August 10th—Sunday 8:45 am.

I sat in my chair, my head on the cold desk, still drowsy because of the pills I had taken the night before. My arms were folded around my head to form a sort of cradle, and I hated that beams of fluorescent light still managed to shine through the spaces in that cradle. I didn’t want any light. I wanted to sleep, but I didn’t dare do such a foolish thing. Not at Taurus. But my body was heavy and my head was warm. I would have slept comfortably in that uncomfortable position. I stared at the grayness of the table’s surface until my eyes twisted into a slightly painful cast. I had been afraid that morning after I sleepily turned off the alarm on my cell phone, because I thought that perhaps I was not alone. It had taken some time to unlock the door, more time to convince myself I could go into the bathroom without getting my throat cut. It took shorter than usual to take a shower (what with the paranoia and so forth), and the remainder of the time I would have normally spent in the bathroom was spent ironing my clothes on the ironing board. By the time I was dressed and ready to leave it required several seconds to scold myself into bravery so that I could leave the house. And when I got out into the crisp morning glow of the sun I looked behind me every fifteen seconds no matter the environment I was in, be it my own neighborhood, or the taxi cab. By the time I arrived at Taurus I was grateful to be in such a fortified place that was deadly to its enemies. I had not bothered to go into the coffee room to accidentally bump into Ruby Friday either, but sat at my desk, kicked off my shoes, and rested my head while trying to turn the circular walls of my arm into the dark walls of the bat cave. Instead of allowing myself to sleep I forced my eyes to remain open and thought of Tristan for several minutes. He had probably returned last night like he said he would, but I had been asleep; I had not seen him. And he had not left a message to say that he had returned but did not want to disturb me, like the old Tristan would have done. He had not come by to see me either, although it was still early in the morning. But I had the distinct feeling that he wouldn’t be visiting my workstation at all that day. I sighed, wanting to cry and scream at myself but knowing I could not because I would not allow myself to do that.

It was 8:45 am, and Ri was just coming in at his usual pace. He had arrived earlier than usual and I was surprised to hear the familiar ‘good morning’ so soon. I turned my head slowly until I could see him seating himself before me. The hateful light was getting into my eyes.

“Good morning,” I said. I pushed the upper half of my body away from the desk—it was better to place a good amount of distance between myself and the tough grey temptation.

“Didn’t get enough sleep?”

I shook my head.

“Did Tristan have something to do with that?” It should have been said with a teasing tone, yet he sounded quite serious. His eyes were dead serious too, as if he were apprehending a recalcitrant student.

I shrugged, eyes squinting, lips still heavy from sleep although sleep had been abandoned hours ago.

“What happened to you last Thursday? I heard you were sick but when I called you didn’t pick up.”

“I think it was food poisoning.”

“You think it was food poisoning?”

“I took something for it—this fizzy drink, you know, the kind for upset stomachs that you have to drink down in one swallow.” I yawned. “Then I took some sleeping pills and spent the rest of the day in bed. I didn’t have the phone on my mind, Ri, and I didn’t so much as look at it the whole day. I had my raging stomach to think of. Maybe it was colic. Whatever it was, it’s gone now.”

“Well you should have checked it—the phone.”

“I will next time.”

Shaking his head disapprovingly, Orion took out a file, and I followed suit, stifling a yawn. I was at work, so some sort of work had to be done.

It was around 10:44 am that I looked away from an almost finished file to rest my tired eyes on the space before me. I saw Orion’s arm. The black sleeve was pulled back, and I could see his muscled forearm, the veiny line that ran along it, and his resting fingers. It was his right arm, and the left one was holding a file while his eyes proofread it for errors. I could clearly see his onyx ring with its intricate designs. It looked back at me boldly in contrast to the sly glances I gave it. No matter. This was my opportunity.

I pulled out my phone, went to the Multimedia section, selected Camera, then Take Picture. The screen showed me a moving reflection of Orion’s right hand. I did not want his hand, I wanted the ring. I navigated and zoomed until the ring was large enough to fill the screen, large enough to show me the symbols that were woven around it. I made sure to get as much of the symbols as I could. There was no sound as the camera copied a fraction of my partner’s finger and his ring perfectly.

I saved the picture and looked up. He was looking at me, at both me and my phone. I could not read his expression as he had decided to show nothing. Did he know what I had done? Did he know what I was thinking as I did it?

Don’t be foolish. He cannot know. He has never seen you.

I smiled at him, put the phone away. “Tristan,” I said by way of explanation. I had been looking on and thinking deeply about a picture of my boyfriend.

His expression changed into one of enquiry, and he opened his mouth to speak, but closed it instead, as if he suddenly thought it was better to say nothing. He returned to his file.

But I wouldn’t let it go. “What?” I asked innocently.

“It’s nothing.”

I gazed at him, thinking the sight of my cell phone had prompted him to ask how it was that I had not answered my phone the day before when he had called in the morning, in the afternoon and in the early evening, a total of nine times, and why I had not called him back. I already had my answer ready. I would tell him the crude ball of yarn that had told Tristan. If it was believable enough for him, it was believable enough for Ri. And if it wasn’t, then he would have to settle with the fact that my whereabouts was really none of his business. And I would tell him with a straight face although it would be a case of the pot calling the kettle black.

At 11:13 am folder shimmered onto our desk, and we both eyed it with unfavorable looks. Neither of us wanted to get an actual mission that day it seemed; we weren’t strong enough. Not yet. Our other activities had taken some of our energy, activities we did not cease to hide from each other. Ri watched me, I watched him. One was expecting the other to take it up. But I wasn’t about to. I leaned back, stroked my tummy lazily and stared elsewhere for him to get the message. He exhaled an exaggerated breath, took up the folder, opened it.

“Target’s name is Eleonor Laroche, from this state.” His eyes ran down the paper. “Exiled from France in 1993, her family was murdered by one Clement Desmarais, including Wilhelm Laroche, the previous leader of an underworld organization—I’m mentally raising up quote-y fingers—of closely and remotely related criminals called The Black Tears. Let’s see…we’ve got two days to get her back into the Laroche mansion, her original home that Desmarais took over after he killed her family. And we’ve got to make a few stops on the way.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I should be. We don’t waltz up to the head of any criminal organization worth its salt and ask him to hand his house over to someone else. This won’t be a picnic, believe me. There will be blood.”

“I’m assuming we have been given level three retaliation.”

“Yeah.”

“What’s there to worry about then?”

“Level three retaliation is going to make all your troubles go away?”

“It has so far.”

“It’s as if the bosses have magically forgotten there are such things as level one and level two retaliation.”

“Those are for harmless jobs. This, as you so eloquently articulated, is not one that can be dealt with mildly. They’re doing us a favor giving us the level we have for the mission; there’s a greater chance of us coming out of it alive.”

“Right…” his eyes lingered on mine for a while. Perhaps he had wanted to say something else, or to ask something. But he thought better of it and perused the file to store more of its information and instruction in his memory.

I wondered what kind of woman she was, this Eleonor Laroche, and what it was that had possessed her to want to go back into the vicinity of the man who had murdered her family. The answer could be anything, I thought. The clients in our line of work have sensible and stupid reasons for doing what they do, some more sensible and more stupid than others. But one way or another we would know her reason; it was bound to come out. Still, my mind was not yet that interested to devote more than a few seconds to her. Tristan had not yet come by, not once. For all I knew he might not be at work. It was not like him. That Sparche Lucas. She had something to do with this…

“Hey,” my partner said. He was standing now, the folder in his hand, his body already turned in the direction of the elevator.

I had not seen when he rose, because my vision had blurred into past memories. I looked at him now.

“We have to pick her up at 11:55. That’s forty minutes away…Are you ok?”

“Yeah. Just thinking.”

“Right.” He shrugged. “Let’s go, partner.”

Yes. Let’s go.

A lot can happen in eight days.