Many Things To Handle

The next day, we spend the entire day in my apartment. Jennifer sleeps almost the whole time, though she often wakes up with sudden screams and jolts. Her assistant drops off files of her past cases—thirty-seven in total. I go through them on my bed, pausing occasionally to calm Jennifer down when needed.

I form a preliminary assumption: whoever called me that night was likely the defendant himself. I say preliminary because, in my mind, I make a note to discard that assumption if my first strategy leads nowhere. I quickly separate the files into two categories—suspect and not.

First, I eliminate all female defendants. Then, I read through the files of the male defendants, studying their backgrounds and cases to assess the probability of one of them being the suspect.

Based on the voice, I'm looking for a Caucasian male, between thirty and forty years old. He masked his accent well but slipped once or twice, revealing a thick accent—somewhere from Central, maybe East Central. The case he was charged with must have been big. To go as far as trying to kill her, he must have had a strong motive. Maybe she destroyed his business. Maybe she took his family away from him.

"Could it be Belladrick?" Jennifer whispers, slipping her arms under mine and resting her head on my shoulder. "He hired an assassin before. Maybe he's still enraged and wants payback."

"Could be," I murmur, pressing a kiss to her forehead. But I only say it to ease her mind. It can't be Belladrick. He's almost sixty, and his accent doesn't match.

"What about Braxton? He killed his lover—his male lover, who was his wife's assistant. His wife was the original defendant. We found out the truth in court. She was devastated when she learned what he did and filed for divorce after he was convicted. She won custody of their children. Basically, he lost everything," Jennifer explains, yawning mid-sentence.

I glance at the file in my hands—Braxton. I add it to the Suspect pile.

"You should rest some more," I tell her.

"I've already slept too much," she protests, but another yawn slips out. "Why am I still so sleepy?"

"You're stressed and exhausted. Your body is forcing you to recover," I say, shifting our positions until we're lying down. I run my hand along her back, pulling her close. "Sleep," I whisper, circling my palm over her back in slow, repetitive motions.

"I love when you do that," she murmurs, snuggling closer, her face pressing into my chest.

"I know," I whisper, feeling the soft curve of her smile against my skin.

When she falls asleep, I carefully slide away and return to reading.

I finally manage to sort the files and narrow them down to thirteen suspects. I start making calls to the prisons where they're being held.

On the phone, I pretend to be their lawyer. I don't need long conversations—just a few words from them are enough to determine whether the voice matches the caller from that night.

None of them do.

Maybe the caller isn't the defendant himself. Maybe it's someone close to the defendant—a husband, a brother, a son.

I sigh and start pulling files from the Not pile, digging into their family members and connections. I change my approach. Instead of waiting, I call the moment I find someone suspicious.

I only crawl into bed after midnight. Jennifer stirs awake as I slip under the sheets.

"Did you find him?" she asks, her voice soft and drowsy.

I press a kiss to her forehead. "Not yet," I admit. None of the voices I called even came close to matching the caller's.

She exhales a disappointed sigh.

"Don't worry," I promise. "I'll find him."

"How can you be so sure it's not one of them?" she asks.

"I just know…" I can't explain how.

"But—"

I cut her off with a kiss, stealing the breath from her lungs.

"Trust me on this," I whisper.

She nods, her eyes glistening. Then she kisses me again—this time, with more passion.

"Aah!"

A short scream jerks me awake.

Before my eyes even open, I instinctively throw off the blanket and pull her into my arms.

"It's okay. I'm here. Just a nightmare," I whisper in her ear, using the same soothing motion on her back that she loves.

"This time… he bombed this apartment," she sobs.

"He won't be able to," I assure her, letting her cry into my chest.

After a while, her tears subside.

"Thank you," she whispers.

"Are you feeling stronger now?" I ask, glancing at the alarm clock on the nightstand.

9:35 AM.

"Yeah… I've slept so much, I feel better now," she says—just as a loud growl erupts from her stomach.

I chuckle. "Why don't you take a shower while I make you breakfast?"

She leans in and kisses me. "Alright."

After breakfast, I give her one of my shirts and show her a tutorial video on how to turn it into a makeshift dress.

"Where are we going?" she asks when she finally steps out of the bedroom.

"Shopping," I say, admiring how stunning she looks even in something so simple.

"Shopping?"

"All your stuff is gone. And I don't have women's clothes here."

"Yeah, but I don't have any cards or cash to pay for—"

"I have cash," I tell her. My wallet and phone were destroyed in the explosion, but I always keep cash on hand. A lot of it. I prefer payment in cash to avoid digital tracking.

"You can borrow it. Pay me back once you get your new cards," I add.

She hesitates. "Okay… thanks."

"Don't mention it," I say.

The doorbell rings. She stiffens, instinctively hiding behind me.

"Relax," I tell her.

With her behind me, I check the peephole.

"It's the guys fixing my windows," I inform her.

"Fixing your windows?" she repeats, confused.

I nod, not elaborating. I had ordered bulletproof glass to replace the old ones—to make my apartment safer.

I take her to a shopping center. Since she's barefoot, the first thing we buy is footwear. Then, we spend half the daypicking out clothes, lingerie, and cosmetics.

When she steps out of the fitting room, fully dressed in a new outfit, shoes, and light makeup, I can see the difference.

Her confidence is returning.

She even feels comfortable enough to walk alone into a gadget store while I take a call from Thief.

"I'm telling you, you have too much on your plate. Just tell her about the call and let her handle it," Thief says.

"And how exactly do I explain why the caller contacted me?" I counter.

"Or just leave her alone. She knows she's in danger. She'll find help. You don't need to babysit her."

"I was there when the bomb went off. You weren't there to see what it did to her," I snap. "I can't just leave her."

"You're in love with her," Thief cuts in.

I freeze.

Then I hiss, "I am not."

I sigh, forcing a topic change. "Tell me what you found out."

"The phone belongs to Rocky Johnson. It's still inactive, so I can't track his location. But I'll let you know the moment it turns on."

"Are you sure he's the one?"

"Positive. Out of the three black vans, only one went to the port. And that van was rented by Johnson."

"Alright," I say. "And, Thief… thanks."

"Be careful," she says before hanging up.

That night, as Jennifer and I finish dinner, Thief's message comes through.

[Johnson's phone is active. He's moving. I'm sending you a link to track his GPS.]

Jennifer is at the sink, drying dishes. I approach and wrap my arms around her from behind.

She jolts. "You scared me."

"Sorry," I murmur, resting my chin on her shoulder. "How do you feel today?"

"Much better," she says, turning her head to kiss me. "Thanks to you."

I kiss her back. "Are you tired?"

"A little," she answers.

I lift her into my arms, and as our lips meet again, I already know I won't be staying the night.

Tonight, I'm hunting.

—————

I check the GPS tracker as I arrive in one of the city's red-light districts.

Johnson is in a one-stop entertainment building—the kind where you can get drunk, high, and laid all at once.

I force open the door of a private room. Two employees move to stop me, but they immediately back off when they see the ID in my hand—Jonathan Lee. A fake, of course.

"Rocky Johnson!" I call out, my voice sharp.

A man lounging between two women tenses. His hands stop moving.

"Who the hell are you?" he asks.

I don't answer. I scan the table in front of him—cocaine, a razor blade, a straw. More importantly, a half-kilo bag of white powder.

I grab the pack and, in one swift move, pin him down. My knees press against his arms, trapping him beneath me. His head is pulled back so he can do nothing but stare at the ceiling.

The women scream and bolt.

"What do you want?" Johnson grits out.

"I want the name and contact of the person who ordered you to steal weapons from the port nearly a week ago," I say, straight to the point.

He spits at me. "Not a chance."

I wipe my face slowly, my expression unreadable.

"You've already used some of this, haven't you?" I say, shaking the bag of heroin in my hand. "It's good quality. I can tell just by looking at the color and texture."

I grab his jaw and clamp his mouth shut. Then I slowly begin pouring the powder into his nose.

His eyes go wide. He thrashes, trying to blow it away—but he knows the truth.

The harder he exhales, the more he inhales.

I pour half the pack into his nostrils. His body shudders. Too much heroin at once—he knows what happens next.

He tries to speak.

"You wanna talk?" I ask.

He nods frantically.

I release my grip slightly.

"Yvette," he gasps. "That's the name she gave me. Her number's in my phone. Please…" His eyes water, terror gripping him.

"Phone?" I demand.

He weakly gropes his pocket and hands it over.

I release him, scrolling through his contacts. I find the name Yvette. I press call.

Johnson collapses onto the couch, staring blankly at the ceiling. The heroin is already kicking in.

A woman's voice answers.

"Hello?"

Then, irritation creeps into her tone.

"Johnson, I told you not to contact me again."

My entire body goes still.

That voice.

I've heard it before.

My mind flashes back—a small chamber, dim lighting, the weight of a confession.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."