Chapter 38: 38. Shelter

Thea Aalberg: an ex-priest, late on rent, recent motorcycle accident; all information from the packet that Waylon had Joel put together for him.

Pain throbs behind his left temple.

That the mess of a woman in front of him could be a corner stone in his plan: an edge up against unknown risks... His head drifts to follow a tumbling leaf and he grips the newspaper in his lap just a bit tighter. "If that doesn't sit well, I think we're done here. You should head off first."

Thea jerks a hand off her knee, flashing a single hesitant, crooked finger. "No. No, no, no, no. Just give me a minute I have to think." She studies the ground. Silence stretches.

A spark ignites; an instant of calm — a hopeful breath that reels in a moment of patience from the depths of his exhausted mind. He just watches. The leaf catches on the edge of a storm grate and flaps with the breeze, crinkling out a threat to break in two.

She grinds nails into the wood of her cane, her knuckles shine a pale white against already clammy skin. The leaf slips down the grate and she breaks the silence. "Okay, I'll do it. I'll do it. No one is going to get hurt though, right? I don't have to actually hurt anyone, right?"

Relief. Waylon tries not to show it, but his shoulders loosen and fall before he can think. The final piece is in place. He drapes an arm along the back of the bench and he meets her eyes. "No. If everything works out, there won't be anyone in the building when we go in. You're our way around the case someone is. All you have to do is tell us if you smell something, that jive well enough with you?"

"You all won't hurt whoever I point out?"

"No, we just want to avoid them."

"And if you're caught?"

He rolls his eyes behind his eyelids with a deep breath. "I'm not going to sit still and let a hero take me in, if that's what you're asking. We'll run. Anything else I need to spell out or are you good?"

She studies the ground in silence for a couple moments. "I — I think I can do that."

Finally. Waylon bolts to his feet. "Okay. Give me your number and I'll text you the time and place. It'll be soon. And leave a few minutes after me."

Frank stares off into the distance. His hand dwarfs a beer bottle that sits askew in his grasp — its glass bottom resting unevenly against the chair's armrest. Every now and then he nods to some thought in his head, silently working through what Thea told him. Knuckles white, she clutches her own bottle.

He swigs and gulps. "It's not like you agreed or anything." He takes another mouthful of beer, cheeks near bursting like a squirrel trying to fit just one more walnut into their mouth.

Pressure, guilt weighs down Thea. She curls into herself: shoulders scrunch, hands still around her beer drift toward her chest, calves and ankles wrap around the chair's legs. She looks anywhere but at Frank. "I kind of did..."

He spews alcohol out of his mouth, over the balcony railing; wind sweeps away the mist and tinkling lights dance through the droplets. "Why? Why in the world did you say yes?"

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"I freaked out! He was trying to get me to leave and I just panicked and said yes. I don't know why I did it, am I in trouble? Did I make a big mistake? Will they come find me if I back out?"

His shoulders fall and — staring off into space — his head shifts. Left, right, left again. Over and over in the quiet, the only sound being his long trail of braids brushing against the backrest of the chair. "This is probably the worst, most avoidable mess you've ever walked into. What happened to the interview you were supposed to go to?"

She flinches back. "Well — I was in there and the interviewer was mean, she wouldn't cut me any slack. Then a call came in and I kind of just... gambled on it?"

"You didn't even know if the call was from a client?"

"Well — no. I never get calls from anyone —"

"Your phone has rang at least five times since I got here, what do you mean?"

At that moment, her phone rings again. Thea swipes away the too-familiar number on the screen and folds her arms, clutching at her elbows with both hands. "That's just insurance, they've been after me today. I could tell if it was them with my eyes closed so it wasn't' like I was shooting in the dark. I set them up with their own ringtone."

Concern tints his face. "Is everything okay? I thought you were done with them."

She bats a hand through the air. "It's fine, they're mad they accidentally paid for my cane. All the calls are just them trying to get me to pay them twenty dollars or whatever it was. Don't worry about it."

His face relaxes; he takes another gulp of beer and shrugs. "Well, anyways, this guy sounds like a small fry. Don't worry too much. No one will come after you if you back out."

Feelings wash over Thea: an odd combination of stress, relief, guilt, and more stress. No one is coming after her, that's good. But, she won't have a way to make money, and that's bad. Would it be better if she went through with it? She swirls the remnants of the beer around in the bottle. "Do you think I should back out?"

He scoffs. "Of course you should! What kind of question is that? Even a hint of a risk at jail time isn't worth keeping an apartment, and definitely not for you. It's not easy in there, Thea."

Her heart picks up, its audible drumming creeps into her ears. It's just an apartment, just an apartment. I could... there's that shelter nearby. They'd probably let me in, right? If I didn't mind following —

A ragged, stained handout flits through Thea's mind. Each word of it echoes just as exacting and dreadful as it was back then. Her heart hammers. She heaves in, trying to inflate her lungs, but air won't come. It's as if the rules they spell out leapt from her memory and are crushing her under their weight. All over again.

She wrings her hand around the neck of her bottle. "I think I have to do it Frank. I can't go back, not to that."

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