Chapter One
As I look back, I understand my grandmother always knew I’d live a hard life. She poured her lessons into me until I overflowed with proverbs and quotes. Even in the most trying times, her voice is a whisper in the back of mind; messages I hear whether I want to or not. Today is no different.
Don’t let a bad day make you believe you have a bad life.
Such a simple idea. Don’t succumb to the moment of pain. Look at the bigger picture. Survive and see the good in tomorrow.
Is today a bad day? Yes.Oh God, yes. From the moment the Vale Community College professor showed up with fake-graded assignments, intending to shred all chances of my transfer to Harrison University, it had been the worst kind of day. Accusing me of failing my classes, then flipping the script and mourning the loss of VCC’s ‘most valuable student,’he tried everything to derail my dreams. Everything except offer to provide the online classes I asked for. That’s all it would have taken to keep me onside; a coupleof online classes while I’m holed up at the Trevainne compound and on the run from the head of Diverprop and the Vale’s corrupt underbelly—Barry Franz.
If that wasn’t bad enough, then the damn professor goes one step further—he tries to kidnap me and hand me over to the scum-fuckers in question.
So, a bad day? THE WORST, as was the one before that and the one before that.
Beatings from a father who was never mine.
Getting caught up in dirty dealings with men leagues above and below my own.
Suspected of knowing secrets that I really don’t know.
Hunted.
Sold.
Lied to.
Abandoned.
Yeah, a bad day might not equate to a bad life, but what if all your yesterdays were bad days? What if all your tomorrows are too? What then?
*
I slam through the cafe door and onto the street. Cas and the car are gone. There’s something really wrong with that, but my concern is getting the hell away from Franz and his men. I don’t even look back to see if Ben is hot on my tail or if he’s still fronting off against Professor Trainor inside. He’ll either catch up with me or he’ll save himself. Either way, he’s not my current priority.
I don’t bother turning left or right. The cafe is equipped with a back alleyway exit, which undoubtedly connects to a main street. Franz’s men could cut me off if I turn the wrong way. Instead, I dash across the road towards the stores that are drawing the most people. The lunch crowds will soon flood the district, but right nowthere’s only a smattering of people wandering the streets, heading for their favourite eateries. There’s enough to give me the cover I need to escape, but not enough to vanish completely into a crowd.
I zip in and out, getting close to people only to dart around them. I jog in bursts and then fall into pace with strangers so I can check over my shoulder for my pursuers.
Jesus, I havepursuers. Why is my life such a perpetual shitshow?
I spot a big guy four or five stores behind me. He hasn’t seen me yet, but he’s too damn close. I don’t want to draw attention to myself by running, but I need to increase my speed and get out of his line of sight.
Boutiques, stationers, antique stores, bistros—all glass walls and fancy signage. The people inside might be dressed in casual wear—hobo-chic and dressing like the people they’d normally step on, with their faded jeans and torn t-shirts—but it is all just as designed as the crap they’re selling. These middle-class Bougie places offer no haven. The Darlington Gallery, on the other hand, looms at the crossroads ahead. I waste a split-second of uncertainty, wondering if I should just keep running, and then slip across the road and sweep inside. A severe security guard glares in my direction until I slam some coins in the donations box and walk upstairs.
A sense of ease smothers some of my fear, giving me a second to think. I know this place from the Intellectual Property Protection module we completed last year. I spent hours here completing a copyright law project on public and private art. The ambient scent of wood polish and carnations infuses the wide, double-height spaces. The familiarity of the scent and the clean white walls bring a sense of calm.Peace in the eye of the storm. It gives me the confidence to snatch a handful of sharp breaths and find my bearings.
I have a flash of a memory when I reach the corridor in front of the Sylestaine rooms. A younger Dax, freshly suited and suave, trying his best to avoid schmoozing the bigwigs. He was both a stranger and a familiar face back then. I wonder if he knows we’vemet before? We only chatted for a minute or two, and he’d have no reason to remember that shy girl with the battered books staring at the art, but I’ve always remembered. With how clear my memories remained, it’d be hard to forget. Still, lingering in the past is never good for the present, which is why, as comforting as that fleeting memory feels, I need to move.
I have no idea where the compound is in relation to where I am. If I could get to a train station, I might be able to take a train as far as the line will go, but Harrison Heights is still miles from the nearest station.Perhaps I could arrange a pickup?As long as Aiden comes or sends somebody I recognise, it should be fine. I have my student pass in my bag, and a train is a quick escape, which makes a logical sort of sense.
Still, chances are, Franz will soon have people at the station, and I could be walking straight into trouble.Fuck.What to do?
Idohave one haven and, though it might be compromised, it’s the only place I can think of.
I drift past the exhibits, their bright colours and intricate designs vying to catch my eye, as I beeline for the glass viewing deck on the second floor connecting the main Darlington building to the newer visitors’ centre. The deck is a bridge of sorts that traverses between the two buildings. It has elaborate glass floors and walls with a view down over Drummond Street—the furthest exit in the gallery fromDeja Brew. I glance up and down for the telltale suits of Franz’s men. Except there are dozens of men and women in smart suits. They could be Franz’s men or Aiden’s. I wouldn’t be able to tell them apart. The only positive is that, for once, I’m dressed similarly in my blazer, dress, and heeled boots. I roll my hair up into a tight bun and cinch it with the spare elastic that I always carry in my bag.
I need to get out of the Arts District, and that means fronting as just another suit. I watch them, their heads held high and their strides unhurried, as if they have all the time in the world. Mostof them commute from Harrison Central and the city zones.
It’s considered fashionable to eat in the Arts District. Important people want to be seen here. Two-hour lunches and meetings à la mode are the ‘in’ thing. I shouldn’t be surprised that they arranged my meeting out here. It might be neutral territory, but it’s a fashionable first impression too.
