2

I wake up with a start to hear a knock on my door, more like a pounding, actually. "Shit! I'm coming!" I scream to the person at the door, several rooms away. I storm to the door and swing it open.

It's Trish.

"What the hell Jess?" Trish's voice is harsh and accusatory. "What?" I ask, I don't know what she is talking about. "You hung up on me," Trish informs me of information that is not quite accurate. "Shit, Trish. I didn't hang up on you. My phone died," I tell her. "Your fucking phone died?" Trish seems pissed. "Yeah. Phone's die, Trish," I snap. "Would it kill you to charge your phone once in a while?" Trish snaps back. "It was a slip up, won't happen again," I say, knowing damn well it will happen again. "You say that every time and you never charge it," Trish says sharply. I groan and step aside to gesture to my phone on the nightstand. Trish inspects it for a moment. "Jess, it's not even plugged into the wall," She says. "Shit," I mutter. "Guess it won't be charged today." Trish glares at me. She walks over and sticks the charger into the wall, a little harder than necessary. "Wow. Angry Trish," I comment. "Shut up," Trish grumbles. She starts to walk out before realizing why she came over, unannounced. "Oh. I was telling you something last night. About this new guy in New York. Apparently he's a wizard or a sorcerer," Trish says. "So Harry Potter moved to New York?" I say. Trish laughs sarcastically. "No. Apparently he's a surgeon who got powers of some kind. Doctor Strange, I think they call him? Anyways I just thought you would find that interesting," She says and turns to walk away. "Why the hell would I find that interesting?" I ask. "I don't know. A person with powers like you? I just thought that you might want to check that out," Trish says. This time she actually leaves, closing the door gently behind her. "Who the hell is Doctor Strange?" I mutter to myself.

I grab my boots and pull them on, followed by my leather jacket. I walk out of my apartment/office and run right into Malcom. "Jessica," He says. "I was wondering if you were," He starts. "Busy. Yes, I am. Gotta go out to do stuff," I say, not specifying what "Stuff" I have to do. The reasoning behind that is that I just need to get out. "What are you busy with?" Malcom calls my bluff. "Fuck," I mutter and turn to him and ask, "What do you need Malcom?" My voice is short and clipped. Malcom scoffs. "I just was wondering if you needed me to fix the door again?" He asks, gesturing to the broken door frame. "Oh, that," I mutter. Malcom has been making repairs to my apartment whenever needed lately. He says that he does it out of the goodness of my heart, but I think he knows that I am broke and can't afford to pay someone to fix it. I haven't had a case in months. I am starting to lose track of what to do. That's why I have been drinking more than usual. It passes the empty time when I should be doing detective work. Detective work is hard to do when you don't have anyone fucking hiring you. I groan. "Yeah, please fix it," I say. I walk down the hallway to the elevator. I thank Malcom under my breath as I pass him, and he says something I don't hear.