In a way, she was an expert on certain pharmaceuticals.

  She avoided anything she thought would permanently damage her ability to do her job. But otherwise, she wasn't picky. Alcohol was also another favorite.

  She reached towards her glove compartment, still keeping to the road, but unlatched the compartment and shifted a few papers before snatching the small, metal flask she kept there.

  As her fingers skimmed the cold metal, she released a faint sigh of release.

  And then, she tossed back a few pills, not counting them.

  She took a long gulp of straight whiskey.

  She picked up her speed, the wind tearing through the open window now and reverberating in her ears.

  She swallowed the pills and took another long drink.

  She leaned back, head against the cushioned headrest, eyes closed.

  She smiled faintly, overwhelmed by a surge of absolute gratitude.

  It took a few moments for the chemicals to have their affect. It wasn't quite the same thing as peace, but it was potent distraction. Intentional redirection.

  And for someone with ADD, distraction was often as good as peace itself.

  She looked into the rearview mirror, forcing a smile.

  Of course, she didn't really mean the smile. Part of her had been hoping Perez would fire her. Part of her wanted the excuse. If she had been fired, at least she had an explanation for this choice. Cora felt the buzz slowly creeping along her arms, like goosebumps. A prickle along her back. She could feel her mind slowing down, could feel the slow sense of calm.

  She found she could even breathe a bit easier. Her mind grew foggy as if she was staring through opaque glass.

  She yawned, closing her eyes and opening them again. She reached up, slapping at her face with one hand, and stared at the abandoned roads.

  She hadn't realized just how late she'd been kept at the office. Hadn't realized how late it really was. There was something soothing about the night. Something soothing about the dark.

  It was as if it was designed specifically to hide her. She had spent much of her life in hiding.

  And so, even half high she was able to know when someone was trying to find her.

  She spotted the car behind her.

  The headlights illuminated her vehicle. She stared into the mirror, frowning briefly.

  It took her a second, blinking a few times, but then she realized it was the same car from the street corner.

  Makes and models aside, she had always had a knack for remembering license plates. And now, as she stared into the rearview mirror at the car, she didn't recognize the number.

  Her first instinct had been to expect the FBI. Maybe even Agent Brady.

  But no, the car was a Mercedes. A new model.

  She frowned towards it, and bit her lip.

  And then, on a whim, she hit the brakes.

  Her vehicle skidded.

  She veered into the shoulder, going still, waiting...

  A few moments passed, and the car behind her stalled. Then sped up again, as if caught in indecision.

  Her eyes narrowed at the motion.

  It really was following her.

  She waited on the shoulder of the road, watching as the vehicle sped past her. Clearly, the driver was more focused on her than the road, as he hurtled through a red light. There was a flash as his picture was taken.

  It took her a moment to think through what she wanted to do. The car raced past her instead of stopping. What did that mean?

  They didn't intend harm?

  They were waiting for a better shot?

  She could feel her mind spinning. Could feel the same sense of guilt undercut by self-loathing.

  She shook her head, feeling the prickle along her skin, the buzz intensifying.

  Then, she muttered under her breath, "Think you can follow me?"

  Her lip curled into a sneer.

  She scowled and floored the gas. She ripped from the shoulder, buzzing the intersection. It was still too late for there to be many cars.

  She turned on her brights, if only to let the car ahead know that she was coming for it.

  She tore after it, the engine roaring.

  Her heart was pounding wildly, her blood rushed to her cheeks. She suddenly grinned and let out a shout of exhilaration, pounding her hand against the steering wheel.

  She raced up the highway, picking up speed, drawing closer to her tail.

  Now, the driver seemed to realize he was being pursued.

  His vehicle began to swerve, moving into the far-right lane and heading towards the ramp.

  She was now honking her horn, flashing her lights—nothing more than an attempt to unnerve her pursuer.

  The tires skidded, leaving rubber, but she followed, hitting her brakes and nearly spinning out. She jolted to the side, readjusted, and then hastened down the ramp following the Mercedes through an underpass, towards the bridge.

  The Mercedes was struggling to outpace her; this wasn't a function of the car's ability, but rather the driver's nerves. She was nearly pushing a hundred now. And all she felt was excitement.

  Suddenly, the car in front of her was honking as well. She was getting closer, closer. They were about to pass under a bridge.

  She hit the bumper, a love tap, really. She nudged it, and the car in front again blared its horn in protest.

  She allowed a little space, and then hit the bumper again.

  Pull over, she thought.

  She leaned on her own horn.

  There was a chance, as she stared at the vehicle, that the Mercedes would try to outpace her.

  This, she knew would be a mistake. She wasn't about to let him get away, whoever he was.

  As if sensing this, or simply too scared to keep up the high-speed game of chicken, the vehicle began to slow. The tires whirred against the ground and began to go still. After a few moments, the car came to a rolling halt. She decreased her speed as well, following closely behind.

  She slowly approached the stalled car, her weapon in hand, aimed towards the driver's side window. "Don't move!" she shouted. “Show me your hands!" There was no response. "Open your window and put both your hands out!" she yelled.

  She moved slowly, her weapon gripped tightly; her mind was able to focus on the gun barrel, on the trigger, on the firm grip.

  As she approached towards the bright lights, she blinked a few times, shaking her head.

  She moved hastily forward, one foot at a time, weapon raised.

  Slowly, the front window began to roll down.

  She tensed, waiting, preparing to fire at a moment's provocation.

  But then two pale, trembling hands were pushed out the window, the fingers spread wide.

  The hands were followed by a shrill voice. "Don't shoot. I'm unarmed. Dear God, don't shoot!"

  She hesitated a moment. It took her a second, but then, with a sinking sensation, she realized she recognized that voice.

  A slow, cold feeling of dread began to rise within her.

  She took a step to the side, getting a better view of the figure.

  She found herself staring at a man with curly hair and mean eyes.

  The tech agent who had been talking to director Ogden. The recent hire.

  And there, sitting on the seat next to him was a camera.

  It only took her a second to piece it all together. The cold lump in her throat fell into her stomach and turned to a ball of lead. "What do you think you're doing, following me?" She said, her voice shaking. Of course, she knew the reason.

  He gave a quick shrug, another, and then, in the same shrill voice, he said, "N-now, now, it's no good shooting me. Even if you kill me,” he gulped, “I've already sent the photos. No good!" he nodded adamantly, as if confirming his own claim.

  At his words, though, she felt a shiver. "Say that again?"

  He hesitated, and, in a small voice, equally shrill, said, "I said it's no good killing me. If you murder me, it won't matter. I already sent him the pictures."

  "What pictures?" She shook her head, her mind fuzzy now.

  The tech agent shifted uncomfortably, clearing his throat, blinking out at her. His expression reminded her something of a rat, with an angled nose, and a light dusting of gray fur in an attempt at a mustache. But the whiskers were just as twitchy as his disposition.

  "The pictures I took of you buying on that street corner! I have it all. I have it all. I also have it when you were swerving back there, and," he added, stiffly, "I might add, I can smell the alcohol on your breath." He wrinkled his nose in disgust. But then, he swallowed, glancing towards the gun.

  Instantly, realizing she was still pointing the weapon, she lowered it. "Director Ogden sent you?" she said.

  He glanced to the side, shifting uncomfortably. Then, in a whisper as if somehow it didn't count, he murmured, "Yes, of course. I don't know what you did to piss him off, but he's been paying me well to keep an eye on you."

  She stared at the man. She shook her head. She was losing her edge.

  No, a small voice whispered. She wasn't losing her edge. She was giving it away. Burning it like paper every time she took those pills, took that drink.

  She felt another burst of shame and humiliation.

  She stared at the man behind the steering wheel, and only then, her mind moving slower than usual, did she realize the truth.

  Her life was over.

  Ogden was going to ruin her.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The dreaded phone call came with the arrival of the sun through the blinds.

  And at the same time, Cora received devastating news.

  It started as a chirp. A text message on her phone. She glanced at the message, frowning. An unknown number.

  She hesitated a moment, staring at the number. The area code was Colorado. Did she know anyone in Colorado?

  Cora winced, staring at the phone she'd plucked off the bedside table. She took a moment, yawning as she studied the device. Her head was pounding, her mouth felt like cotton. The deep sense of shame, of regret, filled her where she lay on the bed in her apartment. The night before had all become a blur.

  She could remember letting Ogden's little PI go. Could remember the horror-filled trip back to her flat in the city.

  And now, she wrinkled her nose as she began to open the strange text message from Colorado. But in the middle of it, her phone began to ring.

  The screen switched from white to blue, and she lifted the device, studying the incoming call.

  This number she recognized.

  Director Perez.

  Her heart skipped a beat.

  It wasn't common for the director to call her in the middle of the day.

  She let out a shaking breath, swallowing back a rising bile. She closed her eyes for a moment, flopping her head back on the pillows and willing the device to go silent.

  But it kept ringing, taunting her.

  She let out a long sigh, her insides worming with anxiety.

  And then, she slowly murmured under her breath, “I can do hard things.”

  It was a mantra she'd learned back in the Navy.

  A sort of promise to herself.

  If ever she broke that covenant, of balking once those fated words were uttered, it would ruin the magic in them completely.

  I can do hard things.

  It was a challenge to herself. A promise. If she didn't follow through, there was nothing left.

  And so, she lifted her phone, exhaling in a flutter again, brushing her hand through the shoulder-length portion of her hair. As she hooked her hair behind her ear, she answered the phone.

  “Hello?”

  No greeting, no introduction. “Cora?” said Perez's voice.

  Cora. Not Agent Shields, but Cora.

  “I have Director Ogden with me, here, Cora...” She gave a little huff of air. “I'm sure you saw the email making the rounds...”

  She hesitated, frowning. “I—no...no sir.” She kept the trembling from her voice, and hastily cycled to her email client on her phone, opening it and quickly glancing through the unread messages, parsing out any retail promotions with practiced ease.

  And then...She spotted it.

  Untitled. Five attachments. Pictures.

  She clicked the link. The email address was anonymous. Yet sent on the FBI's closed server. And as she scanned the CC list, she realized that the files had been sent to everyone at the office. She felt a lance of absolute shame, closing her eyes briefly.

  Of course, she didn't need to open the attachments to recognize the photos.

  But she did anyway.

  And there it was, in high definition, the proof of her little demons. The first image showed her car, pulling in front of the drug-dealers from the night before. The images became a blur as her memory tried to fill in the gaps. She spotted an image where money exchanged hands. Where a brown paper bag was passed into her window.

  She spotted a small video clip of her car swerving over a yellow line as she drove recklessly.

  And then another image of her with a gun in hand, her bleary, red eyes glaring towards a flash of light as she wobbled forward, trying to chase down the man taking photos.

  She stared at this final image.

  Stared at a face she barely recognized. The high cheekbones did little to compensate for the haggard expression. The slack jaw and sloppy gait only further exaggerated her predicament. There, on her shirt collar, she thought she even spotted a stain of alcohol.

  She shook her head, helplessly. She swallowed.

  Ogden had sent it to everyone. Not just to the Director. But everyone at the office. He didn't just want her job. He wanted to humiliate her.

  And he'd succeeded.

  She deleted the email rapidly, and closed the app, her phone now on speaker.

  “Cora?” Director Perez said, his voice firm. “Can you hear me?”

  Cora swallowed faintly. She paused, closed her eyes, then murmured, “Yes, sir.”

  “Cora, is there an explanation for this? Those pictures...” Perez trailed off. He sounded more surprised than anything. Sad, almost. She could hear the tone of inevitability. She knew this was only going to end one of two ways.

  What else could she do, anyway?

  It wasn't like she could rewind time.

  So, she said nothing. Part of her wanted to lie, but she'd spent a lifetime avoiding the dishonesty so many participated in. All she could do was sit there, propped in her bed, in a dark room, her head still splitting from a night of indulgence, her body in pain.

  “Cora,” Perez said quietly. “I'm going to ask you something. And I need you to be honest with me. From what I gather, these pictures were taken last night.” He inhaled, his voice going firm now. “Has this ever happened before?”

  Lie! Just lie!

  She ignored her subconscious. What was the point, anyway? They'd drug test her. She'd be on a shit list. It didn't matter.

  None of it really mattered. She lowered slowly back against her pillow, eyes wide as she stared at the ceiling. “Yes,” she said simply.

  “On a case?” Perez said, his voice tight.

  A swallow. “Y-yes.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Perez snapped. “Are you joking?”

  “No.”

  “Dammit, Cora. I—I could bring you up on charges, you know that?”

  “I'm...I'm very sorry, sir.”

  “I don't give a shit, Cora. Dammit.” He trailed off, exhaling deeply. He paused, composed himself, then continued. “Obviously, you're fired. I'll be passing this along and seeing if there's anything else we're going to need to do. You'll hear from me soon.” He hung up.

  She could hear the disgust in the silence.

  Or perhaps that was simply her own subconscious whispering. She could feel the shame, the guilt, and so she just lay there, head on a pillow, staring at the ceiling, her phone pressed against her cheek, the cold glass slowly warming. She let out a shaking breath.

  It didn't even hurt.

  Fired...but it felt...numb. It all felt numb.

  It was only as she lifted her phone that she glanced at the text message. Half expecting it to be from a colleague, or even her partner, she was surprised, then, when she read the message.

  “Are you able to make it to Addie's funeral?” A pause, then another text. “Did you get the email?”

  She felt a cold prickle along her skin, along her face. She stared at the message.

  Addie's funeral.

  Addie?

  Who did she know named—

  And then her eyes widened. A sudden flood of horror filled her. She rapidly cycled to her email, still in the coffin of blankets and pillows. And as she scanned the email, her eyes landed on another message, from two days ago that she'd missed. It had come to her personal inbox, and during the case chasing Rike, she hadn't had much time to respond to it.

  But there it was. An RSVP.

  And when she clicked the link, her fears were confirmed.

  “Shit...” she murmured under her breath, staring in horror at the image of a stone-faced woman with olive skin staring at a camera. She was wearing a navy uniform.

  Adelaide Johnson.

  She'd gone through BUDS a year ahead of Cora. They'd become fast friends as two of the only women in the unit. Her eyes quickly scanned the information beneath the RSVP. Nothing much. Just a time and a date. Colorado, later this evening.

  She frowned at the date, glanced at her phone, and felt panicked. The funeral was today? What the hell?

  She cursed again, kicking out of bed, but finding her legs were heavy, weary. She didn't even feel the energy to throw off her blankets. She just lay there in her sweatpants and t-shirt, staring at the phone.

  She clicked over to the only social media platform she ever checked, scrolling to her friends. She clicked the avatar for Adelaide Johnson.

  And there, she spotted a post.

  It started with: This is Addie's sister. It breaks my heart to bring this news...

  It went on, but it took Cora a few tries to read—to even process the horrible information.

  And Cora leaned back, blinking owlishly.

  Addie had taken her own life last week.

  Killed herself with a bottle of pills.

  The sister opined further down about not knowing about the grief, the tears. And in a way, Cora's heart went out to her. But also...

 

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