I juggle Cora’s files that I retrieved from the trunk, open the door for her, and follow her inside. The receptionist, Savannah, looks up at Cora, then does a double take when she spies me trailing behind my sister. Her first, fleeting glance is full of female appreciation that quickly morphs into avid curiosity tinged with fear. She doesn’t want to be attracted to an ex-con, but I’d put money on her panties being soaked at the thought of fucking me. I’m a walking, talking good girl’s bad-boy dream. I’m the guy she bangs once or twice on the quiet just so she can brag about it later to her friends.
I grin at Savannah, following it with a wink and a lick of the lips. She gasps and presses her hands to her chest. Her cheeks bloom red. If we were alone I bet I could take her right there on top of her desk. Wouldn’t even have to pull her panties all the way down, just push up her skirt and pull them aside. She’d shower after, feeling dirty, and later she’d jack off, reliving it. I’m not even the slightest bit tempted by her or any other woman I’ve met since I got out.
Another way my life’s fucked up.
I set Cora’s files down where she directs me to. Her office is small, with two desks in the middle facing each other. It’s an odd arrangement, but Cora likes it this way, I guess.
She gestures to the desk opposite hers. “Have a seat.” She sifts through her pile of files until she finds what she’s looking for, then pulls it out and comes around to where I’m sitting. “I thought maybe I’d start you off with some simple searches. See if you like the work.” She twitches the mouse, bringing the computer screen to life. “These are the search sites we use.”
Clicking on the top three bookmarked sites, she brings them up, explaining how they use them and what info the sites can provide. She has me do some easy searches, then leaves me on my own. I don’t suck at it. I’m actually quite good. And I like the work. I’m halfway through the searches Cora wanted me to do when Savannah sticks her head in the doorway.
“Vera Swain, your ten o’clock, is here,” she tells Cora. Her gaze darts to me, then back to Cora.
“Thanks, Savannah. Want to sit in?” Cora asks me. “Take a break from the computer?”
“Sure.” I stand and stretch.
Savannah jumps and squeaks, then disappears from the doorway.
Cora’s mouth bends into a frown. “I don’t know what’s wrong with her lately.”
“Don’t you?”
“I’ll talk to her.”
“Leave it.”
I follow Cora into the reception area. Savannah blocks whoever it is she’s talking to so I can’t see who it is, but whoever they are, they’re small, much smaller than Savannah’s five-nine frame. Savannah shifts, revealing a pastel confection of a young woman about Cora’s age.
All lace and silk, she’s sweet looking in her soft colors like she just walked out of a Sunday church service. But the look in her eyes is wary…suspicious…jaded, reminding me of angry, hard prison stares. This chick’s seen some shit. More than that, she’s experienced some shit, has maybe even done some shit. She’s a survivor. This I understand. I recognize her in the same way I recognize the new man that stares back at me in the mirror.
Her costume is nearly perfect. I bet if I sniffed her she’d smell like baby powder and lemons. I edge closer to her. She catches me with a sudden flick of a glance, freezing me where I stand. Everything about her shouts Back the fuck off. It only makes me want to draw closer. Who is she? Who or what made her this way? And why does she look at me like she knows who I am? Not the TV-news-segment me, but the real me, the Beau deep down inside.
For the first time since I got out of prison I don’t feel alone. There really are others out there like me. One of them is standing mere feet in front of me, regarding me with the same guarded, expectant look I’m wearing.
And she’s beautiful.
Chapter 2
Vera
The office of the private investigation agency isn’t special. After all I’ve heard about it, I was expecting something more lavish or flashy. It’s understated and utilitarian, like a government building. Whoever decorated it didn’t care about esthetics, only functionality and, distantly second, comfort. There are a few photos on the walls and some news clippings of their most notable cases—mainly, images of the two men the agency helped free after serving prison sentences for crimes they didn’t commit. I lean closer to get a better look.
One photo is of Maurice Battle, an elderly black man who was freed after nearly four decades. The other is of Beau Hollis, a younger white man about my age. The grainy black-and-white newspaper photo washes out a lot of detail, but I can tell he’s handsome. Other than that, there’s nothing remarkable about either man. You’d pass them on the street and not have a clue about what they’d been through. I’m working on that trick.
I touch a finger to the glass over the photo of Maurice Battle. Thirty-nine years is a hell of a long time to be locked away.
The tall, blond receptionist, who greeted me when I first walked in, returns. “Cora will be with you in a moment. Can I offer you a beverage? Coffee? Tea? Water?”
“No, thank you.”