I get out of the car.
There are a few college-aged kids wandering around the campus.It’s quiet and full of shadows, and the kids are moving quickly from one patch of light to another, their steps brisk and clipping the concrete paths.When I finally find the building where WISP is located, it doesn’t look like much—it’s brown, and it’s blocky, and it makes me think of the government buildings on Jefferson Street instead of a college.But the doors are unlocked, so I go inside.
It looks like a government building on the inside, too—aggregate flooring, high-traffic weather mats, fluorescent lights.As far as I can tell, it’s empty.I wander around the first floor until I find the WISP offices.It takes me longer than it should.In part, that’s because the offices are tucked away, at the end of this short little corridor jutting off from the end ofanothercorridor, and you can walk by it twice without even noticing it’s there—at least, you can if you’re me, anyway.The other reason is the door’s shut, and there’s no sign, so unless you know what you’re looking for, you can’t find it.I guess that’s smart, considering who WISP is trying to help.But it sure makes finding it a pain in the patoot, as Gran likes to say.
Inside, I’m standing in a small room.There are two plastic waiting chairs and a plastic fern, and then a desk that has one corner broken off so you can see the particle board.Somebody’s playing Lady Gaga, and it smells like Gran’s basement after I mop.There’s a guy sitting behind the desk, and he’s what Gran would call pretty.Twenty, White, male, blond hair faded on the sides and back.He’s folding what looks like pamphlets.
When he raises his head, I say, “I’m looking for WISP.”
“This is the Wahredua Intimate / Sexual Partner Violence Initiative.How can I help you?”
“Yeah, I’m looking for—” I almost say WISP again, so I change it to “—Detective Dulac.”A burst of optimism makes me add, “Or Mr.Somerset if he’s here.”
The young guy takes me in.He’s not subtle about it, working his way head to toe and then back up again.Something changes in his expression, and he says, “Gray is busy right now.”
“Oh.Okay.Can I wait?”
“He’s got a lot to do.”
“I only need to talk to him for a minute.”
According to this guy’s face, that’s the biggest inconvenience in the world, but one thing you learn if you’re police is that sometimes if you wait, people will change their minds.Finally he says, “I’ll check.”
He pretends to type something on his phone.And then he goes back to the pamphlets.
I take one of the plastic chairs.I’ve got a digital copy ofUnmuzzled: Freeing Your Inner Alphaby Axel Ryder, so I read for a while.I’ve read it before, but sometimes it helps to read it again, especially before Mr.Somerset and I have one of our meetings.This chapter is on finding your mate.Mr.Hazard caught me reading it one time, and he said it was heteronormative bullshit and that Axel Ryder sounded like the name of a gay porn star who got jerked off on a motorcycle.But Mr.Somerset said it wasn’t that bad and Mr.Hazard only said that because Colt beat him in chess.
The first law of finding a mate, according to Axel Ryder, isA king doesn’t chase;he attracts.
At the desk, the pretty boy is pretending I’m not there.
“Did Detective Dulac say when he’d be free?”I ask.
“No.”
I wait, but he’s too busy folding pamphlets to notice, so I say, “Could you check again?”
He doesn’t say anything.
“Excuse me,” I say more loudly.
“Fine,” the guy snaps.He gives me a look, and then he pretends to type something on his phone.“He says he’s too busy tonight, so you’ll have to come back.”He must have thought of this right then because he adds, “And you should make an appointment.”
“Okay,” I say.
It’s funny how earlier, all I could think about was my hair and my clothes and that funny feeling crawling up inside me like I’d forgotten something, because now all I can think about is this kid pretending to ignore me, and the way he said,Fine.
I get up from the chair and walk past the desk.
“Hey!Hey, you can’t go back there!This is—this is private property!Hey!”
But he’s slow, and I’m fast, and I move down the hall opening doors.One of them is set up with tables and chairs that look even older than the stuff in the reception area, with a bunch of old four-line desk phones that aren’t plugged into anything.Another has a sofa that probably came off somebody’s curb and a matching loveseat.Behind me, the pretty boy is shouting, “Hey!Hey!I’m calling security!”
The next door opens, and it’s an office—a desk, a filing cabinet, and a stack of cardboard boxes against the wall.These boxes hold more of those old phones.Detective Dulac is behind the desk.He’s dressed casually—a cowboy T-shirt and joggers—and he’s trying to hide a vape behind his back, blowing out vapor like he’s sixteen and thinks he can get away with it.He’s even fanning the air with one hand, and before he really sees me, he’s saying, “God damn it, Robin, I told you to knock.If I didn’t think you’d like it so much, I’d paddle your ass—” And then hedoessee me, and I’ve never seen Detective Dulac speechless before.
I kind of like it.
Finally, he says, “What areyoudoing here?”
