Zoe nodded slowly. On the beat, one, two, three. “I am sorry,” she said, though she didn’t particularly feel it. “I have not really been keeping up with my correspondence lately.”
Maitland sighed. “Look, Zoe, I know it’s been a tough couple of months for you,” he said. “I gave you a six-week suspension because I knew you would have to be on leave anyway. It’s mandated, when an agent loses their partner. Especially in the fashion that you did. Have you been seeing the counselor?”
Zoe shook her head slowly. On the beat, one, two, three. There was no point in lying. He could check the records. He probably already had. She hadn’t seen the point. She had her own shrink. Not that she’d seen her lately, either.
“Why not?” Maitland asked.
Zoe thought about the answer. She thought about it for too long. The seconds ticked by, three, four, five, and Maitland got impatient.
“All right, listen to me,” he said, prompting Zoe’s eyes to meet his. She tried to focus on his words, not on the radius of his iris or how it changed when he twisted his head from side to side, the light hitting him differently. “The reason I’m here today is because I need to know what your intentions are. You’ve chosen not to return to work. Should I consider this to be your resignation?”
Zoe opened her mouth quickly, so that he would know she wanted to answer. It wasn’t a hard one to consider. “Yes,” she said, instantly. How could she ever consider going back? How could she walk through those halls without her former partner by her side? Before Shelley, everyone there had hated her. Turned their backs on her. Now that Shelley was gone, it would be even worse.
Maitland nodded slowly. Just like she had. On the beat, one, two, three. “All right,” he said. “If you’re sure. I’m going to need to see that in writing, though.”
Zoe glanced toward the computer and nodded mutely. She could type something up and send it to him. Get it done tomorrow.
Maitland began to stand, raising his huge frame with some care, obviously unwilling to hang around much longer. “Before you do write that letter of resignation, though,” he said, holding out a folder toward her. Zoe had been so focused on the measurements of that singular iris that she hadn’t even noticed it sitting on his knee. It was standard-size, brown, with a thin two-millimeter edge of something white poking out. “I think maybe you should take a look at this. It might interest you, and I could use you on it.”
Zoe eyed it warily, and Maitland sighed before placing it down on her coffee table.
“I’ll see myself out,” he said, walking toward the door. Just before he reached it, he paused and looked back at her. There was something in his face, something that Zoe thought might be sadness. “You’re a good agent, Prime. It would be a shame to let that creep end the careers of two of my best. I’ve seen other agents go through these kinds of losses, and the best thing for them has always been to dive in and get back to work.”
Then he was gone, leaving Zoe to stare down at the file on the table, analyzing its dimensions and trying to ignore everything else.
***
It wasn’t even yet midday, but Zoe felt awful. Her headache hadn’t gone away yet, and she was dead tired. After walking around for half the night, combined with the drinking, she felt like every ounce of strength had been wrung out of her. It wasn’t the first day like this. It wasn’t even the first day in a row.
She eased herself off the sofa and trailed through to her bedroom, falling onto the covers without bothering to move them or get undressed. She closed her eyes, her head against the pillow as she lay on her stomach, and grabbed hold of the calming nothing of sleep.
“Z, you’ve got to listen to me.”
Zoe turned, looking around to see Shelley standing in front of her. She was wearing a nice dress, her hair and makeup done even more neatly than usual, her height elevated in heels. Zoe looked down and realized that she was wearing the same. They were standing in the women’s bathroom of a restaurant, their partners waiting for them in the other room.
“What?” Zoe asked, frowning. Something was off, but she couldn’t remember what. Something wasn’t quite right here.
“You have to listen,” Shelley insisted.
Zoe frowned deeper and took a step toward her, but without moving Shelley managed to stay the same distance away. “Listen to what?” Zoe asked.
Shelley pointed behind her, and Zoe turned: in the mirror was a reflection of her own face, not done up in makeup and fancy clothing, but as she was now: sleep-ruffled and pale, scruffy in sweats, dark rings under her eyes.
But there was nothing else there.
Zoe turned to face her again, wondering. But Shelley was mute, staring at Zoe with such concentration and force that it killed the words wanting to burst out of her mouth. She could only look back, trying to figure out the meaning in Shelley’s stare, even as Shelley’s eyes filmed over with white and stopped staring at anything at all.
Zoe sat bolt upright in bed, breathing hard. She was sweaty and hot, her hair damp when she reached up to brush it off her forehead. It took a long moment for the thought of Shelley’s white-out eyes to fade from her head, and she looked to the side only to be confronted with another huge pair. Zoe yelped and shot sideways across the bed, only to realize that it was Euler, making a concerned purring noise under his breath as he watched her with one paw lifted cautiously in the air.
Zoe caught her breath and reached out to scratch him behind the ear, letting him know that it was okay. Her heart was still racing as he tossed his head and wandered away, losing interest in the odd behavior of his human. Zoe counted his steps until he left the room, then tried counting her own breaths instead, slowing them down as much as she could.
So much for getting some restful sleep. Zoe swung her legs out of the bed, the cold floor something of a comfort as her feet hit it; a reminder that she was back in the real world, not lost in a dream anymore. A nightmare, maybe. What was it that Shelley had been trying to tell her? Zoe had no idea. That was the thing about the subconscious—maybe it just didn’t mean anything at all.
She padded through to the kitchen after Euler, thinking she would get another glass of water and then shower. She looked over at the coffee table as she leaned back on the counter to drink, and saw the file. She ignored it. Now wasn’t the time, dream or no dream. She looked away pointedly, wishing Maitland hadn’t left it at all.
Zoe looked down at her body: mismatched sweatshirt and joggers, both from her university days, tired and faded. She hadn’t washed her hair for a few days. That, at least, was something she could do to fill in the time.
In the bathroom, she paused, hit with the image of her own face in the mirror. She had been avoiding looking at it for a long time, but something—probably the dream—had made her look up. Now she saw herself as Maitland must have seen her. Dark circles under her eyes, greasy and unkempt hair, pale skin. She looked a mess.
She deserved to look a mess. She’d let her partner die, hadn’t she? Zoe closed her eyes for a moment to ward off the pain, wishing it would stop.
Maitland’s words came back to her. The idea that throwing herself back into a case might make it easier for her to leave all of this in the past. To not feel the pain so harshly anymore.