The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

Once I have my coffee cup in hand, I step out onto the street. The man with the neon shoes runs by me again, and I inhale with the memories he stirs of an evil that had felt too familiar and close. I’m sure he’s just a neighbor. I see many of the same people all the time, but I call Chuck and ask him to do a scan for the “Neon Shoe Guy” on our various films. By afternoon, Chuck finds him, on feeds that go weeks back. He seems to be just a runner.

Shortly after Chuck’s call, perhaps because of his call, I’ve smashed such thoughts and met with a realtor, placing my apartment on the market. With the profits from selling, I’ll be able to buy another place and carry myself over until I decide what the next chapter of my life will become. That evening, I return to the karate studio I’ve neglected for one-on-one lessons with Hitman McCoy. He’s a big, country cowboy of a man, who explains the nickname as he’s good with his hands.

Day two, there are viewings of my apartment already, and I meet my mother at the hospital for lunch, leaving her delighted. I then drive out to the nursing home to find my grandfather awake and playing checkers with another man. He doesn’t know who I am. It’s one of those days, the ones that gut me. “You’re such a pretty young woman,” he says, his eyes a pale blue that are as striking as ever, and it’s hard to explain, but the intelligence is still there, just not the clarity.

“And you, sir, are a handsome devil. I think I’ll stay and watch you two play.”

I leave with tears in my eyes and a promise from the nurse that he has moments when he’s himself and he will remember me. “He talks about you often,” she’d said.

I spend most of my afternoon at the firing range, thinking about all the years my career kept me away from family. Years in which I lost my grandfather, and yet I crave a purpose I no longer have. My evening is spent sipping wine, thinking about dinner I don’t order, while watching the show everyone else has already watched: The Witcher with Henry Cavill. It’s good, but a bit confusing, which suits me fine. I need a puzzle to unravel or I might just unravel myself.

By night three, I’m already losing my mind. I have to figure out what comes next for me. I’m so stir-crazy I have a double session with Hitman McCoy before heading home for the evening with a rumbling stomach and an urgent need for takeout. I open the door to the scent of delicious food and find Wade sitting on my couch. His jacket and tie are already gone.

“We have to talk about you and that key,” I say.

“Before you yell about me letting myself in,” he replies, “I celebrated returning home from Dallas by bringing you mac n cheese and wine.”

“From Old Chicago Taphouse?” I ask hopefully.

“Yes,” he promises, his lips curving. “From Old Chicago.”

“Well then,” I say, shutting the door and setting my things down. “We can talk about the key later.”

Half an hour later, our stomachs are full and our glasses half empty. “Thank you,” I say. “This was perfection.”

“It was,” he agrees. “I had one too many burgers in Dallas and not good ones, either. So,” he adds, “are you ready to go back to work?”

“Is this where you make the FBI pitch?”

He sets his glass down and reaches in his briefcase before setting an envelope in front of me.

“What’s this?”

“The pitch.”

I glance at it and then him. “You want me to work for the FBI?”

“You act like that’s a surprise.”

“I have a case pending,” I remind him. “And for all I know, they could come at me for Newman’s death.”

“They aren’t,” he says. “I talked to the chief and the DA’s office.”

Hope tempts me but I hold it in check. “You talked to the chief?”

His brows dip. “You haven’t?”

“No. I guess the perks of him being my godfather lasted only as long as my father was alive.” I don’t give him time to offer me sympathy that I don’t want over a man who obviously was just another kind of lie. “Did they prove Newman was The Poet?”

“Not yet,” he says. “but they’re doing a press conference to tell the public they have the suspect and no reason to believe the public is in danger. They’re eventually going to name him.”

“And the boy,” I say, my gut twisting with the painful topic. “Did they ever identify him?”

“A homeless child several people knew from a nearby neighborhood. No lead on his parents.” He doesn’t let me linger on a bad subject, nor does he give me time to ask about Newman’s wife and kids. He taps the envelope.