Vigilant

Instead, Ari left the room, because what would happen if she admitted it? Acknowledged it? Would he think she was some kind of skank who trolled dance clubs late at night? Did he already think that?

Davis just said he could hold his own. She knew that firsthand. On her way out the door, under her breath, where he couldn’t hear, she muttered, “I bet,” and left the building.

SEVEN

“Maria called,” Rebecca announced, handing her a pink message slip. “She said she’ll be here by five.”

“She better be. This is her last chance to show up before I place a warrant. I don’t know why she thinks I’m playing games.”

Ari signed in and checked her mail. A lumpy manila envelope sat on top of all the paperwork. She carried it all past Stanton’s office and set it on her desk.

Ari had managed to get herself under control before she came back to the office. The panic attack had been real. Sweaty and jarring. One thing was certain though, that numbness she felt day in and day out left when she was at the GYC—or more specifically, when she was near Davis. Professionally, Davis seemed like he was on the up-and-up. Their encounter in the club threw that off. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was missing something, like some larger picture to the Glory Youth Center. After years of placing kids in various homes and treatment programs, it all seemed a little too good to be true. All it took was a little boxing and hand-to-hand combat and all their problems were solved?

“Stanton,” she called down the hall. “You’re an athletic guy. What do you think about a program based on sports—specifically boxing—for these kids?”

Ari heard Stanton’s chair creak and he appeared in her doorway. “What are you talking about?”

“This program Judge Hatcher got Curtis into. It’s some kind of juvie-fueled fight club or something.”

Stanton leaned into the doorway and crossed his arms. “Fight club?”

“You know Brad Pitt? Edward Norton?” He looked at her blankly. “Soap? Never mind. It’s this crazy group home with a focus on boxing and fighting and they fight other clubs or something. Davis, the director, swears it works, but when I was there today, Curtis got the snot beat out of him.”

“Curtis probably needed to get the snot beat out of him. Teach him a lesson for once.”

“Stanton!”

“I’m serious Ari. These kids need disciple and to fully understand consequences. Sounds like a good program to me. Give it a shot.”

Ari sighed and flipped her calendar over in frustration. “That’s what he said.”

“Who?”

“Davis.”

“See? Smart guy. A little controlled violence isn’t going to hurt these kids. Training in a positive way, inside a competitive environment, could help.”

“Okay, okay. I guess I’m just the one with a problem teaching kids how to beat the poo out of each other.”

“Yeah, you probably are.”

Ari wadded up a piece of paper and tossed it in his direction, but he dodged, cackling with delight as it flew past him into the opposite wall. “Maybe you should go work out with Curtis. Improve your aim.”

“Shut it,” Ari said, pushing her door closed. She sighed at the massive pile of papers on her desk and chose

to ignore it for the moment. Why not make the pile bigger? She ripped open the mail, pulling out the papers for filing. Two psychological evaluations, one medical form, and a stack of school records. The manila package remained and she tore off the end, dumping out the contents.

A box fell on the table.

Long, sleek, and heavily lacquered, the box had small gold flowers embossed on the side. Ari pushed it away and checked the envelope again. Flipping it over, she saw there was no return address, no identifying marks, nothing but her name printed in large block letters across the front. Again, she picked up the heavy box, and unlatched the tiny gold hook.

“What the heck?” she said. Empty. But wait, lying against the silk lining, Ari spotted a small rectangular slip of paper tucked into the lining. On one side, in narrow, elegant script, were the numbers three, seven, and four. On the other, were the simple words, Thank you.

EIGHT

“You’re late,” Oliver chided from the couch. He pointed to a drink on the coffee table, similar to one in his own hand. She dropped the bag and picked up the drink, taking a gulp. Better. “We’re meeting everyone at seven o’clock at The Garage.”

“Tequila?”