Misha
This is business.
I’m here to do my job.
It would be hard for me not to think about her looks, though; wide brown eyes and carefully styled curly blonde hair cascading down her back until it practically reaches her waist. She’s wearing silver earrings, two dangling crucifixes that move every time she tilts her head.
She wears a small silver septum piercing, a dark black hoop on her lower lip. This girl clearly sparkles wherever she goes, no matter the cost.
I think I’m staring because this is such a contrast to the last time I saw her. She was wearing that awful, uncomfortable nightgown with the cheap lace straps, and someone had given her a #3 all around. I didn’t have time to look at her face much then, but there were two things I knew for certain.
There were deep black shadows under her eyes. And her eyes themselves—something was wrong with them. I don’t know what it was. I’m not Salinas. I’ve never been a believer.
I just go where the money takes me. Right now, this is where the money goes. This girl is a small—very small—detour. I can’t let it distract me.
I can’t let her distract me. Not that she wants to; from the way her gaze keeps darting around, I can tell she wants to get up and run away.
Woods turns his phone on the table screen side up and flips the black leather cover open. It’s bespoke, his surname carved in delicate golden calligraphy on the inside. The tip of the pen swishes and moves along the screen until his notepad app is on the screen.
"How are you feeling today, Trine?" Woods asks.
Trine narrows her eyes, her arms crossing over her chest. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. He has his methods, but he always says he needs time. We don’t havetime. The shorter our stay is in this godforsaken city, where Mickey Mouse is fucking everywhere, the happier I’ll be.
"You know," Trine replies, turning her head a little to look at him. A waiter appears out of nowhere with a large pink cocktail, sets it in front of her, and immediately leaves. I make a note to ask about it later. "Confused. Curious."
"What’s the first thing you remember?" Salinas asks. He’s leaning forward a little, his fingers moving up and down the stem of his empty wine glass. One would think the man gets enough wine at church, but no. He always orders a different type of wine everywhere we go because of course he fucking does. I think he’s just finished drinking a Zinfandel. I’m not sure. I wasn’t paying attention to his order.
"When?" Trine asks, looping a strand of light blonde hair behind her ear. "Before or after?"
"Start with before," Salinas says.
From the corner of my eye, I watch Woods write her name at the top of the page of his notepad.
She opens her mouth to speak, but she closes it almost immediately, her brow furrowed. "I…was at work," she says, and it sounds like a struggle. She’s choosing each word deliberately, slowly, struggling with her recollection of events already. This isn’t good.
Salinas doesn’t look at either of us, but his demeanor changes. He stiffens a little, imperceptibly enough that only I notice. Maybe Woods, too, if he’s paying attention.
"Where did you work, Trine?" Woods says softly. "Before all this."
"A gas station," she says, her gaze darting behind me, focusing on the large wall decoration behind me. "I think, yeah. A gas station. Somewhere near my house. I got the job because the commute wasn’t bad."
"Did you like it?" Woods asks.
She furrows her brow, cocking her head as she does. "I don’t know," she says. "It feels like a million years ago."
"That’s okay, I don’t need perfect recollection," he replies, flashing her a smile. I can tell it immediately puts her at ease, which annoys me. I don’t expect to be jealous of him and I don’t like it. "Just whatever you can remember. Talk me through your routine back then? A full picture of your day. You don’t have to be specific, but that might be helpful, if you can remember."
She closes her eyes, a crease drawn between her dark brows. "I guess I’d get up early, because for some reason I was always on first shift," she said. "Something to do with my coworker having a young child."
"Good," Woods says, his handwriting loopy and clear on the note app. "What did you do at the gas station?"
She cocks her head. "I was a cashier," she says after a minute. "There was thick bulletproof glass between me and the customer. I remember that."
"What did you do after work?" Woods asks.
This seems harder for her to remember. "Not much," she says. "I would go home, read, feed my cat and watch TV. Except Thursdays. On Thursday, I had…"
She’s reaching for something. It’s clearly a struggle.