Page 31 of Total Exposure

He hung up and never called back.

No, he just showed up to bail me out of jail couple weeks ago.

Because he needed you, that nasty voice in my head says.

I rationalize that internal suspicion. Cameras and shit… I’m just kinda good at it. I don’t have to think about it. I know where to put them, how to set up a control room, how to keep busy as you watch so you don’t get bored. I have regular cameras too. With those long zoom lenses. Sometimes I just sit in a car, or a van, or a fucking U-Haul and take pictures.

And I like compiling data. My clients don’t ask for it, but I give them all a little report at the end. Assign motive to certain actions, put pictures in chronological order so they make sense, and bind it all up with brass brads and a plastic cover sheet with their case number on it. (Plus a coupon for ten percent off their next order. It’s got little dotted lines and a miniature pair of scissors around the words, letting them know they should cut it out and present it to me. They never do that. But I try.)

My phone buzzes on the console table next to me. I glance down at the screen, which says Number Unavailable, and answer out of sheer curiosity alone.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Ix,” the woman says on the other end of the line.

“Who’s this?” I ask back.

“Chella.” She laughs. “Remember? Saw you the other day and—”

“How’d you get my number?”

“Jordan. But that’s not why I’m calling. I’m having this thing next month.”

“Thing?” I ask.

“Yeah, I told you I own that tea room next to the place that used to be the Club?”

“Right.”

“Well, I’m having a thing and you’re coming. We should catch up.”

“Nah,” I say, my eyes darting back to Evangeline on the screen. She still hasn’t moved.

“Good,” she says. Like I just said yes instead of no. “It’s Saturday, February fourteenth at three o’clock.”

“Isn’t that Valentine’s Day?”

“Right! Bring your lady friend, OK? She’s so interesting and I’d really like to meet her.”

“Chella, I’m fucking working. I can’t go to your thing. And she’s not my lady friend, she’s my fucking… client.” Which isn’t really true. Jordan is my client. But I don’t have another word for her.

“I’d love to hear her play. Can she bring her violin?”

“She doesn’t like people watching her. She won’t even go outside, OK? There’s no way in hell she’s gonna show up at your tea party.”

“Perfect,” Chella says. “See you then.”

I just stare at the phone once the call ends. That chick is fucking weird.

I’m not going to her thing. Even if I wasn’t working, I wouldn’t go. Chella, and Jordan, and this city, and… fucking childhood bullshit. I mean, I haven’t seen Chella Walcott—Baldwin, whatever—since she was like nine years old. And now she’s suddenly calling me up like we’re old friends?

We weren’t old friends. She disappeared to… wherever the fuck her crazy parents took her, and I got left with Jordan. And…

Fuck!

Why the hell did I take this job?

Because Jordan bailed me out of jail, I rationalize.