Adena
After the noise of the day, the silence of Jagger's apartment is overwhelmingly depressing.
No photos.No books.Nothing that says anyone actually lives here.
It's temporary.Anonymous.He’s been here three years, living nothing but the cover.Three years and there's nothing of him in this apartment except absence.
No wonder Marquez questioned whether he was committed.
Jagger locks the door behind us, and the kiss sits between us like a third person in the room, taking up space, demanding attention.
Thought I saw someone watching.
I know he didn't.He knows I know.
But I can't call him on it.Not here.Not when the apartment is wired.
He kissed me—really kissed me—and then lied about it.He created a reason.An excuse that made sense but doesn’t.
And now I'm standing in his apartment pretending everything's fine when what I want is answers I can't ask for until we're somewhere safe.Somewhere away from listening devices and surveillance.
I move to the refrigerator and pull it open.Beer.Milk.That's it.
"You need to hit the store," I say, and my voice sounds normal because I've learned how to sound normal a long time ago."And I want to get some flowers to put on Tommy's grave."
He tenses.Just slightly.A micro-expression that says he knows exactly why I want to go to the graveyard.Because the graveyard is where we can talk.Where he can be real.
"Yeah.Okay.Make a list, and I’ll pick it up," he says carefully, each word measured."I need to run out anyway.Errand for Marquez."
I glance back at him.He's still by the door, jacket unzipped, watching me like he's waiting for me to break cover, to demand answers, to do something that would expose us both.
He doesn't move.Doesn't explain.Just waits.
"How long?"I ask.
"Hour.Maybe two."
I cross my arms.“Fine.You run your errand, then we’ll go see Tommy.”
With a flicker of a grimace, he disappears into the bathroom.The moment the water hits the tiles, I move.If I can't demand the truth out loud, I can at least find out how deep Jagger’s cover runs.
The coffee table yields nothing—just bottles and a remote.The bookshelf is bare except for boxing DVDs.Kitchen drawers hold basics and nothing more.I work methodically, checking places where people hide things: behind the microwave, under the sink, inside boxes where someone might stash documents.
Nothing.
The shower's still running.
I move to the bedroom.
Unmade bed, sheets twisted like he battles every night.Dresser against the wall.I open the drawers one by one—T-shirts folded with military precision, jeans, socks.Everything organized.Everything controlled.Everything a lie.
Nothing personal.Nothing real.Nothing that tells me who he is when no one's watching.
I close the last drawer and sit on his bed and let the despair of this room wash over me.Three years.He's been here three years in a place that contains nothing except the performance of being here.No life.No history.No truth.
The shower stops.
I should stand up.Should move.Should be anywhere but sitting on his bed when he comes out, but I don't.I stay exactly where I am because I need to see his face when he realizes I've been searching.
