"Something's made your eyes go cold
Come on, come on, don't leave me like this
I thought I had you figured out
Something's gone terribly wrong
You're all I wanted"

- Taylor Swift, "Haunted"

Chapter Twenty-Six

My pulse was in my throat as my gaze slid unsteadily back to the screen. I was numb.

Two pictures shone bright and bold, imprinting themselves on my retinas. On the left was an old photo from four years ago. The photo on the right was much newer, timestamped two weeks before today.

Another lifetime ago.

Both felt like relics from the past, from a different time, a different Avery.

The left photo was colorful, a sea of green shirts with various slogans in puffy letters. "SAVE THE OCEAN" and "ONE EARTH, ONE CHOICE" were the most prominent. Signs were proudly thrusted in acts of defiance, crowding the air above the tide.

A young-faced Avery, fresh out of college, grinned as she shook her new boss's hand. Cruz's face was smoother and less stressed, but he still had the same perfectly practiced smile that could be found on any politician's billboard. The rally was hectic; the photo could have resembled a 'Where's Waldo' game with how tightly packed the crowd was.

I remembered that day. A rally celebrating a big case win. I was also celebrating a win of my own, a promotion. A new job title.

My boss celebrated next to me, but like me, he wasn't celebrating just the win. The environmental rally served to cement his success in a legal showdown and confirm his public image. He'd officially glued his title of 'champion of the people' on.

A corrupt company had successfully been smothered in court. A company that'd evaded the law for too long at the cost of the oceans, at the cost of beauty.

The background of the photo was another wave of posters, ugly green shirts, and smiling faces, but an angrier face stood out among the crowd. It was twisted among the joy; clearly a man not caring to hide his disgruntled fury.

"What did you do?" Reed's voice was rough as he repeated himself.

I ignored him, my eyes stuck on the screen, refusing to understand what glowed in front of me. I looked to the other image.

On the right, a black and white photo stood in stark contrast to the rally's colorful one. This photo was much less defined, but evidently a security image downloaded off an outdoor camera. I recognized the street it showed. I'd habited those sidewalks when I stayed at the hotel. The photo was of the area right outside the lobby. Rolo was pictured splayed out under the shade of a palm, and I stood with my legs spread protectively over him. My face was drawn and stressed.

The day the manager tried to kick us out.

A man with a backpack was in the corner of the picture, waiting for a nearby crosswalk. His face had been circled in red, and though he was half-turned, it was unmistakable.

It was the same man.

The same angry man from the rally four years ago hovered on the edges of this security photo. Four years apart, but the same grim expression on his face, his figure always standing just out of direct sight.

I'm going to be sick.

"Nothing to say?"

My brows furrowed. This time, I did let my eyes return to Reed. I swallowed a wave of nausea.

"What?"

"How long have you been working with him?" Reed demanded, furious. I stared at him, trying to figure out what the hell he was talking about.

"Working with who?"

"You're a liar. You lied to me, your boss, everyone. Not to mention you promised me you would never do anything stupid. Guess you lied about that too, because this was a real stupid thing to do. You didn't think we would figure it out?"

His eyes were starting to get wild. I imagined my own looked the same. I had no idea what he was talking about, or what was going on, but that crossed a line. He did not get to call me that.

You can call me a lot of things, but a liar is damn sure not one of them.

Anger was starting to burn, the powerful flames licking the edges of my consciousness as it overpowered the nausea. Trickling realization was seeping in. I started to hear what he was accusing me of. What he was labeling me—again.

"Are you kidding me? You think this is what, my accomplice? Some sidekick just lurking in the background? Are you kidding me?" My voice was loud as I shoved the laptop off my lap.

I pushed down the realization of what the photos meant, the truth that threatened to overwhelm me. I turned my back on the conclusions I could draw from the similarities in those images. The possibilities that invoked nausea and horror.

How close he was. What could have been in the backpack. How long he might have been waiting for this.

I let the anger consume me instead. Anger that the man in front of me was not coming to the same conclusions I avoided. He'd come to a different conclusion, and I didn't know why.

But it's not the first time he's decided who I was, and what I was, for no good reason.

I glared as he answered.

"What am I supposed to think? Let's review the facts. This man is connected to a case. The same case you're seen here celebrating at a rally. But it's not a case you provided, not a case you claimed as one of yours. No, Mr. Cruz provided it, because he said the case was your first. But you handed in a different file for your first case. That's suspicious in itself."

"Wait—"

"Not only that, you were avoidant and purposefully withheld information when asked about it. It's pretty strange no one at your office can agree which case should be considered your first. How interesting both of you provided different files. How questionable you refuse to admit what your first case was or talk about it."

Anger didn't describe the strong emotions rumbling in his voice, across his face, down his shoulders.

"I—"

"So, what? It was a coincidence? Just a mistake you didn't put this case in any of the piles or emails? Did you think you could buy yourself some time by giving us a different file? Your boss screwed up your plans when he put this case down as yours, didn't he?" he continued. "So, how should I see that, Avery? I shouldn't see that as you hiding information or that maybe you have a connection to this man? Maybe you hid the case to buy him some more time. Was that it? Because you lied. You withheld information from us with the intent of misleading. I think you didn't turn that case in because you didn't want your name anywhere near his."

I was stunned. This was nothing but an interrogation. Reed was on a roll, this monologue drastically different from his usual carefully curated words. This was his presentation to the judge and jury before he left me at the mercy of an executioner.

I have no idea what he's talking about. Nothing he's saying is making any sense. Who the hell is the scary ass man in the photos? He's connected to the rally case? Why would Cruz provide the rally case as mine?

He leaned down and pulled up a new file on the computer. The file of the case Cruz provided loaded on the screen. The case I didn't provide. The case the crowd celebrated in the photo. The one I celebrated in the photo.

Reed presented new evidence to the court for my prosecution.

But that's not mine. Not technically.

"Withheld information?" I spat. "That's rich coming from you. I never lied to you. I worked dozens of cases in the past four years, but that's not one of them! I had no official part in that case."

"No part? So why did Cruz hand it over? Why are you in that photo celebrating at the rally? Celebrating the case?"

"Are you going to let me—"

"You didn't think I'd ask questions? You thought I'd let it go when you refused to answer that day? One case, a simple question, and you avoided it. You really thought I would let that go? What part of my job description, which you apparently know so well, made you think that?"

This isn't Reed. This is betrayal talking. This isn't him. These rapid fire questions are clearly not coming from a place of calm or reason.

"You haven't asked me about my first case since then," I argued. "How should I know I was supposed to tell you? I thought we moved on from the topic. And that's not my first official case!"

But that was the case I thought of that day. Not that I will ever admit that to you. You would only see it as more evidence against me.

"Besides, you have access to every file at the office, you don't need me to handfeed you the information. And if this was such a big deal to you, why didn't you ask again? Why did you drop it that day?" I pushed back.

He paused.

"You presented as an unreliable witness. It was obvious you were unwilling, or unable, to discuss the details when I asked. Let alone be unbiased. So I informed our analysts to look closer at your first case. Imagine my surprise when no one could agree what your first case was. When the files didn't match."

"I never withheld anything," I repeated angrily. "That case wasn't mine. I had no reason to hand it over because my name is nowhere on it. Did you look at the file? My name isn't attached to that case. You didn't think to ask Cruz why he handed it over when it's not officially mine?" I was repetitive, clinging to my argument.

In his classic style, he cherry-picked which questions to answer. Or rather, counter.

"So care to explain why a man from your secret case has been 'lurking in the background' for the past four years? What, you had to keep him close for when the time was right? Was the party the right atmosphere for attempted assassination?"

"My secret case? I just said it wasn't considered mine. How do you even know I have anything to do with that guy? And how about the fact I was almost killed at that party? How do you care to explain that?" I snapped. He turned away from me.

He cherry-picked. Again.

"You're real good at covering your tracks, Avery. I'll give you that. I was going to ask you. I was going to ask you why the files didn't match. I was going to offer you the benefit of the doubt. Then I didn't need to. We got a hit. We've been scouring every security camera to find who took those photos. Running facial recognition software around the hotel and office. Trying to find who was doing this to you. Putting names to faces, running backgrounds. We see the face, we run the name, et cetera, et cetera, until eventually one of those names popped up in a case. Then we find the man's not only connected to the case, he's in the press release photo. A press release photo you're also in. Of a case you never said was yours. The same case I was going to ask about. You look pretty involved in this photo. Wouldn't you agree you look pretty involved with the case here? Mr. Cruz thinks so. So, I didn't need to ask. Not anymore. The evidence was right there. You lied. God knows what else you've done."

His chest swells and deflates. He turns his head.

"And like an idiot I was wasting my time. Trying to figure out why you didn't want to talk about the bankruptcy case you listed as your first, what was so bad about it that you wouldn't tell me that day. But that wasn't your first case. Not according to this photo. Not according to Mr. Cruz. Only according to you."

"I handed you every case my name was on. According to official records, that bankruptcy case was my first. I didn't lie to anyone."

He paced angrily, his shoulders rolling as he let off steam. He ignored me, repeating his argument to the court.

"You refused to tell me about your first case. Then you deny this is one of yours. Your boss says it is. The effing photo says it is. I don't give a damn about your name and what it's officially on, Avery. We both know things happen off the record. You hid this case in the hopes we wouldn't look that closely at it."

"You actually believe that." My voice was getting softer, deadlier, as I watched his pacing. "It never crossed your mind I was innocent during any of this, did it? That maybe I have no idea who that is? That maybe those photos show I was in danger?"

I laughed softly, finding humor in the deranged situation. In his twisted logic.

"Hold on, let me get this straight. This man, who you automatically believe is someone I'm working with, is associated with the rally case? A case that," I glanced at the screen, "my name isn't on and I had no reason to claim. You really think a twenty-year-old intern was allowed to do anything off the record?" My voice rose.

"Also, where in the photos does it show I know the man? Where's that proof? Maybe instead of asking what I did, you should be wondering what the hell you did. Because instead of thinking, you just went straight to accusing me of trying to mislead you — of lying to you. Then you went straight to accusing me of attempted murder. You didn't even offer me a chance to explain. You just decided to blindside me with accusations. Did you think I would admit to something?" I shook my head.

"You didn't stop to think maybe this is crazy? It didn't occur to you that you're making no sense? Great critical thinking skills. Truly impressive."

He didn't respond, but his pacing stopped as he turned to face me. His expression was unreadable. Almost disgruntled, almost furious, almost hesitant.

Almost infuriating.

"Instead of thinking that maybe these pictures show that I've been stalked for years, you jump to the conclusion I'm trying to kill my boss? For four years? I must be a truly terrible assassin. I mean, seriously? After we've been over this already? After everything?" My hands were shaking in my spite and hurt. "Am I that terrible of a person that you would look for any reason for me to be the bad guy? Any reason to not have to admit that maybe I'm a good person worth getting to know? Am I that untrustworthy?"

I was monologuing now, and I had no intentions of sharing the mic. The defense was presenting.

Hurt does not even begin to cover what I am feeling. I cannot put into words what I'm feeling. Because hell if I know. Hell if I know what the hell is going on. Hell if I know who the hell Reed Sterling is.

I struggled on the bed, trying to push myself up.

"What are you doing?" He stepped forward, but stepped back just as quickly.

"I've been under enough bumpers this week so if you want to throw me under the bus you can do it on your own. Don't expect me to stick around." I struggled harder.

"Where are you going?" He rumbled, unhappy with my previous answer.

"The hell away from you! And your paranoia! What did I do to you? God, what did you do to yourself?" Furious and exhausted, I accepted I would not have the powerful exit I had hoped for. I pushed my back against the headboard instead, steadying myself. Lifting my chin.

"Why don't you ask me, Reed? Or since I'm a suspect again, should I call you Sterling? Or do you need 'Mr. Sterling' now that you're putting me on the FBI's most wanted list?" I was a snarling, cornered animal as I challenged him.

Sterling stood at the end of the bed, his expression morphing into one only known to those at an impasse. One found on the verge of an unwanted checkmate. One wholly unsure how either the conversation or himself had gotten to this point.

"Go ahead. Ask me. If you're so sure you have all the answers, Sterling, then ask. Prove yourself right." Cold, malicious humor seeped into my tone. His face flickered at his name. He had the courtesy to look unsure.

The audacity to look unsure.

"Ask me about the case. State vs. Seaplast. Go on. Ask me about it. Ask me why Cruz said it was mine."

Every training I'd ever had in conflict resolution and diplomacy urged me to retreat, to try and put myself in his shoes. To see it from his paranoid, unsettled point of view.

I refused. No, the composed part of myself had soured and shrunk away; the part that knew to answer a question with a question. It'd bowed its head in submission to the pulsating anger of knowing there'd never be trust, or progress. It'd curdled under the realization that I didn't know anything, that the past four years of my life had been a mirage, and that this all could've been for nothing.

Because of nothing.

He'd found a suspect, found a discrepancy in the information provided, and now he thought he put two and two together — but what he actually did was piss me off.

"Nothing to say?" I repeated his words to him, poisonous and deadly.

It was easier to be angry at his accusations, to focus on the pain, than think about the photos. Think about the shivers threatening to tumble down my spine. It was easier to laugh at his clouded judgement than lend energy to considering anything else.

I knew he was scared of betrayal. I knew he was afraid of being wrong, of being blindsided. But looking for connections that weren't there? No. I wouldn't be a part of that.

"Fine." His voice rang with forced calm as he reigned in his emotions. As he settled and tucked his anger away, forcing himself to remain in the moment.

Like he did every time.

"Please, explain it to me. Explain why Mr. Cruz provided a different case than you did. Why you avoided discussing your first case and what it was. Why Mr. Cruz provided that file at all, since you're so adamant it's not yours. Spell out for me why you were at the rally when you said you had nothing to do with the case. What your connection is to the man in the photos. Tell me what I should believe. Who I should believe."

He backed up the bus to run me over again.

I realized he never referred to the man in the photos by his name. He knew his name, he said he did. Did he think I would say his name first, and he would trap me in a lie? Was that the strategy here?

It was my turn to cherry-pick.

"Like I said, I have no idea who that man is. I have no connection to him. Obviously, the man doesn't look thrilled so I'm assuming he was on the losing side. You said he was connected to the case, so it makes sense he was at the rally. I was at the rally to support the team. That was my job. That doesn't mean I had anything to do with the actual case in court. Realistically, you know that. And I have no idea why he was at the hotel. I don't want to think about why he was at the hotel. So, let me be clear. That wasn't technically my case, which is why I didn't hand it over. Which I've said. Repeatedly. I had no official involvement in taking the company down. Hence, no 'Avery Woodsen' on the file," I explained, taking care to repeat myself even further. Hoping I was drilling the words into him.

He strode over and sat down stiffly in the chair, leaning forward ever so slightly. He focused on one part of what I said.

"And your unofficial involvement in the case?"

I paused, but relented.

"Minimal."

It wasn't my case, but there was a possible reason Cruz handed it over. I was willing to admit that maybe there was a reason I could be connected. However, I wasn't willing to admit it was officially mine, or that I was wrong for not handing it over. Because while there was possibly a reason for the confusion, it wasn't what he thought.

His forehead crinkled in frustration as he eyed me warily.

Maybe he was starting to appreciate I was not only trained in the ways of politics, but I excelled at it. When I settled into and adopted the behavior of politicians, I knew evasive maneuvers. How to avoid saying anything that could cause sharp scrutiny. When to fan the fire and when to soothe the flames. How to avoid offering any opportunity for someone to find hidden meanings, or twist my words. I knew to keep my answers round and simple when the heat was turned up. I knew complete answers were never openly provided to those offering nothing in return.

This was not a game, but I was damn good at changing the rules.

I know I'm a little over an hour late on my Friday deadline. But fun fact about this chapter: when I first wrote it, it was over 3300 words (which is pushing it for chapter length), but I wasn't happy with it. It didn't fit or flow the way such a crucial chapter should, and I was frustrated. So, I did something terrifying. I rewrote 95% of it. I opened up a new document, put the old version next to it, and began to write. The chapter ended up almost 8500 words. Needless to say, I got a little carried away!

I realized I would have to chop up a chapter again (although this part still ended up pretty long!). As well as cut myself off from this chapter (or rather, chapters). I forced myself to begin editing, then cut myself off from that too. At least for right now. When the book is finished and I begin re-editing, I'll let myself at it again. I was terrified (and still am) that none of it made any sense. For all I know, I did all that editing and made it more convoluted. If this is the case, let me know! And if so, I'll provide cliff notes at the end and reevaluate.

I promised two chapters this week. Does it count if it's one mega chapter that I had to chop up to be more palatable? Either way, you'll be getting the rest of their conversation ASAP.

Buckle up. It's going to get messy.

- H