The familiar, worn door of the leather shop was slightly ajar, and I could already smell the rich, comforting scent of oiled leather. I was just about to step across the threshold when a voice, sharp as a whip crack, stopped me.
"You think this place is a playground where you can just go and come as you wish?"
Madam Ella stood framed in the doorway, a fat figure with her hands planted firmly on her hips. She owned the shop but hardly appeared here since people began to avoid her, preferring to hire a perpetually nervous salesboy to manage the place. That had always been my opportunity, to slip in, to dream among the hides without ever spending a coin. Today, my luck had run out, so unfortunate for me to run into her.
"This place is a stall, a stall where I make money, so you better stay out if you have no money to buy anything!" she yelled, her voice carrying down the dusty street.
I glanced down the street, then back at her near-empty shop. "Strange," I said thoughtfully, "for someone so desperate for money, you seem very committed to chasing it away. At this rate, even your leather will start looking for a new owner."
I stepped back casually. "Don't worry. I would take my presence somewhere else and quit disturbing your peace."
I turned on my heel to walk away, and immediately her curses erupted behind me, followed by the sound of something small and hard whistling past my ear before clattering onto the earth in front of me. Over my shoulder, I said again. "Careful, Madam Ella. Baseless anger kills." Then I quickened my step, a tight smirk on my lips. She would definitely kill me if she caught me. But seriously, someone had to tell her the truth. No one dared go near her stall for fear of her venomous tongue and wild accusations. She was the very root of the problem, sitting in her near-empty shop, wondering where all the customers had gone.
With my refuge denied, I turned my feet toward the other place that offered solace: the docks. The rhythmic crash of waves against the stones, the endless cry of the gulls, and the chill, salt-tinged wind that swept in from the sea—it was a raw, elemental symphony that always smoothed the frayed edges of my spirit. I reached the waterfront, took a deep, cleansing breath of the salty air, and settled on the rough, sun-warmed edge of the pier with ease. Pulling a dog-eared novel from my bag, I tried to lose myself in its pages.
The peace lasted only a moment.
"Jenna Maurice."
A voice came from behind me, clear, formal, and utterly out of place. I frowned. Who used a full name just to get someone's attention? I turned, the book lowering in my lap.
Behind me stood a woman who was a complete anomaly in this environment. She was dressed in crisp, corporate attire: a tailored blazer and trousers of charcoal grey that seemed to complement the cloudy weather. She looked very clean, her posture perfect, and her brown hair secured in an elegant bun. No one here could afford a tie, let alone a suit or aura of that quality.
"How may I help you," I asked, my voice guarded, "and how do you know my name?"
"I am a friend," she said, her smile polite and her eyes observant. Without waiting for an invitation, she moved closer and settled on the stone ledge beside me, ignoring my clear lack of welcome. She gazed out at the lead-grey water. "Nice atmosphere."
My expression remained unchanged. "It is. Usually."
"My name is Lisa," she continued, undeterred. "And I am here regarding the letter you submitted to RJC, asking for a job."
My mood, my dark resentful pool, shifted and was instantly replaced by a spark of hope. I had almost forgotten about that application. I'd sent it off two months ago in a fit of desperate frustration. After a month of deafening silence, I'd forced myself to forget it. For them to come now, in person…
"You applied for the post of a receptionist and then, as a secondary option, for a cleaner, right?" Lisa asked, her voice businesslike.
I nodded, this time vigorously. "Yes. Either one. I am very willing to accept." I would take anything.
"Instead of that, I have a better job for you," she said, her gaze serious. "An undercover agent."
I stared at her, one eyebrow arching high in sheer disbelief. Was this woman playing with me? A cruel joke at the expense of the poor girl from the slums? "I am serious," she added, reading my skepticism.
"Yeah, I know," I said, the hope curdling back into cynicism. "I was having a pretty good day before you appeared." I began to turn back to my book, a wall of dismissal slamming down between us.
That was when she did it. With a casual motion, she slipped a small, leather-clad wallet onto the open pages of my novel. It landed with a soft, authoritative weight. My eyes dropped. The gleaming metallic seal, the stark, bold letters: Federal Bureau of Investigation.
Immediately, my head snapped back up to look at her. FBI.
"Is this… real?" I asked, the words a cautious whisper, nearly lost in the wind.
"You are free to validate it."
With extreme care, as if it might be a live thing, I picked up the badge. The leather was smooth and firm, the metal emblem cold and detailed under my thumb. I traced the engraved letters and studied the official-looking photo of her stern face. It looked profoundly real, but what did I know? I'd never held one before. With a deep frown, I passed it back to her and asked.
"Why me? You barely know me."
"If I didn't know you, I wouldn't be here," she said. "I know, for instance, that you poisoned your tutor when you discovered he was a pedophile, almost causing his death. You are the perfect one for this job."
No one knew that. No one. Not my brother, not my mother. The official story from the hospital was that he had a severe allergic reaction, and slowly the whole thing had faded into rumor. Until now.
"Much expected from an FBI agent," I said finally, my voice calm. I wasn't frightened that she knew my worst secret. If she were here to arrest me, she wouldn't be offering a job. I watched her face. She was looking at me with a kind of admiration, as if expecting me to flinch or dissolve into panic. But why should I? I felt no shred of remorse. He had brought every second of that suffering upon himself.
"Meet me here tomorrow evening by four," she said, standing up. She slipped a card into my hand, patted my shoulder, and then turned and walked away, her heels clicking a sharp, precise rhythm on the stone before being swallowed by the softer dust of the road.
I looked down at the card. No name, just an address printed in clean, black type, a café I knew, not too far from here, in a marginally better part of town. I could trek there. As I watched her neat, authoritative figure disappear into the evening, the waves crashed against the dock with a new, insistent rhythm. The world, which had felt so constricting and predetermined just an hour before, had suddenly shifted, revealing a strange and new doorway. And I found myself, against every instinct of self-preservation, staring at it with a fierce, burning curiosity.