Leave of absence...indefinitely

Hey all,
So as I get more serious about my writing, I find that this is one project I need to drop for now. I'm sorry to leave you with William in jail, but hey.
Thanks for reading. Please check out my other blogs:
http://leavingteaching.wordpress.com/ (which is a chronicle of my journey into a life of creativity)
and
http://ihavesomethintosay.blogspot.com/ (which is a collection of my poetry, random musings and photographs)
Thanks for reading!
-Laura

Chapter 8: The Worst Case Scenario

“He’s trying to call our bluff.” Hobb is fuming, and pacing, and smoking all at once.
“We knew he would.”
“But hoped he wouldn’t.” You are trying to make eye contact with someone, but everyone is avoiding you—Hal, Hobb, Lester, Proude, and the blond guy…his first name is Tony. You suddenly have in one room more “friends” than you do across the whole city. That is, if “friend” can be defined as a group of people working around the clock to save your ass. Yeah, that sounds about right.

You aren’t a part of the strategizing, just a body in the room (even though everything is about you right now), so you shift in your cold metal chair, trying to be patient, trying to follow what is being said.

“Do you think he knows that we’ve been talking to Will?”
“We made sure of it—“
“No, I mean the real reason, not the contrived one.”
“We have no way of knowing for sure.”
“It’s brilliant really…make sure we’re as committed to clearing his name, covering his stupidity, as we say we are.” Hal coughs into his arm, inhaled smoke escaping in short bursts from his nostrils. All the nervous smoking is quickly filling this tiny cement-block room; a headache is knocking on the space between your eyes. As if reading your mind, Hobb leans on the metal bar across the door and lets it swing open to the flat, gravel-covered roof.
“He trusts me.” He says, throwing his cigarette down and putting it out with his heel. “I know he trusts me to handle this case. It’s you he doesn’t trust, Hal.”
“Well, we know what we have to do.” Now they all turn to you at once.
“Are you ready, Will?” You feel your throat constricting despite the influx of fresh evening air, and suddenly feel the need to stand outside. Hobb moves out of the way as you pass him; everyone moves forward a bit as if they are scared you are going to throw yourself from the building or something equally as desperate. But you stand there, one hand holding on to the brick of the wall to steady yourself. Is it strange that you are only thinking of her in this moment? You are wondering if she will she ever, ever forgive you.
You suddenly realize that Tony…Nash…yeah, Nash, is in the middle of a reassuring speech. He’s the officer that’s about to take you into custody. He’s trying to let you know that he’ll be with you every step of the way. He’s trying to let you know that he’s in control of your experience. You almost believe him until you look into his face—his lack of self-assuredness is not comforting. So you find Hal’s face instead—that pudgy, sweet, fatherly face. This is the man you’re doing all of this for. Why?
“Will.” Hobb places a hand on your elbow. “It’s time.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

She hasn’t been to see you. Why would she? You stare at the gray ceiling you’ve looked at for so many hours that you are certain you’ve made an indentation. Hal’s taking care of Mom, Tony’s doing a pretty good job of protecting you…she’s all you have to think about. You miss her most of all, anyway.

Her dad is furious, you know it. He was already angry when you changed your major last year; he’s certainly flipped a lid now. What does it look like to him? You’ve returned to that old life. You’ve dishonored him, disrespected all he’s done. You don’t blame him—of course that’s what it looks like. You didn’t think about him once when you made this decision.

They must have known you had a record when they asked you to do this. Of course they did. That’s why you were such a perfect target—motive, previous history. It’s easy to believe someone who’s stolen before would do it again, even after years of being a quiet, law-abiding citizen.

You’ve been through this before—this cold, cold cell (you are never warm). Everything hard. Everything lonely. You never thought you’d be back here. But here you are—as if Fate is laughing at you and saying “this is where you belong.” Well, the joke’s on Fate.

It is different this time. Last time, every other feeling was drown out by one… You feel distinctly different without that old companion you’ve managed to shed: Anger.

KC doesn’t understand that some other pieces of you had to go with the rage. It took with it some of your motivation, some of your ambition. You don’t ever again want to give yourself over to the threat of that part of you. As long as you don’t feel anything too deeply, it won’t ever find its way back in.

You lay there, thinking, thinking. Six months tick by one slow minute at a time; you lay low, hoping it will be shorter.

This concludes our omniscience over William Walker. Please choose a character from the list below as the voice in the continuation of this story:

A. KC
B. “J”
C. Mr. Cleary
D. Jeremy Hobb
E. Hal

Chapter 7: A Difficult Decision

KC keeps looking around her, almost more paranoid than you are, and you are speaking barely audibly (the last thing you need is nosy-Joe butting into this top-secret…secret). It was hard to wait an entire day to talk to her about it, but you wanted to hear Hobb out before you spilled the beans. Taking that small step forward was frightening, and became even more so when you heard the proposal in full. It was unbelievable, but despite its preposterous nature, complicated things rather than making them easier.
“Let me talk to my dad,” she says after a long silence, uncharacteristic of her. “He knows people in those circles. Maybe he’ll finally be good for something.”
“What would that accomplish?”
“Well, at least it would verify the story. I mean, really: you are having to take their word for it and you barely know these people.”
“Yeah, I thought I might try to find some stories in the newspaper or something to see if it all matches up.”
“Of course—at the very least. But I’m saying that Dad knows people in that community. He could ask around, or heck, he might even know off the top of his head. When I mentioned who was doing your art show, he was really familiar with Trent and Hal.”
“You told him about the art show?”
“Duh, Will. We don’t see eye to eye but that doesn’t mean we’re estranged.”
“I was getting a very different impression.” Pause. “I don’t know—I technically shouldn’t even have told you. The more people who know, the more…I don’t know…dangerous it seems.” Your conversation is interrupted by a regular patron, whom KC helps cheerfully: her preoccupation isn’t evident—well, to others, anyway. When she returns, she immediately steers the conversation from the subject of her father back to your current plight.
“Okay: list time.” She pulls out a napkin and a pen from her apron. “Pros and Cons. GO.” You were waiting for this signature move, but you don’t roll your eyes this time.
“Pros: money.”
“It makes the world go ‘round.”
“More importantly, it would help me go around the world.”
“Next?”
“Justice? Helping Hal? He’s terribly likable. I don’t trust Hobbs as much, but Hal does, so I guess by association…” An influx of costumers. The list stays shoved in KC’s apron pocket for the next hour, but that doesn’t stop it from continuing to develop in both of your minds.

On your break, you jot down a few more ideas, but find it only minimally helpful. None of the positives seem able to outweigh the negatives: the one in particular that is most terrifying. In fact, when Hobbs spoke it, you were certain he was either joking or was experiencing a mental lapse. You haven’t told KC yet— not quite prepared for the magnitude of that impending flip-out. You look up over a last bite of your cheeseburger and the few remaining fries getting colder by the minute. There she is: busy mixing drinks, and filling and passing out pints with expert ease. Ever so often, she touches the corner of her glasses. Your mind drifts to a memory that you have worked hard to suppress. It’s been so long that it’s only in moments of real vulnerability that you find yourself returning there, and, unsurprised, you realize that you can recall every single detail: the words that were spoken, the look on her face. That was the day you learned what kind of crier she was—silent, dry, barely noticeable to someone less observant. You are lost in this place for a few solid minutes before she looks up to see you watching her. You simply share a quick smile before she beckons you behind the counter: it’s her turn to break, now.

It’s a special occasion, so you and KC find yourselves repeating your old tradition of walking downtown in the early hours of morning, drinking coffee and slowly making your way through a dozen glazed (with one sprinkled each). You make your way to a familiar park bench at the center of the city and settle in, chewing quietly, fighting away the occasional wave of tiredness.
“I know we’re on an entirely different subject, Will, but I have to ask you something else.” KC says, using a tone that you think very few others have ever heard: soft, vulnerable.
“Yep.”
“ Why are you so bent on getting out of here? What do you imagine is out there for you?”
“Why sound so fatalistic, like this is all there is?” You are surprised at her. “You are always asking me to dream big, to care about the direction of my life rather than just let things happen.”
“Yes, but I think you could accomplish that in the environment you’re already in. Do you think it will be easier in a new place?”
You lick glaze from your thumb before taking a sip of coffee. “Yes. I guess I do.”
“What’s holding you back here? Besides yourself.” She is so earnest that you can’t look into her eyes. You don’t have an answer.
“Well, what about you?”
“What about me?”
“Are you going to be a bartender for the rest of your life?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s a pretty small dream, don’t you think?” When did this conversation turn so sharp? You think briefly, but too late to stop what you are both already immersed in.
“Only if you think ‘dream’ and how you make money are synonymous.” She is caught up in it, too. “Why does my dream have to be monetary? Why can’t it be relational?”
“It just feels like your dreams are for other people, not for yourself. What are you dreaming for yourself?”
“Good friendships are what I dream of for myself.” She is stalwart, unbending.
“So you don’t want to sing, eh? You can take that or leave it.” You get the feeling you have caught her, but having that power doesn’t feel as satisfying as you initially thought it would be. You struggle to free her. “Never mind; forget it, really.” She doesn’t move, but you sense a struggle between her vocal chords and the words forming in her mind. “I just want to try something new. I want to be somewhere fresh—maybe it would jump start my passion or something? Sometimes I feel trapped here. As long as my mom is here…”
“Yes, your mother.” She breathes out. “I can understand that. But what I can’t understand…” after an unbearable pause, she jumps up and walks the few steps to the trashcan where she throws out her coffee cup. Not turning to face you, she says, “let’s start back.”
“KC,” you are a few steps behind her and tug at the strings dangling unevenly from the folded apron on her arm. “What can’t you understand? Tell me.” Finally facing you, she says evenly, slowly.
“I won’t be there.” You feel flush. Your fingers start to tingle, your forehead feels damp. “And I don’t see why we can’t be in the same city and you can be satisfied at the same time.”
“That doesn’t seem fair.”
“I know…I know.”
“But KC—“
“I know. I know.” She starts to walk and you catch up, then shorten your strides to stay in step.
“No—you’re not getting away from it that easily.” She refuses to slow down, but you refuse to ease up, pursuing her down this suddenly opened avenue. “That means something to me—you know it does.”
“Yes.”
“But you realize that by holding me to that, you are becoming one of those ‘holding me back’ factors.”
“Yes.”
“KC—you asked me not to…do I have your permission to…”
“No.” Mounting frustration hits its peak.
“No! You and your double standards.” You catch her elbow, stopping her forward movement. She does not resist, but can’t meet your gaze. “Well, I’m going to say it anyway: I would take you with me. I would do it in a moment. But you won’t—“
“Won’t? Can’t.”
“You won’t be able to hide behind that forever, Kathryn Cadence Cleary. No, it’s ‘won’t’.” Although her face exudes disagreement, her voice doesn’t chime in.
“I’m sorry, Will. I really shouldn’t have said anything. I wish I hadn’t. We can’t talk about this—you know that it’s pointless! With J in the picture, it really is pointless.”
“Well—you think so.” Despite the heatedness of the conversation, she is looking at you tenderly. You have always loved that you get to see beyond that curtain she holds up for everyone else. The guys at work would never believe her eyes could look like that. This is the KC you prefer. She knows that you are done, and you know it as well, although with such a lack of resolve, you’re not sure why. She speaks up again before you have a chance. “Any closer to a decision?” You gladly take the bait, ready to let go of at least one burden tonight.
“Yes, I think I am. Good ol’ listing!”
“Speaking of which—let me see it.” She holds out her hand and with a bit of nervousness, you place it in her palm. She unfolds it, but it only takes her a second to find the word you expect her to be fixated on. “What the heck--” she pronounces forcefully—such a sudden turn that you aren’t entirely prepared for it when it hits “—is this doing on here?” Her finger points to the first word scratched under the ‘con’ column: ‘jail.’
“Alright: here’s the deal,” she is fuming, so you speak quickly. “I have to take responsibility for the theft. That’s the key, according to Hobbs. I have to fess up to conspiring to take that money and have my car taken so it couldn’t be traced to me. That’s why I’m so important. I have motive and—well, it was my car. That could mean jail.”

KC hasn’t spoken to you in days. You’ve never gotten the silent treatment like this before—not from her. She is usually above such behavior but you can’t really blame her for resorting to it in this case. You know it’s because she’s afraid, anyway, because she can’t tell what you’re thinking. You know her enough to understand that she sees the great battle between your common sense and your dreams for the future. Neither of you could find anything to either contradict or confirm the finer points of Hal’s story—but you expected as much. So in the end, common sense and dreaming are what it boils down to. As you sit stiffly in the back of Hal’s car behind a silent chauffeur, watching tree by tree quickly left in your wake, you wish you weren’t doing this alone. And she’s the only one you have.

What happens next?

A. You agree to help Hal, despite the risks and the consequences.
B. You decide that you are not the only one in danger here: you have to decline.

Chapter 6: The Twist

You are nervous about talking to the detective, though you’re not sure why. Maybe it’s that generally heightened sense citizen-abiding people get when interacting with cops: this irrational fear that they’re going to find out that bad thing you did as a kid and finally get you for it. Anyway, you decide it’s better to rip the Band-Aid off, so you dial his number and sit at your desk, drumming your fingers against the cheap particle board, idly looking at the small hand ticking on your wall clock. He answers almost immediately, catching you off guard for the first time today. (Yes, you are being sarcastic).
“Mr. Walker.”
“Detective Hobb, I got your message…”
“Yes. I need to speak to you in person as soon as possible. I can pick you up--just say the word.”
“Well…I have to work at 9. Can we do that tomorrow?”
“Mr. Walker, let me be frank with you. We have a situation developing around your missing car that cannot be put off. I do believe we have time to conduct our meeting before 9pm if we meet in the next hour.” You are intrigued by his urgency but increasingly made nervous by the curt tone he is using to address you. You do not, however, feel the freedom to turn him down. With one more glance at your clock—6:13—you make arrangements to meet him outside your door at 6:45. Then, you wait.

He is early; he waits about 10 minutes before you realize he’s there and hurry yourself out the door. You are in your work clothes, toting a similarly wrinkled apron and dinner jacket from last night. Who knows if you’ll be coming home before needing to get to Joe’s. You were able to get a hold of a miffed KC, who is “on call” if you end up needing a ride. She disapproved of your conceding to the time schedule of the detective, but is eager to know what he wants, as are you. The moment you settle into the passenger’s seat, you can tell by his brief greeting and set jaw that he is all-business today. Act un-guilty, you tell yourself, and try to look innocently and unconcernedly out the front windshield. You don’t ask any questions, because Hobb certainly isn’t offering any answers by the look of him, even when you realize that you are not headed downtown to the police station, but traveling in the opposite direction, towards the outskirts of town. After getting off of the highway, you take several turns on various deserted, nearly-country roads. This is the part where he shoots me in the head and dumps me in a ditch is the last thought you have before a mansion-like home looms in the distance just over a hill lined by trees that still wear the bare branches of winter. Although personally unaware of the change, you cast off “innocent college student” for “baffled citizen” as you pull onto the driveway between two huge, wrought-iron gates guarded on either side by naked Greek-looking statues.

Hal meets you at the foot of stone steps leading down from the front door. His expression is a mix of fondness, pity and shame. He ushers you to open your door even before the car stops, and peeks into the car to tell Hobb to, “just leave the car there.”
“Hal—“ you want to say something that shows you are calm and collected, but you are simply too bewildered to formulate a socially-acceptable greeting.
“Will, let me just say that I am so sorry. So, so sorry.”
“Hal,” Hobb interjects, “I haven’t said anything to him yet.”
“Oh,” Hal does his signature fatherly-gesture, putting his hand on the top of your shoulder, near your neck. “Well, I am sorry for the secrecy and for dragging you out here. We just wanted to be as conspicuous as possible. I promise, we will not let you be late for work.” How does he know…you begin to think; then, pondering the events of the day, you decide once and for all to abandon logical thought and reasonable questions, which seem to have no place here. Instead, you think and say nothing but: “Nice house.”

Soon, the three of you are settled in a comfortable, dimly-lit room lined by solid, cherry bookshelves that leave no wall space empty. It smells pleasantly of leather with just a hint of tobacco. Hal looks at you sympathetically across the space between your seats. Jeremy Hobb is pacing before the fireplace off to your right, Hal’s left. He has become increasingly agitated. You can’t help but notice the Persian rug (which you estimate to have cost at least $5,000—you used to work at an antique rug retailer) beneath your beat-up, second hand Converses.
“Jeremy brought you here for my benefit. I wanted to speak to you personally and privately. This is a delicate situation.”
“This? Really, my car isn’t worth much. I mean, is this because it happened during—“
“My friend,” Hal holds up his hand, graciously but with purpose, “let me stop you there. You cannot possibly understand, though I appreciate your attempt. For the sake of time, let me explain.” He settles deeper into his chair, like a grandfather preparing to tell a story about his past. Indeed, he is doing just that. You can only give him your attention and wait to comprehend, so you fold your hands in your lap. And wait.

“I don’t know how much you have heard about Trenton and I, and the development of our business. It was all in the papers, of course, but I know how little your generation tends to read news. We grew quickly, as we were selling something even more valuable to industry than a physical product: information. Innovation. We were on the cutting edge of technology and offering expertise that few had. We were young—met in college and started the business before we even graduated. Trenton majored in international business, so he handled all of the marketing and finances for our company. I never paid attention to those pieces of the business, since my skills were more mechanical. I should have—I know I should have—involved myself.” Hal pauses in his reminiscence, breaking eye contact to stare at the flames in the fireplace beside Hobb, who has finally settled in a seat, and is listening absently. Hal seems sincerely regretful. “I just met Trenton by chance. He wasn’t even really a friend at that time, just an acquaintance who had something I needed, and vice versa. He came from old money so I really couldn’t have done it without him, even though his devil-may-care modus operandi made me nervous from the get-go.” He sighs, “Once we started making money, I allowed myself to ignore those unsettled feelings. Trent did become a friend eventually. He went through a painful divorce with his first wife, whom he adored, that made him more vulnerable and human; he started relying on me more, valuing my input more instead of just brushing me off. That’s when I started truly caring for him. If that hadn’t happened, it probably would have been easier—no, it would have been easier, I must say—to turn him in when I first found out.” You start to make the connection between what he is saying now and those brief pieces of conversation you caught behind the house the night of the art show…you are completely drawn in now, and find yourself urging him past another pause,
“Found out what?”
“Well, I’ve already said that I didn’t know much about the financial aspect of our business. I handled all clientele and eventually managed employees who took over much of that work. I had no idea that we had started losing money at an alarming rate. Trenton had made business investments, not to mention personal monetary commitments, that he was unable to make payments on. Although we had gotten closer, and perhaps because we had gotten closer, he could not bring himself to admit these problems to me, so he handled them on his own.” Hal stands up suddenly and walks towards the fire. His hand on the mantelpiece, he turns towards you and, seemingly with gathered courage, resolutely admits: “He stole. Not just from investors, but from other people too…cooked up these schemes for us to ‘help charity to increase the benevolent image of our business’ then siphoning money from those events. Meanwhile, helping community organizations and individuals became a true passion of mine, so I began to take over those endeavors. Not knowing that Trent, who continued to insist on managing the money, was using them to add to our revenue.”
“But you didn’t know about it—it’s not your fault!”
“No, but when I finally discovered the truth, my image and my assets were twisted tightly in his cord of deception and manipulation. They still are. Now I have organizations and family that all stand to lose greatly if I reveal the truth. Ah, the lawsuits, the losses.” He looks at Hobb. “Unless--”
“Unless we can prove that it was all Trenton.” Hobb finishes.
“That shouldn’t be hard, right?” You offer encouragingly. They both look at you wearily, and you know your question has been answered.
“He is getting sloppy. We know that.” Hobb stands and carefully removes a pipe from a collection on the mantle. He walks to a shelf nearby, opens a small wooden box filled with sweet-smelling tobacco and starts methodically packing the pipe. He seems oddly familiar with this home, oddly comfortable with this room and with Hal’s things. Hal doesn’t seem to notice. “He never does his own dirty work. The other night was the first time he ever involved his own two hands.” You think about that conversation again—the artwork, the cars…Trenton’s tone— “We know you heard us,” Hal looks directly at you, “You caught us in the act. He was doing it again.”
“The art show—“ you say tentatively.
“Yes—easy money.” Hal confirms. “He doesn’t need it. The business is fine. We’ve branched out enough to compensate for the growing amount of competition on the market now. But it’s become an obsession: gathering money. Having more. Why not do it the easy way? Why not always be adding to your wealth? He doesn’t understand why I don’t feel the same. I can’t tell if his lack of understanding is because he really believes that contentedness is impossible, or if he is in denial to make himself feel justified. Really, what it comes down to,” he fingers the mantle before slowly making his way back to his original seat. Hobb is puffing thoughtfully in the corner, “is that I don’t know him at all anymore.”
“Is that why I’m here—because I heard something I shouldn’t have?” Am I secretly being filmed for some new cop show? You wonder. This can’t be for real.
“Yes. In part.” This from Hobb, who finally comes over to join the conversation, as if he was giving Hal some space for his personal confession and is now ready to get down to business. “Trenton isn’t about to let his carelessness bring him down so easily. That brings us to your car.”
“Wait—“ incredulous tone. “Trenton stole my car?”
“He didn’t know it was your car. But yes.” You look from Hobb to Hal, not really understanding.
“Well,” Hobb corrects, “he had someone steal your car.” The two men look at each other when Hobb speaks again, “And now he knows it’s your car.” You can sense the heaviness, the urgency, but you still don’t fully understand. You start to feel very light-headed and ask if you can move towards the window. Hal suggests that you all go outside because it’s almost time for the two of you to go, anyway. Hobb says he will drive you to work, that he knows where Joe’s Tavern is. As the detective empties the pipe and the three of you prepare to walk out, you try to process in the air left open by silence. The conclusion you are able to reach by the time you are on the front steps, breathing refreshingly cool air into your lungs, is that they need you. They need me.
“We need you, Will. That’s that.” Hal says sadly. I’m a genius. “Trenton has all the resources he needs to fight back if we use this slip-up to expose him now. We don’t have enough hard evidence to convict him of anything, but—“ the sound of small stones crunching beneath shoes follows in the wake of your movement across the driveway, interrupted only by a slight hesitation on Hal’s part. “But he has everything he needs to take me and my family down with him.” You arrive at the car. Despite not being able to see the details of his face in the darkness of the evening, you suddenly sense the affliction in this man as he turns to speak to you. Hobb has seemingly heard it all before—he goes around to the driver’s side and gets in. “I know what it will look like to a judge and jury. How could I not have known? I ask myself the same question every day. How could I have been that naive? Even when I chalk it up to misplaced loyalty, betrayal, my youthful ignorance, I still feel the burden of guilt. The storm is finally coming and I can’t help but feel relieved to a point.” He looks off in the distance over your shoulder, at the branches reaching above the dark tree line, outlined and moving eerily against the star-brightened sky. His gaze intensifies suddenly, as if he can actually see the tempest’s clouds gathering. “I just want to go down fighting, protecting my family and—yes, myself—as much as possible before the hammer falls. You are in no way obligated to help me. Perhaps you don’t even believe me. But I am going to ask you to consider my request because Will…I don’t like this, not one bit, but the next steps I take are determined by your decision.” You are moved by the fierce passion of his speech. There is a tenderness there, beneath the resolve, and real grief. You open your mouth to speak, but his hand finds your shoulder before sounds emerge. “Don’t say a word. Jeremy will talk to you on the way back. We have a few days of lee-way. Don’t you dare make a decision before Tuesday: that gives you four days. I’d like to have you out here for dinner on Tuesday, if you’re free, and we can talk about it then.” You nod, dazed, then, feeling suddenly released, turn to open your car door and join Hobb in the quietly humming vehicle. Hal leans in slightly before shutting the door for you: “William Walker, I barely know you and yet our lives are suddenly intertwined. Know this: you are not responsible for what happens to me. We can only do what seems right to us.” Without another word, the door closes and you and Hobb are off.

There is silence in the car as you make it down the windy back roads onto the highway again. You sense Hobb giving you space, and take it to call KC—she hates texts. “Well?” is her greeting.
“Hey KC. I’m just calling to say I don’t need a ride.”
“OK—what happened?” Her voice carries over her irritation, but you remain cryptic, finally feeling the gravity of the situation.
“I’ll see you in a bit.” Thank goodness she’s working tonight.
“Gotcha. Bye.” After hanging up, you settle back into more waiting and try to think. You are impatient to hear the proposal, but you are unsure that you want to be more involved. This certainly will shake up your cruise-control existence, and Hal is right: it has nothing to do with you. Except for the car thing. Despite your curiosity, you find yourself wishing that you didn’t know what you’ve found out tonight. You are so close to graduation—just a few more months! And then the dream: get out of Dodge. Travel. There is no telling where this might end up taking you, or worse, where it might end up holding you. You stick out a toe and test the waters. “What exactly are you supposed to tell me?” Hobb takes the entry he’s been patiently waiting for, but walks into it steadily, not rushing you.
“We have a plan we think will get Trenton out in the open, but that plan hinges on you. He unwittingly opened a door when he nabbed your car—that’s our leverage. If you don’t want to be involved, that’s your prerogative. You’ll get your car back, end of story.” At the risk of sounding self-focused, you ask,
“What do I get out of it?” Hobb is unfazed; he has clearly anticipated the question.
“I don’t know you, so I don’t know what is important to you. I’m going to say ‘money.’”
“Is that why you are helping Hal?” Hobb hesitates, an internal struggle only apparent across his features to a keen observer—of which you are one. “I’m not a great person to ask about motivations. But I will answer your question by saying that I feel strongly about putting an end to—hopefully correcting—the manipulation of Trenton on others. I would prefer to do this without taking innocent people down with him.”
“And you think Hal is innocent?” He flinches.
“Yes. I know he is.” Well, that’s clearly the end of that rabbit trail. “And if I choose just to take my car and live my life?”
“It will be like this never happened.”
“You’re not going to put me in a witness protection program or cut my tongue out or something?”
“We won’t have to—it will be over soon enough,” Hobb says grimly. He suddenly looks over at you for a brief moment. “I don’t think you would say anything, though.” How he has come to this value judgment of you, you are unsure. But he is right. Again, there is a long silence. When you are about ten minutes from work, Hobb speaks up. “I just want to put our expectation out there: if you want to be involved, I’ll tell you what we’d like you to do and you can have until Tuesday to decide—we can’t really give you more time than that. If you do not want to do this, we won’t say anything else about it. Just let us know and we’ll make arrangements to close up the case on your car.”

Eventually, you arrive. The alternately blue and white flashing sign that hangs over the redbrick storefront of Joe's scatters color over your lap, reminding you of police lights. The car idles on the curb.

What happens next?
A. You are just a few steps away from being completely done with this nightmare. Tell him no, you’d rather not. He’ll understand.
B. Something inside is urging you to be a part of this. Take the plunge: tell him you’ll do it.

Apology

Readers!!!!! I am SO SORRY for the delay in the next chapter. I have been away for the past three Saturdays. I actually have chapter 6 almost fully written so look for it this Saturday. Thanks for being faithful readers and please forgive the delay! -Laura

Chapter 5: Accusations

You’re going to do it. They do it in the movies all the time, and it mostly works. You’ve never been much of an actor, though—your mom would testify to that after watching you stumble through lies in your early years. You seem to remember that it was about the time you tried to blame the broken window on someone else—a story that resulted in your mom crying (because she was laughing so hard) that you stopped trying to be untruthful altogether. Now, you gather around you any bit of deceiving-power you have to try to make this believable. You take a step forward into the office and Sophie relaxes, then moves back towards her chair, pulling a spare behind her where, supposedly, you are to sit.
“Oooo, oh, ah,” you hope she hears your painstakingly expressed words of surprise, but she seems utterly oblivious. So you try louder. “OH, AH, HHMMMMM…..” she is now busying herself looking for something in her desk drawer as she waits for you to settle into the chair before her. You stare at her incredulously and painfully. “Hold on a second,” you say in a volume really too loud for this closet of a space, “my phone is vibrating.” You reach into your pocket to “answer the call” but, horrified at not finding your phone there, or in your other pocket, you fumble around in the pockets of your backpack, muttering something about “hoping they don’t hang up.” You finally find your phone, lying cold and lifeless under a textbook, and turn around triumphantly, only to find Sophie looking at you with great confusion, and a bit of skepticism, across her face. “It’s—it’s—“above the furrowed line of her brow, one eyebrow rises.
“We won’t be long,” Sophie interjects, motioning to the seat she has situated awfully close to her own. “Feel free to close the door behind you.” So much for the phone trick—and that was your only idea. You turn slightly to take one longing, last look into the hall. “William, really, what is wrong?”
“Actually Sophie—Ms. Sparrow—I do have a class to get to. I—“
“You forgot about a class you had?” Sarcasm. Not only does she clearly not believe you, but she’s starting to take it personally. She says as much. “Really, now, I’m starting to take this personally.” So much for lies and excuses. The truth? You take a deep breath and stand a little straighter. She quickly stands up to face you. Uh, no—to heck with the truth. “What are you afraid of? You aren’t—wait a minute, you don’t think—“ She looks you up and down. “Do you have a crush on me?” You are so caught off guard that you have literally lost the ability to formulate a sentence.
“Wha—no, I thought—actually—“
“I don’t know what you thought, but you can stop that thinking right now. I do not date students. I am seriously just trying to help you, Will. Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?” When she spins around to face the window, her hair follows like a golden wave, catching a bit of sunlight that makes it shimmer. “I think you had better go now. I’m starting to feel uncomfortable.” You are unable to re-hinge your jaw until you reach the end of the hallway and the top of the staircase that will take you to the bottom floor. You are still reeling from the situationally ironical slap you’ve just received across the face. As you descend the stairs, certainly both dazed and confused, you miss the first couple of times your name is called. In fact, you only hear it the third time because you are tapped on the shoulder from behind.
“William Walker.”
“Yeah—that’s me.” You say to a petite, brown-headed girl with big brown eyes who seems unable to progress past age 16.
“Oh, it wasn’t a question.” She replies, smiling. You continue down the stairs together. “I know who you are!” She extends a tiny, soft hand when you reach the landing. “I’m Angela Snow.” Where have you heard that name before? It reverberates slowly through your brain until it reaches your long term memory.
“Oh! Hi! Nice to meet you—you are…Mr. Neil’s niece, right?”
“Right! I was so glad he took my suggestion to add your work to the show. I saw a few of your photographs in the Anthem and I just thought they were awesome!”
“Yes, he told me you liked them.”
“I’m an aspiring photographer, myself. I love it, but I really don’t have a lot of time for it. Do you develop your own film?”
“Ha—no. Local drugstore.” She seems disappointed; you hold the door open for her and you both step into the afternoon light onto the sidewalk.
“Oh, well. I’m interested in taking a class to learn how to do that. All those very specific steps and substances—it’s so interesting…so exciting!” You half expect the conversation to be coming to a close, but now you are awkwardly choosing a direction as you continue to walk, not knowing where she is headed. Angela is unconcerned, chatting away and following your every step. “See, I’m a biochem major, but I’m interested in really all chemical processes. I just love understanding how things work on a molecular level.” You raise your eyebrows. Having somehow managed to skip over even basic high school chemistry undetected, you aren’t even sure you could define “molecule.” “It really puts things into perspective,” she is saying when you “come to” again.
“Well, aren’t you well rounded? Chemistry major, developing artist.” You have reached the student center, where you are planning on grabbing some fast food before heading back to the apartment. You aren’t really that hungry, but you’re a little afraid that this girl will follow you all the way home if you don’t shake her somewhere else. Sure enough, she follows you into the building and to the food court.
“Oh, art is just a hobby. I mean, I wish I could spend more time on it, but classes keep me stupid busy. So I just try to enjoy it when other people take pictures! Mmmm,” she sniffs the air and turns around to look at all the choices surrounding you, “good idea. I have a few minutes to get a bite.”
“I actually have to—“ you say to her retreating figure “—get it to go.” You are sitting, fifteen minutes later, at a table that Angela chose (“because it’s such a nice day!”) by a window, listening to her talk about biopolymers and enzyme-catalyzed reactions while simultaneously trying to eat and shade your eyes from the beam of light bearing down on you from behind her small frame. You are just about to make some excuses for yourself, for the second time today, when you suddenly don’t have to. A tall, stern-faced woman, dressed to the nines, walks smartly through the glass doors on the other side of the cafeteria and makes her way purposefully towards your table, her heels clicking evenly across the tile. You just glance at her at first, but then find yourself watching her approaching figure as she is relentlessly bearing her gaze into the depths of your soul.
“Angela,” she says to your new friend, though not taking her eyes off of you, “you are exactly three minutes, twenty-three seconds late.”
“Oh mother, I’m sorry!” Angela starts rushing to gather her things. “I’m coming—I’ll be out in just a second!”
“I’ll walk you out,” She says, “I’m certainly not going to leave you to continue whatever this is.” It’s amazing how very less-than-human her tone is able to make you feel. You, now a pile of meaningless goo, melt into your seat guiltily. How is this on me? You protest internally.
“I’m William Walker.” You stand and offer your hand, which Mrs. Snow simply looks at momentarily before adjusting to the new height of your eyes.
“Oh, I’m sure I know who you are, thank you, Mr. Walker.” Who are you, the Queen of England? Externally, this is translated to,
“Well, you must be Mrs. Snow. It’s a pleasure to meet both you and your daughter in the same day!” Her highness takes an alarming step towards you and Angela freezes halfway between sitting and rising.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Walker. You don’t have to pretend with me. I know very well how this all works. You seduce my innocent, 16 year old daughter, get her to promote your pathetic bit of art to her philanthropist of an uncle, and once you have gotten as much of his money as possible stuffed under your moth-infested mattress, you leave her used and broken-hearted in your wake. No sir, I am not naïve.” Angela, stone-faced, finishes standing up and touches her mother’s arm, which is coldly shaken off. She tries again, until she is able to drag her mother out of your personal space in a movement towards the door. “You are lucky that I don’t report you to the police for propositioning a minor.” You are sure your eyes could not convey any more alarm. “Do not let me see you near my daughter again” are her parting words. Once you can no longer see them in the parking lot, you take the back door and jog home as fast as possible.

You lock your house behind you in a futile effort to keep out trouble and fall onto your bed to catch your breath. What in the world is going on? Never in your life have you been so bombarded by insanity. Your reluctance to be assertive and social has gotten you into scrapes, but this is getting ridiculous. You can count on two fingers how many love interests there have been in your life to this point, but today you have become the local pimp…or…something like that. You turn over onto your stomach and pick at the old carpet fraying at the edge of the baseboard. Maybe you should lay low for a little while until you have to leave for work. You somehow fall asleep for a short nap, then wake up and bum around on the computer for a while. Noticing the time, you reach for your phone to update KC and ask her for a ride to work. Your phone is flashing with one notification after another that you have missed at least ten calls—a few from KC but most from the same unfamiliar number. There are two messages, the first from an annoyed, but concerned KC.

“I got your messages, Will. WHAT THE HECK? I told you to lock your car! Anyway, call me. I’ll come get you for work tonight. Oh, I need my dad’s coat back. He was a little pissed that I’d lent it to you. Apparently it’s really expensive—“ You grimace at the crumpled black cloth in the corner of your room, behind the door. “—anyway, I’ll bring a clean apron since I know you haven’t done laundry and really—yours is disgusting.”

The second one is from Detective Hobb—the unknown number. After a brief, neutral introduction at the start of his message, there is a noticeable change in his tone that makes your stomach flip-flop. No longer does he sound like the kind, helpful man from last night. He sounds almost…suspicious.

“Mr. Walker, this is Detective Hobb. I need you to call me at once. I have several more questions to ask you. My number is…” as soon as the message ends, you shut your phone and drop it onto the desk by your hand, looking at it as your heart beats a little faster than normal.

What happens next?
A. You heard the man: he needs you to call “at once!” You pull yourself together, dial his number and try to act composed.
B. After your unlucky streak of the day, you are terrified of the conversation that might ensue; you ignore the message and decide to call tomorrow—you have to go to work soon, anyway.

Chapter 4: Another Ordinary Day

Art History is in an hour. This is your first concrete, conscious thought. You’ve been struggling in that realm between sleeping and waking for the last few hours, but you have finally risen to the surface of the fog and are staring into the large, red digital numbers of your bedside clock, watching them shift to an even 2 o’clock. The zeroes stare back at you like angry, blood-shot eyes. Your head is pounding; the events of yesterday were not dissolved by sleep. Rather, they cling to you with persistent fingers as if you never escaped them even for an hour. You have got to do something other than wait for Detective Hobb to call you with news about your car. Thankfully, school is within walking distance. You can make it on time if you leave soon. One thing at a time: shower first.

About fifteen minutes later, you are grabbing a piece of toast and filling a travel mug with day-old coffee that you’ve nuked in the microwave. After realizing that your corduroy is MIA with your car, you slip on your faded jean jacket and start a brisk walk towards campus. It’s a crisp late February afternoon. The coolness in the air clears your head a little bit and you actually start to feel optimistic by the time you approach Cravy—the art building on campus—until you run into Sylvia Baker at the entrance to the building: A grad assistant, needlessly jealous of your sudden fame and success. Because she taught one of the first art classes you took at the University, she allows herself to feel somewhat responsible for your talent. You’re not above giving credit to a teacher for their role in a student’s development, but her class didn’t have required attendance so you never went to it.

“Good morning Sylvia,” you extend an olive branch you expect to have smacked out of your hand.
“Will,” she curtly responds, not disappointing. “Not quite morning, though. I guess some of us don’t have the luxury of sleeping the day away.” As she walks through the glass door you are courteously holding open for her, she seems to remember herself, her tone drastically changing to a thick sweetness. I don’t like sugar with my coffee, you feel like saying. “Were you able to make some profitable connections at the art show last night?” How to make this as brief and vague as possible?
“Well, I got a bunch of business cards from people interested in my work. That feels like a lot of work itself, though.” She is unable to hide her distain for long and mutters back:
“Sounds like looking a gift horse in the mouth to me.” You opt to take the stairs to the second floor rather than ride with her in the elevator.
“Gotta run to class—thanks for coming last night!” She nods in your direction with a painful smile while hitting the “up” elevator button.

Self-admittedly, you are not a very good student, but you are always on time. Today is no exception and you slide into a desk about five minutes before the professor enters the room. One of your art buddies is sitting behind you as per usual; it’s a relief to see a friendly face.
“Will! How was the show?”
“Hey Jane. Uh—that’s a long answer. How did everyone know about that, anyway?”
“The show? It was publicized all over campus!”
“Well, I know that, but about my involvement, really. No one posted the names of the artists.”
“Well, we found out about it no thanks to you, to be sure.” Professor Sparrow walks in at about 2 till 3:00 and sets her very feminine leather briefcase on the desk.
“Good morning!” She says brightly.
“Well, how did you know?” You ask again, only half turned around. Jane gives you a look that says “you really don’t know?” and after pausing for a moment in thought, nods towards the front of the room. At first, you think she means that it’s time to pay attention to class, but Sparrow is still getting papers out of her bag, not ready to start class yet. You turn back to Jane and she gestures again, this time a little more forcefully. It doesn’t dawn on you until you face front once more in time to see the professor lift her head and beam directly at you.
“Well, I think it is appropriate for us to start class with a round of applause for our very own William Walker.” Most of your classmates willingly oblige. You start to feel slightly uncomfortable. “I know you weren’t able to be here last week, Will, but we talked about your show so we would all be sure to go and support you.”
“Thanks—thanks a lot everyone.” You say, waving a hand, then feeling like a pretentious celebrity, so awkwardly putting it back down. “There were several other artists there, too, it—it really wasn’t my show per say.”
“Well, yes, of course.” Sparrow says. “Why don’t you tell us all about it?” And she motions to the front of the room. You stare at the floor by your desk. Please, you beg. Please, please. Just collapse. Swallow me up. Do something. The floor motionlessly mocks you.

You aren’t sure how you made it through that class. Filled with desperate energy, you bolt as soon as Sparrow utters her usual closing phrase: “See you next time.” You refuse even to make eye contact with any classmates pouring into the hall alongside you. You are just about to get away, too, when she calls after you,
“William Walker—hold on!” You stop dead in your tracks, wishing it were a bullet rather than her words that are keeping you in place. She sidles up next to you, tall, slender, well-made, if you will. “I hope I’m not keeping you from another class, but I’d love for you to walk me to my office.” An excuse forms on your lips. “I have all these papers to carry back with me.” Curses.
“Sure thing.” You are too kind for your own good. You walk back to the classroom with her and pick up a thick folder of papers. Despite the alarms going off in the back of your skull, you are suddenly walking towards the end of the hall, past classmates and towards Sylvia Baker and other faculty member’s offices. Sophie Sparrow is walking awfully close at your side, her long blonde hair brushing your shoulder as she shifts her head—you’re afraid she can hear the accelerated speed of your heart beat.
“I am just so proud of you.” She starts. “It does my heart good to see a student taking their craft beyond the classroom into the ‘real world.’ That takes such initiative, such commitment. What hard work it is to create and create and create until you have a collection to display—especially without utilizing digital technology!” You can’t help but feel like a counterfeit when you remember how you sifted through an old box of your photographs that you threw into a manila folder to mail to Hal. You try to walk faster, but she will not alter her pace. “That makes me feel a bit like a cheat!”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you know I teach several digital photography courses here.”
“Ah yes.”
“To purists, digital cameras can seem easier…like cheating. I understand and respect—truly—any reasons you may have behind sticking with film, but I just want you to know that I think you could really benefit from modern technology in the area of photography.” Arriving at her office, she takes her keys out of her bag but drops them while unlocking the door. Instinctively, you bend down at the same time that she does to pick them up. Your hands brush against one another in the process and the feeling of her breath at your neck makes the panic in you rise. Her hand lingers on yours just briefly before you both stand back up; she continues calmly as if nothing has happened. “I hope you understand,” she is saying—her voice finally breaks through the adrenaline beating in your ears, “that I just want to be available to help you succeed.” She steps into her office, a small closet of a room with neatly kept shelves of books lining the walls on either side and a wooden desk and chair in the back under a tiny window. After setting her bag on the desk, she hesitates for the first time—clearly expecting you to come into the room and curious that you are not. She pauses and you say nothing, too worried about the sweat gathering on your palms under the student papers you are carrying. She tilts her head just slightly. “Will, what I’m saying is: why don’t you let me give you a crash course just to see if you like it? I have equipment that I can loan you.” Why is it that all you can think in this moment is ‘my mamma didn’t raise no fool’?
“Um—“ She watches you, obviously her level of comfort decreasing. She seems to be struggling to communicate her meaning to you, and tries again.
“I want to see you succeed—so few of us artists do. I just think you could really benefit—“
“Well, I think that—um…”
“You don’t even have to sign up for a course. I mean, we could do it sometime in the evening—“
“Oh, I work most evenings—“ Your out—thank you Joe’s!
“Or afternoons! I’m very flexible.” You swallow hard. “You don’t have another class to go to right now?” You shake your head. “Please, then,” she puts a hand on the door knob, “come on in and we’ll discuss this.”

What happens next?

A. You’re not great at thinking on your feet…and she seems so sincere! You step into her office. Despite your nervousness, you are slightly intrigued by her offer.
B. Nothing good can come out of this situation. You’re afraid of what this looks like—pretend to get a phone call! Get out now!