why?"
"I have a fugitive sitting at my dining table," I replied—shouldn't it have been obvious? He stared, smirking again as if he was completely satisfied with the amount of discontent he had extracted from me.
"What's your name?" he asked after some time of silence. All he did was study what I did, from the way I picked at my fingernails when I was nervous, to the biting of the inside of my cheek. It was like he was taking in every single ounce of who I was, while I, on the other hand, could produce nothing of him. His attempts at making conversation were either very tempting or getting on my nerves, but I reckoned that because it was so irritating it would make me more susceptible to his charm.
"Sperling."
"First name, love."
"Let's just assume that in your case, my first name is Sperling," I snapped, getting up and pushing the chair in with a muffled slide of metal upon hardwood. He got up after I did and rushed to the kitchen, leaning on the refrigerator before I could pull out a microwave dinner from the freezer.
"What would your last name be then? Assuming that we're still speaking in terms of my case."
"Assume that Sperling is the only name you'll be calling me by. Now if you wouldn't mind moving—"
"What could possibly be good for you in the freezer?"
"I don't think you're really in a position to discuss my health. I've had a long day and I'd really appreciate it if—"
"How about you relax and sit over there"—he pointed to the couch in my living room—"while I make you dinner, hm?"
"What? And let you poison me? I don't think so."
"I'm a con artist, not a murderer. I'll even eat what I make you, how about that? Think of it as a friendly gesture—"
"We're not friends."
He squinted his eyes at me in a playful manner and wagged his finger with a tsk tsk tsk.
"In time, Sperling, in time. Now sit and let me work, or you'll have a hard time finding your cards in the morning."
I frowned and immediately thought of another place to hide my sources of money as soon as the remark left his mouth. He grinned and began looking through my cupboards. Frankly I was too tired to argue with him—it was fifteen past midnight and my eyes were burning and sleep deprived. I didn't know what to do exactly. The temptation was to leave and let him cook while I slept, but I knew that trust wasn't something I could fall back on in this instance.
"Get to know me, Sperling. You're a cop, aren't you? Isn't that part of your job description?" he called, bringing out a pot from under my stove.
"I just follow orders. And I know all I need to know about you."
"Sounds like a shitty job," he teased. I could hear the smirk in his face and desperately wanted to punch it off. "I'd sooner shoot myself in the neck if I had to take orders from someone."
"Well you'll be listening to me if you want to capture Evans."
"Yes ma'am," he replied, pulling out something from my fridge that I couldn't quite make out. I rolled my eyes and went back to the couch. Before long, not even the sounds of the rangehood whirring in the background could wake me. It was only until a hand shook me from sleep did I remember that I had consciously made the decision to trust him, even if it was on as small of a scale as cooking.
He plopped the plate of what looked to be Hamburger Helper** before me on the coffee table, then stuck his own fork into one of the pasta noodles and popped it in his mouth, emphasizing the indulgence on his face to reiterate to me that rat poison, bleach, ammonia, and lethal doses of Tylenol 3 were out of the question.
Then, without a single utterance (which, admittedly, I had been hoping for quite a bit), he set his fork down, sighed, and retreated down the hall to the bathroom. In the time it took me to eat and wash up, he didn't come back out. Before long, the time on the clock read 1:00 AM and I resorted to going back to bed. He probably came out once I had left.
Harry was enticing—whether it was a good or bad thing was still beyond what I could concur. At any given rate, the real crime, no matter if he was a con man or not, was failing to get to know him.
In the final moments before I went to sleep—after locking the door and barring it with the chair once again—one particular thought circumnavigated my head, like a tick that would not satiate over what I already had in my brain:
Harry Styles broke into my home, sat in my living room, asked me for help, and cooked me dinner—to all of which I, without the slightest regret, allowed.
***
* Interstate 5 is a long highway that stretches from the Canada/US border to the US/Mexico border
** Hamburger Helper is this awesome meal helper thing where it comes with sauce and pasta and you basically just have to cook ground beef and it's really delicious (it's probably not good for you though LOL)
ALSO, I DEMAND TO KNOW WHO MADE THE TRAILER FOR THIS FIC (in the media section) bc it was anonymously sent to my email AND IT'S REALLY GOOD AND I THOUGH CANDICE MADE IT BECAUSE SHE'S THE ONLY ONE THAT KNOWS THE FULL STORY LINE but she didn't and whoever made it pretty much got it spot on so gg (also, good choice of song- Apartment is a great band). Thanks to the person who took the time to make it!
Next update won't be as quick as the last two have been- finals are coming up and I need to study! xx