I've always been good at reading people, at understanding what they want before they know it themselves. In bars like this one, men want to feel clever and dangerous and chosen. They want to believe they're seducing the mysterious woman at the end of the bar, never realizing she selected them the moment they walked through the door.
It's been too long since I've felt hands on my skin that weren't my own, too long since I've allowed myself the luxury of physical release without emotional complication. The kind of encounter where I can control every variable, where I can take exactly what I need and leave the rest behind.
Maybe I'll take someone home tonight, let him think he's conquered something wild and untamable. Or maybe I'll fuck him in the shadowed corner of the bar's bathroom, quick and dirty and completely on my terms. The thought sends heat pooling low in my stomach, a reminder that beneath all my professional composure, I'm still a creature of appetite and desire.
I flip the visor back up and grab my purse, leaving the professional blazer behind like a discarded skin. Tonight, Dr. Lila North stays in the car. Maybe I’ll be someone else entirely—someone who doesn't think quite so much, who acts on instinct and hunger and the simple human need to feel alive.
It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve reinvented myself.
Chapter 2 - Kent
OCTOBER 2016
Who can say where it all started? Something was put into motion when he showed up at the site weeks ago.
I'd been replacing rotted floorboards in the back corner of the warehouse, the kind of methodical work that lets my mind settle into comfortable rhythms. Measure twice, cut once. Check for level. Secure with three screws, never two, never four. The repetition was always soothing to me, like counting or organizing tools by size. Each board fit perfectly into place, creating order from decay.
The sound of heavy boots on concrete broke my concentration. Different from the familiar pattern of my crew's footsteps—these are deliberate, authoritative. The kind of walk that expects obstacles to move out of its way.
I hadn’t looked up immediately. Instead, I finished driving the screw I'd been working on, letting the drill's whir fade before raising my head. A man built like a fucking linebacker stood twenty feet away, in a uniform crisp despite the warehouse dust, hands resting on his duty belt in that practiced pose cops use to remind everyone they're armed.
"Kent Shepherd?" His voice carried across the space, as if he were addressing a crowd rather than just one person.
"Yes, sir." I’d set my drill down carefully, making sure it wouldn’t roll away. Tools should be treated with respect.
"I'm Officer Jenkins with the Metro Police. Mind if I ask you a few questions?"
The crew had gone quiet around us. Deacon stopped hammering. Thompson's saw fell silent. Even the radio playing classic rock from someone's toolbox seemed to drop its volume to an unobtrusive hum. Understandable. Construction sites were loud, chaotic places—but I didn’t know anywhere that didn’t go morgue-quiet when law enforcement arrived on the scene.
"Of course," I had said, wiping sawdust from my hands with a shop rag. "What can I help you with?"
Jenkins had moved closer, his eyes scanning my work area with professional thoroughness. He was obvious in taking note of the organization of my tools, the exactness of the floor repairs, the way I kept my space neater than the others’. I could see him cataloging details, building a profile.
"There was an incident two weeks ago. Maybe you folks heard? Downtown, near the old textile district. We're canvassing the area, talking to anyone who might have seen something unusual." His voice had been conversational, but there was no concealing the steel underneath. "You familiar with that part of town?"
"I've worked jobs there. Construction, renovation projects." I’d kept my tone neutral, helpful but not eager. "What kind of incident?"
"The kind that makes headlines." Jenkins had pulled out a small notebook, flipping through pages with leisure. "We have a witness description of someone who might have been in the area that night. White male, tall, lean build, drives an older pickup truck. Ring any bells?"
The description could fit a thousand men in this city, but we both knew why he was there. Somewhere, someone saw something. Maybe a truck like mine parked where it shouldn'thave been. Maybe a glimpse of someone who didn't belong. Witnesses are unreliable at best, but they're all the police had when you're careful enough not to leave physical evidence.
"That's pretty general," I say. "Half the construction workers in the city drive old trucks."
"True." Jenkins's smile hadn’t reached his dead, vacant eyes. "But not all of them are as…methodical as you seem to be."
"I like things neat," I say. "Makes the work go faster."
"Oh, I’ll bet it does, man." Jenkins had snapped his notebook shut, but didn’t put it away. "You mind telling me where you were on the evening of September fifteenth? Just for our records."
The date sits in my memory like a filed document. I know exactly where I was, what I was doing, how long it took. But I also know how to answer without seeming too prepared.
"Home, I think. I usually am on weeknights." I had paused, scratching the back of my head like I was as much of a stupid bum as he’d chalked me off as. "Might have stopped for groceries on the way back from the job site. There's a receipt in my truck if you need exact times."
"That's all right. Just routine questions," Jenkins had harrumphed. "You think of anything else, anything you might have seen or heard, you give us a call."
He’d handed me a business card with his name and direct number. I’d taken it carefully, making sure not to crease it further. It sits in my pocket now.
"Will do, Officer Jenkins," I’d said.
