The Enigma (Unlawful Men)

I get in my elevator, the doors close, and I stare at myself in the reflection. I see them clearly. The devil on one shoulder. An angel on the other.

The devil speaks louder. The angel never made it.

I blink, looking away from the man staring back at me.

The stranger.

Yet the person I know best in this world.

The doors open, and I see Otto look up from the desk in the lobby. As I pass, I glance at the bank of screens before him, footage from every angle of my building. Every empty floor, watched. Every entrance, watched. The roof, watched. “I’m expecting someone on Monday evening. Beau Hayley. Send her straight up.”

Yep. Straight-up suicide.

“Beau . . .” Otto fades off, catching his tongue. But the tone in which he spoke her name was loaded with concern. “No problem.”

By the time I’ve made it to the garage, I’ve still found no sense. I get in my car, start the engine, and tap in Beau Hayley’s address into the sat nav.

And by the time I pull into her street, still no fucking sense.

I park up across the road and turn off the engine, resting my elbow on the door, my eyes lasers on the house. An hour passes with no signs of life. Nothing. Not even a shred of sensibility for me.

And then there’s something. A taxi pulls into the street, and I sink lower in my seat. Lower still when it pulls into the space directly in front of me. She’s in the back, literally meters away. She could look into my car and see me clearly. Seen.

I watch her, tense, once again wondering what the fuck I’m playing at, as she stares at the house for what seems like days. What is she doing?

Eventually, she gets out and stands motionless by the side of the cab for a few minutes. Then she gets back in, and the taxi pulls out quickly. I breathe for the first time in minutes, scrubbing my hands down my face. “Don’t follow her,” I warn myself, starting the engine, looking in the rearview mirror at the taillights getting farther away. A quick three-point turn has me facing the wrong direction. And only seconds after that, I’m two cars behind the cab.

I follow it to the supermarket where it drops her at the store entrance. I get out and jog across the car park. Stop. Turn around to go back to my car. Turn back. “Fuck,” I breathe, following her in. I take a basket and tail her as she wanders aimlessly up and down every aisle in the quiet supermarket. But I keep a safe distance.

Safe? Being in the same country as this woman isn’t safe. “Leave,” I order myself, studying her browsing the aisles. But she puts nothing in her basket. She doesn’t seem to be here for anything in particular.

Unlike me.

I’m here for something.

Damage control.

And yet I feel like I’m losing my grip on all control.

6

BEAU

On Monday evening at eight, I push my way through the glass doors into the lobby of James House, a space-age, ultra-modern twenty-story building on the east side of town. I’m immediately alarmed by the number of mirrors I’m confronted with. Every wall, every door, even the elevator.

The concierge glances up. “Can I help you?” He’s a giant, with a startling number of piercings on his face and an impressive beard. Is he the concierge? Security? None of the above?

“I’m here to see James Kelly. My name’s Beau.”

“He said to send you straight up.” He heads toward the elevator as I follow, avoiding all of the mirrors, and I peek at the desk as I pass, seeing dozens of screens. Security cameras. Everywhere. It isn’t odd. But so many?

He swipes a card through a reader and the doors ping open. I’m faced with more mirrors. Stepping inside, he punches a few buttons on the panel. “It goes straight to the top floor.” He holds the doors for me to enter.

“Thank you.”

He nods pensively, the doors close, and I’m confronted by my reflection. I squint, stepping forward, looking closely at my eyes. Usually empty eyes that are now overflowing with curiosity. “What are you doing, Beau?” I ask quietly. “Leave.” I rake a hand through my loose, dark blonde hair, combing through the long ends with my fingers, pulling the masses over one shoulder. It’s wavy. Unmanageable. I sigh and pull it up into a messy ponytail, pulling the sleeves of my oversized shirt down and tying the tails into a knot.

The doors of the elevator open, along with my mouth. “Jesus,” I whisper, staring at the wall of glass across the room. The skyline of Miami lies beyond, majestic as the sun sets. It’s breathtaking. Mesmerizing. I step out and look around, fascinated by how the glass stretches around three walls. I’m in a giant glass box. One huge room. Literally every wall is glass . . . so what the heck is there to paint?